It seems to me as if prophecies of Trump have been built into the culture, perhaps by the aliens who seeded us on Earth
Can it be only last year that I was making the out-of-touch liberal elite laugh, in publicly subsidised theatres throughout pre-Brexit Britain, by saying that Donald Trump sounded like the kind of name Walt Disney would come up with if he was asked to invent a fart that could speak?
It seemed then that Donald Trump was destined to become little more than the answer to a pub trivia question, fondly and foolishly remembered, and filed alongside Faith Browns Rusty Lee impression, Spike Milligans sitcom Curry & Chips, and an almost heroically offensive sentence my dad shouted at a woman on a gangplank near Greenwich in 1997 as an example of the dying light ofa distant dark age.
And can it be only last year that Brexits bogus cheerleader Boris Johnson, who remains incomprehensibly at large like a clever piglet, was reassuring us that we could leave the EU and stay in the single market, as his policy was having cake and eating it? Where is your cake now, fatty? Or, as Pliny the Younger might have said, Ubi nunc est subcinericius panis, sterculus?
And can it be only two days ago that a cakeless Theresa May, desperate to proffer illusory options before forcing through article 50 with the compliance of an immolated opposition, went lamb-like into the Playboy-encrusted office of Donald Trump? Friendless in Europe, she began trade negotiations with the kind of rogue state we might once have proudly imposed sanctions on. We didnt buy Apartheid oranges. Henceforth let us boycott Dunkin Donuts, hardcore pornography and Adam Sandler movies, Americas mostchoice exports.
Article 50 was not designed to be triggered; nuclear weapons were not built to be used (which is lucky for us, because ours dont work); and postwar western democracies werent supposed to vomit up people like Donald Trump, who appears to have reignited a war against the Native Americans, a conflict historians might reasonably have assumed was now settled. Things have learned to walk that ought to crawl.
Events defy analysis. Sometimes it simply isnt enough to just keep on drawing Nazi moustaches on Donald Trumps face by which I mean on pictures of Donald Trumps face. Not his actual face. If you so much as approached Trumps face with a marker pen you would soon be wrestled to the ground by the rubber-hands of his bodyguard, and then waterboarded until you agreed to disputed inauguration audience figures. To analyse Donald Trump we need better tools than felt tips. It seems to me that prophecies of Donald Trump have been built into the culture, perhaps by the very alien scientists that seeded us on Earth in the first place.
Before I seek Donald Trump in cinema, I am aware that my film buff credentials are in doubt. In last weeks column, I ignorantly mixed up two Dirty Harry movies. To be fair, it has been a hard month for fans of Clint Eastwood, whose endorsement of Donald Trump has finally meant we must face the fact that the violent reactionary characters our hero portrayed in the 1970s were not intended as satires of violent reactionary attitudes, but as blueprints for a dystopian future.
Indeed, I am now wondering if Eastwoods touching portrayal of a weird loners dysfunctional relationship with a servile orangutan in the haunting visual poem Every Which Way But Loose (1978) was actually intended as a misogynist endorsement of traditional marriage.
Fans of fake news will be pleased to know that my Dirty Harry error has been erased from history on the Observers website. As regular readers will know, the only films I have really watched these past few years are Italian spaghetti westerns of the 60s and 70s. I have now seen 112, and sheer weight of numbers makes it seem like spaghetti westerns make sense of every human problem. Like Donald Trumps tweets, they are often tasteless, incoherent and badly written, and yet somehow seem to offer exactly the answers people need.