SNEAKI LEAKS … EMBARGO … TOP SECRET … SNEAKI LEAKS
IMPORTANT: Not to be released until we verify authenticity.
Sneaki Leaks breaks the embargo on the secret summit to rule the world
Edited report and transcript of confidential meeting between the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom on an undisclosed date, at an unmentionable location. Filed by Sneaki Leaks chairman and founder Romeo Asstrange.
(All publications and broadcasters, please note: Sneaki Leaks does not authorise the publication of this report, which can be authenticated only when Mr Asstrange can be located in some embassy somewhere on the planet or in Guantanamo Bay.)
PRESIDENT Trump narrowed his eyes, rose to his feet and poked his chin out, in that singular way we have come to recognise as trouble. He watched Boris Johnson push the door open and wheel his bicycle into the palatial, gold-tinted room. Before Johnson could say a word, Trump told him: “I’m gonna make you a deal you wouldn’t believe, Boris. This will just blow you away, Boris. It is Boris, isn’t it? Strange name for the president…”
Boris butted in. “Prime Minister,” he said.
Trump pursed his lips and gave Johnson his “I hope I’m not going to be stuffed around” look that we’ve all come to recognise and gave it to Boris full-bore: “I hope I’m not going to be stuffed around,” he said. “I was told they’d send me the head man.”
Boris parked his bicycle against the golden wall and said: “I’m the Prime Minister of Her Majesty the Queen’s United Kingdom.”
Trump switched on his sulky face and pouted: “Where’s your president? I don’t deal with the hired help.”
Boris reached down and fastened his trouser legs with the bike clips. He wasn’t going to take high-handed insults from this offensive oaf.
Trump’s face went through a torturous shift of emotions. He knows the Queen, She’s that fine old lady who invited him over to England for a wedding a year or two ago. He still couldn’t work out why. It wasn’t the type of wedding he would attend in New York City. Not the class of people he usually mixed with. Old guys in tartan skirts, and the bride! Let’s not talk about the bride. He’d been half a second away from grabbing Melania’s hand and beating it out of the dump, straight onto Air Force One and heading for home. He only stayed for the Queen’s sake; she looked freaked out. It also gave him a chance to look around her castle, which he had to say wasn’t anywhere near what it was cracked up to be. Not a patch on Trump Tower back in the Big Apple.
Boris picked up his bicycle and began wheeling it towards the golden door. He turned to Trump and said: “I won’t listen to any scurrilous talk about that gracious old lady who is titular head of our nation.”
“And damned if I’ll listen to any of that sorta talk either,” Trump rumbled. “We hold no grudges against that fine old lady. We could do with a lot more ladies like her.”
Johnson wavered briefly, then put the bike down. The meeting with Trump was top secret; it mirrored the World War II summit of Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin. The world’s future might depend on the outcome. It had taken a swag of civil servants and defence chiefs from both sides of the Atlantic to set it up. Boris knew he had to eat humble pie, with an angry Europe and an implacable electorate waiting to tear him apart. He had to play his hand carefully: Trump was holding literally an all-trumps hand.
Donald the Trump was stalking around the glittering the room like Midas on a treasure hunt. He had to get this loony Limey relaxed if he was to make the summit a winner. Best sound him out, find what he stands for.
“I think if this country gets any kinder or gentler,” he told Boris, “it’s literally going to cease to exist.” Boris smiled knowingly. “I have more in common with a three-toed sloth or a one-eyed pterodactyl or a Kalamata olive than I have with Winston Churchill,” he said.
Trump smiled smugly. If the Brit wanted to play the smile-’em-down game, he should know he was facing a master. “I will be phenomenal to the women. I mean, I want to help women.”
That was enough for Boris. “If gay marriage was OK,” he said sharply, “then I see no reason in principle why a union should not be consecrated between three men, as well as two men; or indeed three men and a dog.”
Their encounter then went like this …
TRUMP: “We’re rounding ’em up in a very humane way, in a very nice way. And they’re going to be happy because they want to be legalised. And, by the way, I know it doesn’t sound nice. But not everything is nice.”
BORIS: “There is absolutely no one, apart from yourself, who can prevent you, in the middle of the night, from sneaking down to tidy up the edges of that hunk of cheese at the back of the fridge.”
Trump was losing his cool. “Do you believe in punishment for abortion — yes or no — as a principle?” He paused a moment. “The answer is there has to be some form of punishment. Yeah, there has to be some form.”
Boris was unflappable: “What will it mean? Helpful robots washing and caring for an ageing population, or pink-eyed terminators sent back from the future to cull the human race?”
TRUMP: “We build a school, we build a road, they blow up the school, we build another school, we build another road, they blow them up, we build again. In the meantime, we can’t get a f____ing school in Brooklyn.”
Boris began to whistle. He skipped around the room like a schoolgirl. “In the future, voice connectivity will be in every room and almost every object: your mattress will monitor your nightmares; your fridge will beep for more cheese; your front door will sweep wide as you approach, like a silent butler.”
Silent butler! The Trump drew his breath in slowly, thoughtfully. Should he take this strange man into his inner circle? He couldn’t imagine a more suspect character for indoctrination. Boris was sturdy enough, he wouldn’t shy away from the baptism of fire the boys were sure to impose on him, but how would he handle the rough-house humour, the down-to-earth language of his Oval Office inner circle?
There was only one way forward, it had to be nuclear. Trump would hit his British counterpart with the Hiroshima, the devastating smile that had opened so many doors and so many legs in Donald’s triumphant passage through life.
The Hiroshima hit Boris full face with the force of a Japanese tsunami, and blow-waved his mangy hair. A less-bedraggled, almost presentable Boris emerged. The President’s thoughts momentarily drifted to Justin Trudeau’s handsome face. He brought himself back to the business at hand with a grunt.
Donald followed his accustomed procedure — after the Hiroshima came the Nagasaki, a charm offensive few could resist. He rested his arm around Boris Johnson’s shoulders and pulled him towards the powerful presidential chest.
“Speaking of butlers, here is my new man on the job.” Trump picked up a big silver bell seemingly from nowhere and rang it vigorously. A beefy creature, dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit and a vacuous grin, materialised. “This is my man for all seasons, new to the job. We call him ScoMo.”
The fellow looked strangely familiar to Boris.
“What he’s good at,” the president said, “is going out and softening up the enemy. You got certain parties giving you trouble, you send ScoMo around to wise them up to what might happen if they pursue a certain course of action. He is very good at his job.”
Boris circled around ScoMo, inspecting him from every angle. “I say,” he said, “isn’t he that new fellow from that dreadful place Down Under. They try out a different prime minister every few weeks. Strange people.”
ScoMo looked for a moment as if he might speak. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The Trump filled in the awkward silence. “Tell you what, Maurice,” he said to Boris, “I’ll hire him out to you. He’s right on the ball if you tell him what to do. He might be able to solve that little problem you’re having with Breakfast.”
“Brexit,” muttered Boris.
Donald grabbed Boris in a bear hug, again pulling him to his chest in a loving embrace as if he were the Stars and Stripes. They were on common ground; they could resume their exchange of political insights.
He held out his hand for inspection, stretching the fingers toward Boris. “My fingers are long and beautiful,” he said “As, it has been well documented, are various other parts of my body.”
BORIS: I love tennis with a passion. I challenged Boris Becker to a match once and he said he was up for it but he never called back.
ScoMo looked on in wonder. So this was how international diplomacy at the highest level was carried out!
President for life, you can bet on it
The Curmudgeon is not by nature a boastful person. Okay, have it your own way, he’s as loud-mouthed and dogmatic as the next pensioned-off hack and will remind folk that he was right whenever he happens to be in that domain, and possibly when he’s not.
But he would also like to remind friends — and enemies — that when Donald Trump took office, wise old Curmudg predicted that the United States’ version of a South American dictator would never willingly surrender the White House. He was there for life.
Now all sorts of (genuine) legal luminaries and political pundits are seriously discussing the possibilities from various perspectives.
Curmudgeon gives (and gave) only one reason … the President is commander-in-chief of the armed forces. Anyone who thinks Trump would give up that power is living in la-la land.
