I’m not blowing any Trumpet

So, it’s all over bar the shooting.

I was hoping to congratulate or excoriate the winner of yesterday’s US elections, but since deadline was snapping at my heels while the doomed and the desperate were still voting, it was never going to happen.

I did consider taking a wild gamble and writing to Kamala Harris but, astoundingly, the race remained too close to call right up until polls opened.

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Nevertheless, my prediction is that Harris will take it by a wider margin than expected.

This isn’t necessarily wishful thinking, or thinking of any kind, really, because no matter how much you study the American political system, analyse voting patterns or try to understand the Republican voters’ mind, you will never fully understand that sprawling beast of a country, or those who live in it.

And while the smart money is on Harris, a part of me hopes for a Trump win.

A Trump loss will guarantee the unedifying yet hilarious spectacle of the world’s biggest toddler throwing his toys out of his gilded cot amid a blame game of impressive proportions.

Still, as far as entertainment goes, it will be a limited series rather than a long-running epic. More Resident Evil than, say, The Sopranos.

But if 60 million Americans do send him back to the White House, that’s when the fun starts.

Well, this depends on your interpretation of fun. Like humour, a sense of fun varies from person to person.

For instance, Jeffrey Dahmer had great fun eating bits of the 17 men he killed. I can’t speak for the French, here, because they’ll eat pretty much anything if it’s paired with the right wine, but many of us might not take to it.

I don’t really understand trajectories because that sort of thing involves numbers and my maths teacher in matric threatened to start taking hostages unless I was moved to another class, but I do know that the line representing things like our odds of earning a living in the future, or saving the planet, or finding a normal girlfriend or not being killed in a nuclear fireball, or hunted down by roaming bands of desperados scavenging for food and water, is sooner or later going to hit the bottom of the graph.

It’s unavoidable. Reversing this trajectory is like asking the captain of a supertanker to turn the ship around at midnight because a Filipino deckhand has gone overboard.

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This planet doesn’t have a captain. Or maybe it does – 8.2 billion of them, pulling in opposite directions, demanding different things and, in the case of you and me, not really giving a damn, but vaguely hoping someone will steer us away from the rocks.

So I say let’s skip later and make it sooner. We’re only delaying the inevitable.

Don’t you want to witness a fast-moving global decline of civilisation while you’re still alive? I certainly do.

And Donald Trump can help with that. He’s already promised that, should he win, he’ll give control of the public health agencies to Robert F Kennedy Jnr, an antivaxxer conspiracy theorist who believes Covid was “ethnically targeted” to spare Ashkenazi Jews and Chinese people.

He also said doctors once found a dead worm in his brain. Nobody knows how much of his brain it ate before dying, but I think we can guess.

Tipped for secretary of state is Marco Rubio, a man who eight years ago said: “Donald Trump would be a disaster for the Republican Party… he has dangerous ideas on foreign policy. He has dangerous ideas on the economy.”

Then, when FBI director James Comey helped keep Hillary Clinton out of the Oval Office, Trump invited the Cuban dissident for dinner at the White House.

During dessert, Rubio had an epiphany in his pants and they’ve been best buddies ever since. If he gets the job, we can expect state buffets featuring a spread of Russian, Korean (North) and Turkish dishes.

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Whoever becomes defence secretary (the NRA’s Charles Cotton?) will have “Nuke Iran” at the top of his to-do list, followed by “more help for Bibi/Viktor Orbán/ Giorgia Meloni/maybe give Farage something”.

Next will be to remodel defence headquarters and rename it the Hexagon because Pentagon sounds too much like pentagram, the devil’s favourite symbol. Then again, hex also has something of the occult about it. Maybe add another three wings and call it the Octagon.

Trump might pick Steve Bannon as his attorney-general. Having the demeanour of one who sleeps on park benches and pulls the wings off butterflies and, having served four months in prison on contempt charges, one of his roles will be to advise Trump on legal matters.

“Do whatever you like in all matters,” his brief will read.

The education secretary (Mike Tyson?) will immediately enforce Trump’s pre-election pledge to disband the education department and be out of a job by the end of the day.

The scrapping of compulsory education will ensure that the presidency remains in the sweaty paws of the Trump family for generations to come.

I could go on, but I won’t. Liquidate your assets, adopt the brace position and let the games begin.