Smart money on Trump to win second term

Appallingly, the smart money’s on Donald Trump winning a second term.

Readers may recall that India, suspecting my journalistic observations of Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s regime might be mildly critical, refused to let me in earlier this year. So I opted for Plan B – a visit to that other great democracy, the United States. Imagine the feelings of hurt when, once again, I was refused a visa. This despite the outpourings of enthusiasm for the Donald that appear in this ultra-conservative column. (Homeland Security wouldn’t say why. Presumably it had something to do with my association with WikiLeaks and friendship with Julian Assange.)

What to do? Given Trump’s addiction to tweeting, I tweeted too, saying that just as Richard Nixon had his notorious Committee for the Re-Election of the President (CREEP), Donald Trump might need a Committee for the Re-election of an Asshole President (CRAP). Donald must have read my tweet volunteering to help, because the US Embassy promptly advised I might be permitted entry under a vague “visa waiver” program. But no promises. Any decision would be made at Los Angeles airport if and when I turned up.

Such was my enthusiasm to help the Donald win a second time that I took the risk and flew to LAX, where beneath a photo of President Trump I was interrogated by Homeland Security. Seeing that I was too enfeebled to pole-vault the White House fence, they took pity on me. I was in. And I found that, yes, America was Great Again.

The day I arrived in Manhattan there was dancing in the streets, but not to welcome your ancient columnist. I’d stumbled upon an annual parade – two million people marching for Puerto Rico. Right up Fifth Avenue with hundreds of floats and thousands of flags (theirs, not Old Glory) celebrating the history and heritage of their island, an unincorporated territory of the US. Imagine a conga-line production of West Side Story minus the rumble. The music and cheering were deafening as the multitude wove its way towards… Trump Tower.

It got me thinking. Puerto Rico was smashed by Hurricane Maria last September – the ridiculed official figure of 64 deaths has since been recalculated at almost 5000 – but the reaction from Washington was next to useless. Like Bush’s scandalously inadequate response to Katrina’s drowning of New Orleans, Trump seemed indifferent to the demolition of Puerto Rico. So surely the mood would turn ugly as the parade reached that monument to Trump’s vanity, vulgarity and greed? But no. Nothing happened. No demos. No threats. Not even chants. The parade kept heading happily up Fifth.

I couldn’t resist going inside – to ride up and down the gilded escalators upon which Trump had launched his improbable campaign for president. Remembering how TV host Jon Stewart had laughed at the preposterous image. Who’s laughing now?

On my first visit to NYC 50 years ago I’d learnt that one of the most common reasons for infant death in Harlem, that Third World just across Central Park, was rat bite in the cradle. Yet there’d been no revolution in that grim ghetto, no march downtown to smash Tiffany & Co’s windows and loot Sears. Instead, Harlem’s black population had turned their righteous anger into violence on each other, and for years Harlem was a war zone. Cut back to the National Puerto Rican Day Parade: the musicians and dancers didn’t miss a beat as they passed Trump Tower.

Two weeks later, I left knowing that CRAP didn’t need my help. Appallingly, the smart money’s on Trump winning a second term. Forget “from log cabin to the White House”. Now it’s Fifth to Pennsylvania Avenue.