Donald and Me.

The thing I think is wrong with Donald John Trump is something I sort of recognise in myself.

I’ve a much less severe case of it than him (I hope) but like just about everyone I’m not that good at seeing myself as other see me. I may be a rambling aged bore just like him but… I sort of hope not.

The thing that we share is a conviction that what is going through our minds Right Now is the most important and significant thing in the world. I’ve never been backward about coming forward and I don’t always (ever?) take a moment to assess the wisdom of speaking up about the transient object of my vast intellect’s interest.

I was at Tringcon over the weekend, a fine boardgaming event held twice yearly in a village that is just a little difficult to get to by public transport from where I live in Wycombe so I have to impose on my friends to attend (thanks Pum! Thanks Roger! Thanks Drak for volunteering and I hope your car is better soon). I found myself chatting to a nice young lady about stuff, which went

Her complaining about her bosses not listening to her about which customers were important enough to get a Christmas card.

Me saying that if they were economising on Christmas cards they were probably already in terminal decline.

Me saying that I still got a regular catalogue from a men’s clothing store that I bought some socks from ten years ago and never anything since: mostly because their socks are the only things in the catalogue that would fit me.

And that caused me to say (notice how long it is since she’s been in control of the conversation?) that I had finally found some socks that would cover up my elasticated stockings (I had to tell her about the elasticated stockings here) when wearing shorts in the summer. I indicated that I felt very lucky and this was the satisfactory conclusion of an Epic Quest comparable with the Grail.

And she smiled and nodded and finally said something (I don’t recall what) that wasn’t about me.

It was only when I got home that it occured to me that I might have gone a bit far and made a total idiot of myself and the nice young lady was treating me like the mad old eccentric uncle that I arguably am. I do find myself recalling more and more conversations nowadays and thinking “Did I really say something as stupid as that?”

Difference between me and Donald: I don’t go on as long as he apparantly can, and I have sufficient internal content control to avoid outright telling people how wonderful I am (they’re supposed to be bright enough to deduce that) and not to start rambling about how amazing other people’s genetalia are.

If you haven’t heard about this: Donald was rallying (he likes to rally) at the birthplace of Arnold Palmer, the late and noted golfer, and he began to tell stories about the late Mr Palmer ending with an anectdote about how impressed his fellow golfers were with the size of Mr Palmer’s penis. This wasn’t a sight that Donald was reporting having seen himself, you understand, but something he reported as being notable and entirely to the gentleman’s credit. Something any man would want widely said about himself.

Now, I could go on about what this view says about Mr Trump’s inner psyche but honestly I’d rather not. I too have views about other people’s physical beauty and how they move me but I do try, even in my gathering senesence, to keep them to myself and treasure some of them as a comfort for my old age.

I do not regard them as suitable for inclusion in a political discussion despite what they say about the uses LBJ got out of Jumbo.

If you want to go on listening to Donald telling the world what he thinks important right at this second… Well, you’d probably have to vote for him. If that’s what pleases you. But I would despair being his speech writer and imagine that being his press officer must be a nightmare. (“President Trump was not talking about the Pope’s testicles literally….”)