Giving Trump the Clap: Harder Than You Think

Here’s a question for you.

Who has the toughest job in the world?

OJ Simpson’s PR team? Mine-sweeping dogs in the Congo? Scottish dentists?


I’ll tell you who has the toughest job in the world: the person who’s trying to decide at what points to clap during one of Trump’s speeches. Now that’s a tough call. When exactly do you do it?

When he makes a cogent point? He doesn’t. When he says something witty? He hasn’t. When he finishes a sentence? He barely starts one. Well, you’d better go off and get strategising, my friend, else that’s one pair of thoroughly unclapped hands you’re going to … have on your… hands… there.

The reason it’s tough to gauge when to clap is because Trump gives speeches like he’s: a) battling a powerful stroke, b) conducting an orchestra as he comes up on a huge dunt of speed, c) patronisingly enunciating dinner choices to a half-deaf nontegenarian relative, d) trying to break his jaw to better swallow a rat, and e) a cunt. Usually all five at once. Trying to determine when to clap is like trying to find the best time to jump through a jet engine propeller: there just isn’t one. I guess you’d have to listen out for certain keywords and phrases – like ‘wall’ and ‘bad dudes’ and ‘shit-holes’, and generally anything a little bit racist – and start clapping in the hope that Trump will cease speaking long enough to allow a dead-eyed smile of self-congratulation to seep out across his sickening toad face.

I think it might help with clap-timings if a gargantuan screen could be installed at every Trump rally, with a live interpreter in the bottom-right corner; like they have for deaf people, only tailored for a different kind of impairment (that impairment being an unshakable admiration for Donald Trump). I’m thinking the interpreter could be a figure in a white hood who keeps the crowd stimulated by smashing a tiny Mexican vihuela every eight seconds.

Jesus, Trump’s recently started applauding himself during his speeches, which admittedly makes the whole business of judging applause breaks much easier, but does seem to be taking a job away from other people. Tsk tsk. I thought you were trying to make America great, Donald.

Maybe I’m wrong to criticise the cadence and content of the guy’s speeches. I’m no linguist. Maybe he’s a genius. He might be a genius, right? Let’s examine some evidence, in the form of the Trump-propelled sentence that follows, in which Trump speculates about whether or not Obama ever called the relatives of fallen marines while in office (Spoiler alert: he did): “I don’t know if he did. I was told that he didn’t often, and a lot of presidents don’t – they write letters… President Obama, I think, probably did and maybe he didn’t. I don’t know, that’s what I’m told.”

Whatever you think of Trump, you’ve got to admit that It’s a real talent to come up with a sentence that’s also its own opposite. When Trump speaks it’s like a dog vomitting a scrabble set into a wind tunnel, as a blind man with seven missing fingers tries to catch the letters.

Narcissism features heavily in his repertoire. Indeed, most of his scattergun diatribes seem to boil down to one catchy slogan: “Tough on people who aren’t me, tough on the causes of people who aren’t me.” His answer for every question is ‘I’m the best’, even if the question isn’t really a question, and it’s just somebody nearby coughing. He’ll tell that cough he’s the best just to avoid doubt. Plus he’s the best at coughing. Believe him. Believe him.

A steadfast opposition to truth is another favourite pick from his oratorical trick-bag. He’s like Bart Simpson when he became the I-Didn’t-Do-It-Boy, except Trump really believes that he didn’t do it, or believes that he did do it and doesn’t really care that he did it, but he’ll be damned if you think that he did it. Because he didn’t. Did he? I don’t know anymore. Probably best to assume he did, even if he didn’t. All hail the Lie Lord of the Multiverse. Behold: Schrodinger’s President! Until you open the door of the Oval Office to peek inside, two wholly separate certainties exist simultaneously: that he’s a liar, and that he’s a f***ing liar. That’s underselling it somewhat. Trump doesn’t just lie: he picks up words like they’re lead pipes and bashes reality in the face with them.

Trump’s such a good snake-oil salesman that he’s managed to become the greatest Scientologist who ever lived who isn’t actually a Scientologist. I’ll bet David Miscaviage would give his eye-teeth (and they probably appear in one of Hubbard’s books) to get Trump off a cloud and into his spaceship. Trump could be the Scientologists’ Messianic Hulk; their pie-faced space Jesus of lies. I’d like to hope that if Trump ever even looked in the general direction of an E-meter that Lady Universe would almost immediately crunch herself, and every single one of us, into oblivion. Trump definitely sings from the same song sheet as Hubbard’s church when it comes to fighting dirty against facts, and knowing how best to smear and marginalise your opponents.

Trump regularly declares his critics and opponents ‘sick’, with ‘critics and opponents’ defined as anyone who dares challenge his world-view or loose relationship to facts. Really, though, imagine being condemned as ‘sick’ by the man who’s spent years making boastful allusions to pronging his own daughter, albeit in a Back to the Future-style alternate timeline. Except up-for-it instead of scared and revolted. Great Clot! Trump’s like a bolt of lightening: you never know where or when he’s going to strike next . Do you remember how scornful the Doc was when Marty told him that Ronald Reagan was president? Fuck, if he ever finds out that ‘Biff Tannen’ is now our president he’ll travel back in time to the Big Bang and take a shit on it.

Anyway, I’m finished. You can clap now.


Donald Trump: The Apocalypse’s Casus Bellend

Santa Trump’s Xmas Eve Tweets

Toast tae the Lassies

This is the full text of a ‘To the Lassies’ speech I wrote and read out for a Burns’ Night my friend held at his house two years ago. Most of the assembled laughed, and understood it was all in the name of tomfoolery; one middle-aged woman sat and stared at me in the hope that she could make me die with the power of her mind. 

Toast Tae the Lassies

Women. Pffttt…

That’s all I’ve got. 

‘Does my thought-pattern look fat in this?’

That certainly won’t shock you, because traditionally men are more taciturn than women. That’s a polite way of saying that they never fucking shut up. A woman can talk for three days without getting a dry throat, without threat of an empty mouth, and on subjects as diverse as ‘blah blah blah’ and ‘shoes’.

Women don’t transmit on our frequency. That’s when they bother to speak in our language in the first place. Science has proved this. A study was done comparing communication and language between the sexes, looking at what we say, how we say it and how we are received and perceived, and it found that what a woman says, the content of their speech, isn’t NEARLY as important… as the size of her tits.

‘Do you know how hard it is to get four comfortable pairs of Jimmy Choos?’

Women project their voices like missiles. Let’s put it this way: if the female black widow could talk, it wouldn’t need to murder its mate after sex. In fact the human female’s recourse to conversation appears, to the black widow, an unspeakably savage act. A woman won’t so much argue that black is white, but that both of these are wrong, and who do they think they’re talking to?

It wasn’t always like this. We never used to have to listen to women speak. It used to be legal to hit them with a frying pan, or water-board them in a vat of warm piss. We miss those days.

For some enlightenment on the subject we have to journey back to pre-Enlightenment times, and to a man named Institoris who wrote a medieval guide to identifying and prosecuting witches. I’ll quote the preface in the Malleus Maleficarum, which reads:

Wooooooooooooooo Bo-dy Fo-horm, Body Form for yoooooooooooooo!

Why is the treachery which leads to the practice of harmful magic and all that entails found more frequently in women than in men? Institoris lists women’s usual weaknesses – they are backbiting, vengeful, lascivious, impressionable and intellectually inferior (those are the GOOD ones) – before saying that wicked women (the qualification is important) are particularly ruled by three moral failings (just three?): infidelitas (defined as a lack of adherence to the probable truth of the reality of things invisible – you know, like men’s faults) ostentation and lust.” 

I don’t think there are many here tonight who would disagree with those sentiments. Most of this can probably be attributed to hormones, with the emphasis on moans. Yes, hormones, and the dreaded ‘P’ word, that only five men in the history of the planet have been brave enough to utter. 

Periods are like the Kaiser Soze of biological processes. The greatest trick that women ever pulled was in trying to convince the male world that periods didn’t exist. So when a woman, light and electric from blood loss and mood imbalance has stabbed you through the heart, ripped it out and fed it to you – recognise this, men: it’s your fault. 

‘Flesh, chocolate. It’s all the same to me! Nomnomnomnom!’

Anyone who’s ever worked with a group of women knows that, as a group, they’re a deadly force to be reckoned with. Throw a puppy into their midst, and get ready to make dog soup with the bones. Women working in packs are like piranhas, but with better shoes.

And then there’s the connected danger and mystical horror that is cycle synchronisation. Like when the planets align and some evil wizard uses the formation to open a Gateway to Hell. Cycle synchronisation is like a Mexican wave of hatred.

‘All this fuss over a few fucking shepherds?’

Western culture has fooled us about women. We’re raised with the image of the nurturing, peaceful mother. The kind with big loving bingo wings that would make a flying squirrel grey with envy, and a pendulous, blobby bosom that could double as a wrecking ball. A lot of people, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, believe that if women were to rule the world it would be a happy, fluffy, lovey-dovey place with no war, struggle or strife. Then along came Margaret Thatcher. Lacking a heart, Thatcher was all cunt, and the monthly blood flow was suitably redirected. The Belgrano was torpedoed, in a metaphorical sense of course, by Thatcher’s tampon. 

Women cry. This has also fooled men, who equate crying with caring, and also see crying as a last resort, like suicide, or films starring Renee Zellwegger. But crying does not equal caring, because women, rather alarmingly, cry when they’re confused, startled, hopeful, ambivalent, guilty, ticked off, jealous, happy, furious, clumsy, dopey, sneezy and horny. Maybe that last one’s just me. They never actually cry when they’re sad. No, that’s what shouting’s for.

So how did women become so powerful? What went wrong? Women’s faces not being as soft as the hands that do their dishes? Women NOT doing the Shake and Vac to put the freshness back? 

John McCririck’s favourite wanking picture.

We can trace alot of it back to the suffragette movement. Back at the turn of the twentieth century, one woman’s desire to be heard was so strong that she hurled herself under a horse. If only more women would follow this example.

They burned their bras. Why? Didn’t they realise that their resulting bad back would have to be treated by a male chiropractor?

They started to play sports! The cheek. A little tip: stick to gymnastics, or naked jelly wrestling, or we’re not fucking interested.

And now there are women in the military. Great. Whose smart idea was it to teach them how to kill? And will somebody please ask Gordon Brown much it costs to produce Kevlar vests that can accommodate pairs of breasts? Not to mention the expense of military-issue tampons. No wonder they can’t afford any fucking helicopters over there. 

‘Want to see my big vessel, Punk Space Whore?’

They’ve been in space, too. How long before we see a fatal accident due to a woman shuttle-pilot trying to reverse park behind the Mir space station? Women have no business being in space, unless it’s to get shagged by Captain Kirk.

A lot of people say that women are just good for cooking, cleaning, shagging and gestating young. This isn’t true. They’re quite good with curtains, too. But it is true that the new power that women hold, especially in employment, is dangerous.

Allow me to expand.

  • A chick Doctor in Harrogate lost a false fingernail in a man’s lower intestine, causing his bowel to fall out.
  • A female bus driver in Darlington caused a twelve-car pile-up reading Woman’s Own while negotiating a roundabout. The drivers of the twelve cars hadn’t the time to react, as they were all doing their make-up at the time.
  • A female pilot lost control of a Boeing 747 because she was crying about a hungry cat she’d seen in her garden that morning.
  • A female soldier shot half of her own battalion as she stumbled across hostile terrain wearing stilettos.
  • In France, a bint can kill you if she can prove to the court she was on her dabs.

Sobering stuff.

I hope you don’t think I’ve been chauvinist or misogynistic tonight. This is not misogyny. It’s self-defence. Because although we love women – those deliciously mad, sexually-sociopathic Hell-dogs with tits – we must handle them carefully – like bombs, or rabid ferrets. We must love them like blow-up dolls filled with sixty per cent cotton wool to forty per cent sharp but rusty potato peelers.

Let’s raise a glass to the fairer sex.

Here’s tae ye!