Anger is an Energy (or something)

I'm a poet of obscenity, I love to swear and curse:
"You cunt," I shout, "You wanker," and 'fuck' brings up the verse.

I always swear in public places at people standing by,
The prim just stand there open-mouthed, the proper no reply.

Sometimes they say "Charming!" or "The family must be thugs,"
Then other times it's "Shut your mouth!" or "He must be on drugs".

I spray rude words with aerosols (I call it my Paint Glock),
Write the discourse in foot-high murals and illustrate my cock.

'Jesus was a homo,' or words to that effect,
Decorate the football stand through years of sad neglect.

I could be David Mamet or some modern-day James Dean;
I'd write, "You're tearing me apart!" - it's just the words aren't that obscene.

But some days when I'm feeling lonely or doubt,
I mouth the words I really mean, and nothing ever comes out.

An Ode to Theresa

There once was a PM called May,

Who proved to have feet made of clay.

She said, "I won't budge

Despite how hard you nudge,"

But we'll see by the end of today...

WordJam Review: First Man (d. Damien Chazelle, 2018)

Three weeks ago, the world watched with baited breath as the Soyuz MS-10 spacecraft was forced to make an emergency landing after experiencing booster failure. Once it was confirmed that pilots Aleksey Ovchinin and Nick Hague were safely back on terra firma, media outlets across the globe did what they do best, and dutifully dusted off stories about the fatalities and near-fatalities of Soyuz-1, Apollo 13, Soyuz-11, Challenger and Columbia in an attempt to feed the public's collective imagination about the perils of space flight.

Considering this remarkable event occurred just two days before First Man was due to begin its theatrical run, one might safely have assumed that Damien Chazelle's latest offering would be flying high at the box office right now. (If anything, timing has been central to this film; not only has it been released at the tail-end of 2018 to act as a kind of flagship event for the moon landing's 50th anniversary celebrations next year, the fact that it's opening at the start of the awards season suggests the high hopes Universal have for its success at the 91st Academy Awards in February.) With this in mind, it's strange that the film should've fallen $9 million short of its projected $25 million North American opening weekend gross. Various factors have been suggested, including the 141 minute running time and the emphasis on character drama above fist-pumping spectacle, but these speculations are somewhat suspect considering the success of similar, more cerebral 'epic' productions in recent years such as Interstellar and The Revenant. Could it be, then, that the much discussed American Flag 'controversy' really is behind this apparent under-performance?
 

Putting aside for a moment the enormous scientific achievement of the moon landing, for almost half a century now we've been conditioned to think of Apollo 11 as a political slam-dunk for the United States. Turning to the present time, whether or not you agree we're currently engaged in what some pundits have referred to as 'Cold War 2.0', it's undeniable that tensions between East and West are the highest they've been for a good 40 years. Furthermore, it's becoming increasingly apparent that a second Space Race, this time based on economic competition rather than ideological conflict, could be just around the corner. Dmitry Rogozin, head of Russian space agency Roscosmos, recently accused the Pentagon of hiding payments to Elon Musk's SpaceX to price Russia out of the space launch market (the company in question allegedly charging $40-50 million per launch while receiving upwards of $150 million from the US Department of Defence to cover the full cost). If this is true, it neatly undercuts the US's current reliance on Roscosmos to ferry astronauts to and from the International Space Station since the retirement of the Space Shuttle program in 2011. Then, of course, we have the Trump administration's proposal for a Space Force, which Vice President Mike Pence has said will counter "threats" from Russia, China, North Korea and Iran in what Defence Secretary James Mattis has described as a "developing, war-fighting domain" (contrary, it should be noted, to the Outer Space Treaty of 1967). In another incredible piece of timing - the day after First Man opened - Trump appeared at a rally in Richmond, Kentucky, and claimed that Russia and China currently have a head start on the US in establishing their own Space Forces, which is why he's so keen to sink $81 billion of tax payers' money into this new initiative. (It goes without saying, he neglected to mention that both the US and Russia already have their own Space Forces: the former was merged with STRATCOM in 2002, while the latter was recently integrated into the Russian air force to become Aerospace Forces.) Whichever way you look at it, First Man was always going to carry the baggage of the past as well as the assumption it would shine a light on today's increasingly polarised world.

The fact is, though, Chazelle and screenwriter Josh Singer have delivered a film that has absolutely no interest in engaging with the politics of the Cold War or the geopolitical situation today. True, there's a scene where Deke Slayton (one of the Mercury Seven astronauts, who later became NASA's inaugural Chief of the Astronaut Office) explains to his recruits how the USSR's achievements with Sputnik, Laika and Yuri Gagarin have left the US in the shade, but apart from a brief reference to Werner von Braun and astronaut Ed White's anger at Alexei Leonov beating him to conducting the first spacewalk, that really is all we get. These references aren't heavy-handed or pointed in any way; they're just there, and clearly designed for us to take them or leave them if we so choose. This is ultimately why Chazelle chose not to show the flag being planted on the moon's surface: instead of First Man making a statement about American Exceptionalism, it celebrates the Apollo 11 mission as an achievement for all humankind, and one that built on the work of the pioneers who came before.

This approach is admirable, and if the filmmakers' decision to adopt a politically neutral stance is the reason why North American audiences haven't been so to eager to flock to theatres then that's deeply unfortunate. It must be said, however, that the nobility of this gesture does have a detrimental effect on the film's narrative. By underplaying the political climate of the Cold War, the film never quite reconciles its depiction of the feverish urgency to get a man on the surface of the moon with the actual event itself. A couple of days before I went to see First Man, a good friend told me she had no interest in watching the film because she expected it to be another case of "white man does stuff, everyone applauds." Almost anticipating this attitude, the penultimate act, so to speak, features a recitation of Gill Scott Heron's poem "Whitey on the Moon" set to images of Civil Rights activism and protests against the Vietnam War. It provides some historical context, yes - but as with the aforementioned references to the Soviet Space Program, it doesn't really engage with the period. As a result, when Armstrong finally descends from the Eagle module and surveys, in Aldrin's words, the "magnificent desolation" of the lunar landscape, it's tempting to write the whole scene off as an anti-climax because it doesn't feel as though it's earned our investment over the last 120 or so minutes. It's almost as though Chazelle is embarrassed to invest too deeply in the subject matter for fear of an imagined reprisal.

 

Other critics who've picked up on First Man's curious emotional detachment have posited that it's as a result of Ryan Gosling's portrayal of Armstrong: a man who was, by all accounts, a reserved, softly-spoken individual who found it difficult to express his feelings to friends and family. Admittedly, there are times when this sense of the character being so locked into himself makes it almost impossible to read his reaction to events - most notably the tragic deaths of the Apollo 1 crew, which we see harrowingly (but tastefully) dramatized here - but then the film also takes great care to flip this on its head to show Armstrong as a more complex human being than his placid, outward appearance would suggest. Two scenes in particular stick out here: the first being Armstrong's private grief at the loss of his daughter Karen, and the second when his wife Janet practically begs him to explain to their children there's no guarantee he will return from the lunar mission. Chazelle and Singer pitch these character beats, and others like them, at exactly the right moments in the drama so we don't mistake Armstrong's emotional aloofness with the false image of the stoical, all-American, square-jawed hero of lesser biopics. What we're presented with in the end is a man whose sense of duty, both in his home life and working life at NASA, is borne out of a silent yet palpable vulnerability that subtly informs every frame of the film.

 

 

It must be said, though, that if there are scenes where we struggle to identify with Armstrong, we find a recognisable, emotional counterpoint with his wife Janet, beautifully played by Claire Foy in a performance that I for one would certainly like to see recognised by the Academy when the January shortlist comes around. Comparisons between First Man and Apollo 13 are ultimately pointless because both productions use contrasting styles to tell different stories, but consider the way Jim Lovell's wife Marilyn (portrayed by Kathleen Quinlan) is presented in Ron Howard's film. She's the dutiful wife and mother who loves her husband and supports his work, but that's it as far as her character goes. With the exception of a completely unnecessary and wholly manipulative nightmare sequence, at no point do we see her express any measure of concern for her husband's safety or the well-being of their family prior to the ill-fated mission. (This job is taken by Lovell's infant son, who, without wishing to sound facetious, seems to have a precocious talent for coaxing exposition-heavy, emotionally-wrought dialogue out of his father.) Even when Marilyn's listening in to the NASA radio link with the stranded Apollo crew, all she's required to do is sit there with her hand over her mouth and occasionally hold her daughter close. Foy, on the other hand, plays a fully-rounded character. She asks the right questions (which, to be fair, are there to help facilitate exposition, although Singer's screenplay does a good job of masking this), reacts to unfolding events in ways that don't short-change our emotional intelligence by going directly for glib sentiment, and generally presents us with an independent, multi-faceted character who seems a lot more 'real' than the supporting nature of her character would have a right to be in any other production. Foy carries Janet with dignity and grace, never leaping on a line that makes our job of deciphering her thought processes just that little bit easier, but searching for nuance that resonates long after we've left the auditorium.

 

To be fair, it's in these masterful performances we see the hand of the director at work. Chazelle's exploration of the contrast between public and private worlds through the oppositions of extravagance and sparseness - fast becoming a visual and narrative trademark - is still there, but the emotional resonance is more finely tuned. Consider, for example, the opening scene where we find Armstrong in an X-15 hypersonic plane as it rattles and creaks while tearing through the upper-reaches of the Earth's atmosphere. Note the way we cut between tight close-ups of the pilot, his POV out of the cockpit window and a long-shot of the aircraft. We're not just there with Armstrong, we join with him: the camera bridging his interior world with our near-objective view of the physical reality as the roar of liquid nitrogen thunders in our ears. As the film continues, we constantly shift between viewpoints, whether it's Armstrong's perception, those of the people around him or our perspective, allowing us to walk alongside these characters as they attempt to achieve the impossible or take a third-party view of this moment in history.

 

 

When I heard about First Man this time last year I was deeply sceptical what the end result would be. I am willing to admit, however, this was purely a knee-jerk response to the news that Chazelle was at the helm. To his credit, he is a competent, perhaps even talented filmmaker, but Whiplash and La La Land seemed me to be the work of a director far more interested in superficial homage - or mimicry, if I really wanted to be unkind - than exploring his own creative impulses. (Besides, it's almost criminal how he's been lauded for borrowing stylistic techniques people such as Stanley Donen and the late, great Albert Lamorisse pioneered over 60 years ago.) On this occasion, stripped of his cinematic makeup box, Chazelle has delivered a film of great integrity and intelligence that sees him growing out of his adolescent need to bask in the shadow of other people's achievements and find his own place in the sun. (Although, it must be said, the wonderfully executed Gemini 8 docking scene does owe more than a small debt to 2001: A Space Odyssey... Mind you, which space exploration film doesn't?)

 

Nevertheless, First Man is not quite the film it should've been. It isn't cold or wilfully oblique in the way that, say, Kubrick's or Tarkovsky's great space epics are (which, ironically, makes them thoroughly engaging), neither is it overlong or too bogged down in Armstrong's personal life to sustain interest - but its unwillingness to take that extra leap of faith and position itself both in the period it's depicting and in the here-and-now makes it easy to dismiss or brush aside as just another biopic about just another guy who did something really extraordinary that we've all heard plenty about over the years. Perhaps this is the real reason why audiences haven't quite greeted First Man with open arms: not the flag, not the falsely perceived 'anti-American' bullshit, but because it's a story we already know - or think we do. I just hope this lukewarm reception doesn't spill over into the 50th anniversary celebrations next year. No matter what the popular feeling is today, the past is just as important as the present, because without it we can't move forward into tomorrow. And that's the truth, folks.



INF Treaty Remembered

 

Later at the White House:

 

Meanwhile, at the Kremlin:

Agony Hour III: The Agony Strikes Back

No doubt you're puzzled by the lack of press coverage following my recent, unexpected break-up with Lady Gaga. The fact is, Gaga and I are self-effacing, publicity-shy cultural icons who prefer to resolve our issues away from the stifling heat of the media spotlight. We therefore humbly ask that you respect our privacy during this difficult time and not allow speculation about Gaga's emotional immaturity, pathological attention seeking and complete inability to engage in intelligent conversation to distract you from more important things going on in the world right now.

Nevertheless, it would be selfish and unpardonably arrogant of me to turn my back on you guys in my darkest hour. So here I am, selflessly providing you with another open surgery. There really is no need to thank me, but if you absolutely must then my sort code and account number are available on the web view of this blog. But just be sensible, okay? You've got to live, too.

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

I've just watched Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. It's a good film and all that, but how come Chekov doesn't know you can't fire a phaser on-board a starship without setting off the alarm? Everyone else does. And if he's the acting science officer when Spock's not around, why doesn't he realise that ensign Dax's species have enlarged web-feet and can't wear human-size gravity boots? It's character inconsistencies like this that give me the right raging hump.

- Pedantic, Delhi

Richard says...

Well, Pedantic, some people would argue that Chekov's role in the scenes you've mentioned is to provide exposition and comic relief, but in reality it's just further evidence of his incompetence. Think about it: he burns his hand on the console in The Motion Picture after Kirk explicitly tells him not to touch it when the warp drive malfunctions, gets taken over by a mind parasite in The Wrath of Khan, holds up the return journey in The Voyage Home after falling off the gantry aboard the Enterprise's 20th century namesake, and gets taken over (again) by Sybok in The Final Frontier. Kirk probably wouldn't have been sucked into the Nexus in Generations if Chekov hadn't made his little cameo. I mean, I'm all for the Federation's credo that people work to better themselves, but I think their employment policy is seriously in need of a review if morons like Pavel get to sit at the bridge. He's a fucking liability and no mistake. If I was Kirk I would've given him his cards long before V'ger, I tell you that.

* * * * *

Hi Richard,

In 2002 I shot great film about good guy who gets betrayed by friend. Good friend: the best! Based on life, you know? People see it as comedy. I okay with this, but now other movie come out made by big actor making people think I some creep with grand delusion and no humor. He doesn't even let me speak at Golden Globes. People laughing at me now for real. I don't know what to do. It tearing me apart!

- T. Wiseau, Somewhere in Los Angeles

Richard says...

Don't worry about it: in 20 years' time, people will have forgotten all about The Disaster Artist and they'll go back to watching The Room instead. As it stands, James Franco just wants to show how cool he is by hooking up with a genuine auteur - which you are - and picking fault with your vision rather than working on improving his own craft. (Although, in Franco's case there really isn't any excuse; his films have time, money and talent thrown at them whereas yours didn't. For what it's worth, I'd certainly rewatch The Room rather than sit through In Dubious Battle or Zeroville again.)

Trust me, your name will live on in movie history alongside that of Mark Borchardt and Edward D. Wood Jr. while Franco's gathers dust on Wikipedia's #MeToo page.

* * * * *

Dear Richard, 

Great art is the coruscating language of Shakespeare, the lilting melodies of Mozart and the rustic splendour of Constable; it is the better part of ourselves, unfettered by base distraction and wanton indulgence. Imagine my disgust, then, when I visited the National Gallery last week and stumbled across Jonathan Yeo's pornographic collage portrait of George W. Bush:



How can anyone call this art? I certainly wouldn't have it in my house! Why do modern artists make abominations like this, and why do they expect us to look at them?

- Affronted, Sussex

Richard says...

Ah! You're making the fundamental mistake here of confusing artistic appreciation with rudimentary aesthetics. What's more, the criteria you have for what constitutes great art seems to be based on superficial ideals of beauty and good taste. Consider if you will this 16th century triptych by an unknown Early Netherlandish artist. (I suggest scrolling down one plate at a time to get the full effect):

I'm sure you'll agree, the exterior panel is exquisite in its harmonious use of chiaroscuro and contrapposto to capture the subject's impish qualities. Just look at the way the light catches the folds on the figure's sleeve as he points at the scroll warning us not to open case. But of course we do, and find ourselves looking at this little beauty on the reverse panel... 

Now we know why the subject's leaning forward. Take in the rich texture of those thistles and the anatomically-correct contours of the buttocks (not to mention the masterful sense of perspective demonstrated by the positioning of the scrotal sac). Almost brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it? In case you're wondering, the scroll underneath taunts us for our curiosity - as indeed does the last panel (now generally accepted by art historians to be a self-portrait)...

"Made your eyes pop out, didn't I?" the figure asks, gleefully sticking his tongue out at us. Talk about cheek. But do you know where this satirical masterpiece was discovered? In a church. It's an instructional piece, informing people to do what they're told and using scatological humour - the common culture of the day - as a tool.

So you see, it's not just "modern artists" (as you incorrectly refer to Yeo and his ilk) who challenge our perceptions of beauty and taste to provoke discussion but their forebears, too. With this in mind, I suggest you stop making absolute definitions of what art should be (obviously based on some jaded, culturally imperialist view you've picked up from someone who has absolutely no understanding of the subject) and get a sense of perspective. Seriously, what do you think all those 'country' puns are about in Hamlet - gardening??

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

I had a cup of tea earlier and now I want another one.

- Thirsty, Grantham

Richard says...

Well make one then, you lazy bastard. I can't do everything for you.

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

When I was a kid I wrote to the TV series How Do They Do That? asking about the special effects in Red Dwarf. It was a dream come true when I was invited to BBC Television Centre and got to spend a day with the Vis-FX department. Chief model maker Mike Tucker even presented me with an actual Starbug prop. Shortly afterwards I started to feel a real sense of emptiness and found myself unable to watch Red Dwarf anymore because the mystery had gone out of it. I turned to sex and drugs as a way of filling the void, but that just made things worse. For the last 24 years I've gone from one low paid job to another, struggled to commit to relationships and ended up sleeping on friends' couches more times than I care to remember. I just wish I'd never sent that sodding letter in the first place.

- Weary, Stockport

Richard says...

You need to get a grip, son. How do you think I felt laughing my head off through all five seasons of The Wire only to discover it wasn't a comedy? Or when I first went into a Nudo sushi bar and everyone else was fully dressed? These things are enough to destroy a man, but I dealt with them in mature, responsible ways (taking out a lawsuit against HBO in the former case and trashing the place in the latter). Life's full of soul-crushing disappointments and regrets: you've just got to find a way of venting your frustrations that aren't self-destructive. Since there's a very specific reason for your longstanding malaise, I recommend finding out when the next series of Red Dwarf is being recorded, get yourself tickets to be in the audience for every show, chain yourself to your seat and after every line shout, "WHEN'S ROB GRANT COMING BACK?" To be honest, it probably won't change your situation, but you'll be doing us all a favour after series XII.

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

I murdered a bunch of people back in the '60s and '70s on a spur of the moment thing and no one caught me, but now they're making all these movies and TV shows and speculating about my identity. Can't they just leave me alone? I haven't killed anyone for forty years.

San Francisco

Richard Says...

People are drawn to mysteries: it's all part of being human. I'd take it as a compliment if I were you. Just don't get too worked up about it, okay? Try knitting. That might take your mind off it.

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

All we've had on WordJam for the last few months now is politics, satire and social commentary, and I for one am sick of it. What's more, you're nowhere near as funny as you think you are and your intellect is that of a five-year-old. I have absolutely no knowledge or interest in politics, and I'm sure I speak for all your readers (both of them!) that the time has come for you to put away your laptop and GET A LIFE.

- Boris Johnson, Westminster

* * * * *

 ...And on that encouraging note, onwards, folks!

A Response to the Allegations of Russian Cyber-Plots You're Reading About Right Now.

...Of course, as far as the majority of western media's concerned it's more like this:

from Tintin in the Land of the Soviets (1930)

Yet, strangely, all the 'evidence' seems to stem from this:

Click to enlarge



[Sighs deeply]

It's all a giant shit sandwich, folks. But, look - whatever: just make up your own minds, okay? For what it's worth, though, I'm getting fed up with all this scaremongering and misinformation.

* * * * * UPDATE (9/10/2018) * * * * *

Oddly enough, a day after posting this piece I received an email from Google Plus saying it violates their user policy. If anyone can explain why, please contact me on the email address in the sidebar (web version). I refuse to believe it's a copyright issue...

WordJam: Giving Fake News a Good Name

                                                                                        Click to enlarge

As you were.

WordJam Clickbait: A Sneak Peek at Next Summer's Blockbusters

Special thanks to John Parry

Well, folks, summer may be over for another year but the memories will last a lifetime. Seriously, Hollywood really pulled out the stops for us this season on the prequels, sequels and remakes front: Deadpool 2, Solo: A Star Wars Story, Ocean's 8, Incredibles 2, Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, Ant-Man and the Wasp, The Equalizer 2, Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again... With movies of this calibre you have to wonder why the rest of cinema even bothers. But, as they say in the business there's no business like, you're only as good as your next production - and let me tell you, there are some real corkers winging their way to us for summer 2019. The following is only a small selection of the event movies we can look forward to next year, but if you're anything like me it'll be enough to get you dribbling like a lunatic.

* * * * *

Weird Tentacle-headed Guy: A Star Wars Story

 "Go on, touch it..."

Bib Fortuna (Ryan Reynolds) is happy with his job as chief cashier at the Tatooine Building Society, but when he gets taken hostage during a hold-up by gangsters working for Jabba the Hutt (Tom Hardy), he starts to see things differently...

"George tried to make every individual in the Star Wars universe unique," explains Lucasfilm president Kathleen Kennedy. "That was always at the forefront of his mind when writing A New Hope and later signing off the original Kenner toys. It's why so many people have taken George's vision to their hearts. Each and every one of these characters has a story to tell, which we hope will capture audience's imaginations for generations to come. This isn't empty, commercially-driven filmmaking, it's a genuine commitment to maximising product outreach while retaining core brand values. That's the magic of Star Wars."

Taxi Driver

"Holy shit! Talk about your all-time backfires..."

New York taxi driver Travis Bickle (Adam Sandler) spends his free time watching porn and playing shoot-em-up games. He soon gets a shock, however, when he runs into his former high school sweetheart Betsy (Jenny McCarthy) and discovers she's working on the election campaign for his old love rival Charles Palatine (Eugene Levy), now a Senator and presidential candidate. She agrees to go on a date with Travis, only for it to end badly when she realises he's still just an immature frat boy frightened of commitment. Everything looks lost, but when Betsy's kid sister Iris (Anna Faris) gets kidnapped by a ruthless pimp (Christoph Waltz), Travis decides it's time to prove himself to Betsy once and for all...

"I always thought Scorsese missed a trick with Taxi Driver," says director and long-time Sandler collaborator Dennis Dugan. "Take that scene with Bobby De Niro and Cybil Shepherd in the porno theatre; there's all kinds of business you can do with that, but she just gets freaked out and leaves! I mean, I get Marty was trying to show a guy so isolated from the people around him that even the most basic human behaviours and emotions exist purely in the abstract from the perspective of his lonely, damaged world, but it wouldn't have hurt to put a few dick jokes in there. Wait till you see our take on that! But this isn't just about drawing out the humour of the original; we want people to leave the theatre feeling that love really does conquer all."

The Wild Bunch

 Look, I couldn't find an image of Melissa McCarthy or Kristen Wiig in a cowboy hat, okay?

Texas, 1913: the world is changing, but for Patty Bishop (Kristen Wiig) it still means a life of domestic servitude. Inspired by the exploits of famed bandit Dede Thornton (Melissa McCarthy), she sets out to make a name for herself as the baddest outlaw the West has ever seen, but it isn't long before gun-for-hire Dede is on her trail...

"A lot of people think Sam Peckinpah was a misogynist," ventures writer-director Paul Feig, "and they're right. The original Wild Bunch was about a gang of crusty, middle-aged white men struggling to adapt to the modern age. Well, excuse me but that's just male privilege! I like to think that reimaging the story as a woman's quest to make her way in a man's world is a much more original approach. It may be a comedy, but this is a movie for women, about women. And if you think we're just hijacking a classic for the sake of scoring points with the Time's Up movement you're a male chauvinist pig."

Citizen Kane II: Son of Kane

"I'm holdin' out for something better. I always gagged on that silver spoon..."

Charles "Charlie" Kane II (Matt Damon) drifts across '50s America, desperately trying to escape the shadow of his wealthy father. When a journalist from the Daily Chronicle tracks him down and informs Charlie that his recently deceased half-brother has left him his entire estate, Charlie soon realises you can never outrun the past...

"We figured the time was right," reveals writer-producer Matt Damon, making his directorial debut. "It's been about twenty years since I won the Best Original Screenplay Oscar for writing Good Will Hunting with Ben [Affleck], but now he's doing well for himself he doesn't return my calls any more. Okay, it's only natural he'd want to branch out on his own, but after Hunting, Dogma and all those Kevin Smith cameos we did together you'd think he'd call me up to say happy birthday, or at least send me one lousy Christmas card. I'm not surprised he's doing more work behind the camera these days, to be honest; he really hasn't kept his looks. I'm good for another few years, though, which is why I'm playing the lead in this as well as taking all the top jobs. People say it could be dangerous stepping into Orson Welles' shoes, but I'm ready and I know I can do it. And when they see this movie everyone'll know I was always more talented than Ben. God, I hate him so much."

Jurassic Towers

 "Meestah Fawlty, the raptors have escaped!"

"I'm sorry, he's from Costa Rica..."

Frustrated by the Tory Party's in-fighting over Brexit and receiving yet another bad review in the Good Hotel Guide, Basil Fawlty (John Cleese) decides to leave Britain for the idyllic Central American island of Isla Nublar. He accepts a job as operations manager at a dinosaur theme park, but when all hell breaks loose on the very weekend the CEO (Geoffrey Rush) comes to call he finds himself having to pretend everything's just business as usual...

"You can't keep doing the same thing over and over again," admits Jurassic Towers writer-producer Colin Trevorrow. "Sooner or later people are going to get bored. We had the whole playing God thing in Jurassic Park, then we ramped things up to playing Super-God in Jurassic World; we couldn't really go anywhere after that, so this time it's more like the testing of Job. Basil was the obvious character to take on that role, and I'm pleased we managed to get John on board to play him again. This film actually marks a whole new direction in the Jurassic Park franchise, relaunching it as part of a shared universe. If Towers lives up to expectations then you can expect an even bigger crossover event in the next instalment. I can't say too much about that just now, but if you've ever wondered if dinosaurs can breathe in space the answer could be right around the corner..."

Goodbye, John McCain

Well, today we witnessed the funeral of a man many have described as a true American patriot. WordJam, however, takes a different view. Frankly, it's sickening how this xenophobic warmonger has been elevated to an almost saint-like status.

This was a man who campaigned for war against Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Syria, North Korea and Iran. A man who stood in Kiev spreading anti-Russian sentiment as unarmed police officers were set on fire with Molotov cocktails and the democratically elected government of the Ukraine was ousted in an illegal coup that would prove financially rewarding for the US.

The only reason - the most obvious reason - McCain has gone from the laughing stock that he was in the 2008 presidential election to "Hero of Democracy" is because he's been Trump's most vocal and influential critic in the Republican Party; the 'deep state', who know they can't nail Trump solely on the Stormy Daniels business, are going to push this Russian 'interference' nonsense as much as they can by using 'patriots' like McCain as leverage.

Let's just stop pretending now, okay? Y'know: unless we really want to let the mainstream western media pump nasty, jingoistic shit into our heads and blind us to what's really going on.

It's up to us, folks.

It's Competition Time on WordJam!

So far the seemingly never-ending smear campaign against Jeremy Corbyn has thrown up accusations that at various points in his political career he's been a Soviet agent, an East German agent, pro-IRA, a member of Hezbollah, the Shia Mullahs of Iran and now the PLO. Quite a feat, really, given how some of those groups aren't even politically compatible. Still, I'm sure the good men and women of the press are only looking out for the British people's interests rather than, say, those of their paymasters. (After all, why would Corbyn's detractors be put out by the fact that, despite their best efforts, said opposition leader has managed to increase membership of his party to such an extent it not only manages to eclipse that of all the other parties combined, the 139,000 surplus still outnumbers that of the Conservatives?)

Of course, this doesn't stop us wondering what other 'skeletons' are going to come out of the Labour leader's closet in the next few weeks as the government steadily disintegrates amid Brexit turmoil and the ever loveable™ former foreign minister continues to make a complete twat of himself with his own indefatigable brand of casual racism. That's why WordJam is giving you the chance to pre-empt the news by guessing which nefarious political and/or religious group we think Corbyn will be spuriously linked to next! Simply select from one of the following options:

 a) the Baader-Meinhof Group

 

 

b) the Bash Street Kids

c) the Daleks



d) the Goblins from Labyrinth

Once you've made your choice, dial 077116258232 and you could be on your way to winning these FABULOUS prizes:

 

A genuine press cutting from a 1989 issue of Look-In magazine advertising the second episode of the hit ITV children's show Mike and Angelo...

 

 

A print of the Pioneer Plaque I defaced after a drunken argument with my girlfriend...

 

 

...plus whatever else I've got in the drawer.

 

[Calls cost £85 from an ET landline. Additional network charges aren't my problem, sucker. All calls will be recorded by GCHQ for both training purposes and to monitor your political affiliations.  Competition closes 15/08/2018 at 13:54 hrs. So sue me.]

Sketches from Memory Blog

Just to let you all know, folks, there's a new(ish) blog dedicated to Sketches from Memory. You'll find some old favourites on there, but over the next few weeks I'll be posting some exclusive content transcribed directly from my not inconsiderably voluminous diaries. In the meantime, here's a hitherto unpublished extract...

* * * * *

12th November, 1986

"This is bad, Mr President," defence secretary Caspar Weinberger says, decanting a generous shot of Jack Daniels into his morning coffee. "The United States cannot be seen to support terrorism."

"Whoa! Hold your horses there, Cas!" Reagan says, setting down his E.T. and Darth Vader action figures. "You're telling me those guys are terrorists? I thought they were fighting the Russkies for us."

"No, Mr President," I reply. "That's the Mujahideen."

"The Libyans?"

"No," state secretary George Shultz says. "We're fighting the Libyans, sir."

"What about the Argentinians?"

"That was the Brits, Mr President," chief of staff Don Regan says, flashing an awkward look in my direction.

"Four years ago," I mutter under my breath.

"The Iranians?"

"Israel, sir," Weinberger says, setting down his coffee cup in favour of the Jack Daniels bottle. "But that's kinda complicated..."

"Ah!" Reagan says, clicking his fingers. "You're talking about Mickey Hargitay! Oh, I never did like that guy."

"Nicaragua, sir," I reply through gritted teeth. "Yes, that is what we're talking about, Mr President."

"And these guys are fighting the Soviets-?"

"No, Mr President," attorney general Ed Meese sighs. "As we've already established, that's the Mujahideen."

"I thought you said that was the Russkies?"

"The Russians are the Soviets, sir."

"When did this happen?"

"Look, it's pretty straightforward, Mr President," Weinberger says wearily. "We're funding the Contras, a rebel group in Nicaragua, to fight the left-wing Sandinista government in that country with money we got from Israel by selling arms to Iran so they can get our people back from Hezbollah."

"What people, Cas?" Reagan asks, dipping into the bowl of jellybeans on his desk. "And who's this Des Bowler guy?"

Weinberger runs a hand through his hair as Shultz and Meese gesture that it's their turn with the bottle.

"He's the bad guy," I humour him, rolling my eyes in defeat, "and he's taken some of your people hostage. That's what this is all about, and that's why we're in deep shit right now. Okay?"

"Oh, I can't keep up with all this stuff, Rich!" Reagan says, now massacring the crew of the Millennium Falcon with a stapler and some paperclips. "Why can't it be like the old days when it was only the French to worry about?"

"Well, forgive me, Mr President," Meese belches, handing me the bottle of Jack, "the only way out of this mess is to prove to the American people you're not responsible."

"Well that shouldn't be difficult," I smirk, chugging the last of the bourbon.

"Gee, thanks, Rich!" Reagan replies cheerfully. As he starts to hum a particularly muscular rendition of "Let's Get Physical", we agree to convene at 9am the following day to set up a plan of action for Operation Get the President Off the Hook.

We stagger into the White House parking lot, where Meese offers me a lift in his Chrysler. Before I even strap myself in, he floors the gas and we accelerate towards the gate, narrowly avoiding a 1982 Buick coming in the opposite direction. The driver winds down his window to address us.

"Watch where you're going, you fucking lunatics!" National Security Council deputy-director Ollie North yells, waving his fist. "What do you think this is, Libya?!"

Meese hits the brakes and we skid to the side of the road, catching our breath as we watch North flip us the bird in the rear view mirror. I turn to Meese.

"Ed... Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Anchors Aweigh!

I can't say I was totally shocked by Boris Johnson's resignation earlier this week; if anything, I'm just surprised it took so long. After all, as one of Brexit's chief architects (alongside Michael Gove and David Davis, forming what we might safely refer to as "a confederacy of dunces") he has spent the last few months openly criticising Theresa May's "shilly-shallying" on the whole deal.

Of course, he and, to a lesser extent, his Eurosceptic chums were only brought into the cabinet to keep them in line so they couldn't overturn May's leadership. In reality, however, they've been in a position of power over May since she took over from David Cameron, forcing her to steer the ship in the direction of their choosing or else risk a mutiny. As it stands, May's plotted the course but seems fearful of leaving the dock, so it's quite possible that old salty seadog Johnson's going to rally his shipmates behind him and have her broken body swinging from the mizzenmast before long. Arrrr, me hearties! "Oh, a life on the ocean wave is better than going to sea... etc"

[Coughs]

Actually, let's drop the maritime analogy: it isn't big or clever. The point still stands, though. Johnson's made his position pretty clear, and he hasn't even delivered his resignation speech to the House yet.

But how do we know what he’s planning?

The key to working out Johnson’s next move lies in his resignation letter, handily published in every newspaper and online media platform in the UK. In one telling passage, after prattling on about the EU's inefficiency in protecting the safety of female cyclists, BoJo makes his own tortuous analogy to the PM's attitude towards taking on Brussels:

"It is as though we are sending our vanguard into battle with the white flags fluttering above them."

Seems pretty straightforward in its rabble-rousing, sub-Henry V rhetoric, doesn't it?

Older readers of WordJam, on the other hand, or perhaps those with a working knowledge of 20th century British political history, may experience a sense of déjà vu:

"It is rather like sending your opening batsmen to the crease, only for them to find, as the first balls are being bowled, that their bats have been broken before the game by the team captain."

When Home Secretary Geoffrey Howe delivered these words to Parliament in November 1990, they sent shock waves throughout the Conservative Party. Not only was Howe resigning from Margaret Thatcher's cabinet after 11 years' loyal service, he was sending a message to his fellow MPs that continuing to back the Prime Minister in the face of her - however unconsciously - 'sabotaging' negotiations over the EMU meant political suicide. Within a week, a motion of no confidence was passed and, rather than face disgrace, Thatcher stood down.

May's days are up, folks. It may take a week or a month, but Boris' endgame has come into play and all across Westminster cutlasses are being sharpened. Whatever happens now, just make sure the flag you choose to wave flies true.

Breaking news!

New telescope reveals evidence of alien life on the moon...

Little girl discovers fairies at the bottom of her garden...

 

 

Lincoln's ghost caught on camera...

Scientists release video of extra-terrestrial autopsy...

 

 

The British government announces two of its citizens are in a serious condition following exposure to a Novichok chemical agent that may or may not be linked to the Yulia and Sergei Skripal case.

 

 

* * * * * ADDENDUM * * * * *

 

Okay, okay - I'm being facetious: one wonders, though, if this second chapter in the increasingly ludicrous Salisbury case would've happened at all if England hadn't enjoyed such a rousing success against Colombia at the World Cup, or if the event itself hadn't started to dispel some of the blatant Russophobia May and her coven seem intent on whipping up at home and abroad to isolate Russia from the rest of Europe because...

 

Well, that's the question, isn't it?

 

Because we want to sell our military wares? Because Uncle Sam looks set to establish better relations with the Great Bear while our own "Special Relationship" with the Golden Eagle has hit the rocks? Because Europe needs someone to hate?

 

Your call, really. Whatever the reason, this is a cautionary tale. I think our old mate Goya put it best.

 

 

Onwards, folks. Let's stay away from the bullshit, yeah?



Sketches from Memory: US-North Korea Summit Special

                  "There was the other culture, a culture destroyed but still inside us alive. In this sense

                       I knew, not only with my intellect but with my senses and my body, that the west was

                       not the only civilization."

                                                            - 'The Labyrinth of Solitude', Octavio Paz

 

Minute by minute we shape the world, and it's not always grand gestures that make the biggest differences. For what it's worth, I still feel a ridiculous sense of pride I was the one who gave a 13-year-old Stanley Kubrick my Graflex camera just to get the little shit out of my hair during chess tournaments in Greenwich Village. On the other hand, I can't quite shake my sense of guilt for telling my socially awkward college roommate Ted Bundy he was handsome enough to have any woman he wanted.

 

The point is, we can't always predict the outcome of our actions, regardless of their selflessness or good intentions. Who knows what's going to happen in this new spirit of détente between the United States and North Korea, for example? We could be facing a future of mutual trust and cooperation, or a powder keg of resentment and recrimination waiting to blow up in our faces. Either way, I'll be enjoying an extended holiday aboard the international space station until the answer becomes clear.

 

* * * * *

 

Prologue: 27th July, 1953

 

"Will you look at that?" Kim Il-sung exclaims, pointing at William Harrison Jr.'s signature on his copy of the armistice agreement. "What was he writin' with, a bleedin' hammer?"

 

You should see Atlee's handwriting," I reply. "You'd need a Rosetta Stone just to read one of his Christmas cards."

 

"It's blindin', though, innit?" Kim smiles. "I've been pushin' for this ever since them bleedin' Yanks turned up. If it weren't for them we'd be sittin' in Seoul right now, polishin' off a couple of light ales."

 

"There'll be other chances for unification," I reassure him, patting his shoulder. "The important thing now is the peace treaty."

 

"Are you havin' a laugh?" he snorts. "If I ask for peace I'll be lyin' in a shallow grave covered in quicklime faster than you can say 'My Old Man's a Rice Farmer'. I dunno about you, but that's not how I wanna end up, mate."

 

"But you can't just leave it at a ceasefire! How're people supposed to know the war's over?"

 

"Well, it says 'ere, dunnit?" he says, picking up the armistice and putting on his glasses. "'Complete cessation of hostilities by all armed forces'... blah blah blah... 'demilitarised zone'... blah blah blah... 'repatriation of all POWs to the side they belonged to at the time of capture'... I mean, what more d'you want?"

 

"It's not very clear."

 

"Who's the Supreme Leader 'ere?" he asks, glaring at me over the rim of his bifocals. "Me or you?"

 

"You are," I sigh, deferring to yet another one of his ego trips.

 

"Right. So stop your fuckin' rabbit, yeah? It's gettin' on my tits."

 

I walk over to the window and look out at the ruins of Pyongyang; a sea of dust rages in the sunbeams projecting themselves over the rubble and scorched wood that used to be the capital city.

 

"It's gonna cost a few bob sorting this lot out," I say, lighting a cigarette.

 

"Yeah, well, I spoke to Zhou Enlai this mornin'," Kim says, shuffling some papers on his desk and drawing a line through some of the names in red ink. "He reckons he can get Mao to bung us a few quid. Then there's Moscow, of course. I tell you, when we get the palace done up I'm havin' some of them carpets like they've got at the Kremlin. I dunno if they're sable or what, but just walkin' on 'em's like gettin' a foot massage."

 

"And what about the people?"

 

"Well, they can get their own bleedin' carpets, can't they?"

 

"No, I meant rebuilding the infrastructure."

 

"...We'll sort somethin' out," he says vaguely. "Socialism isn't just helpin' other people. It's about givin' 'em the power to do it themselves, innit?"

 

"Well-"

 

"Right?"

 

"I suppose..."

 

"Yeah!" he snarls. "You know I'm right, Rich, everyone knows I'm right; history's gonna prove it, yeah?"

 

"If you say so."

 

"Just you wait, mate," he says. "In fifty years' time the Democratic People's Republic of Korea's gonna be the envy of the world! There'll be cinemas in every home, no one's gonna have to work... It's gonna be paradise, yeah? Paradise on Earth! We've just got to put in a bit of elbow grease is all."

 

General Nam Il suddenly pops his head round the door, still hanging off its hinges.

 

"All right, Kim? Comin' down the snooker hall?"

 

"Yeah, go on, then." He rises from his chair, places his hand on his chest and starts bellowing "The Red Flag".

 

"The people's flag is deepest red / It shroudeth oft our martyred dead / And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold / Their hearts' blood dyed its every fold... C'mon!" he motions, taking out his pistol and aiming it at my forehead. I click my heels and join in.

 

"So raise the scarlet standard high / Beneath its shade we'll live or die / Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer / We'll keep the red flag flyin' 'ere..."

 

"Pukka!" he beams.

 

* * * * *

27th April, 2018

 

"And then he bites its head off!" Kim Jong-un says, gesticulating wildly as he leans across the table. "And everyone's like, 'Euuuugh!' but he's like, 'I don't care!' And then she's like, 'I wanna go out with you,' and he's like-"

 

"Oh, Oldboy's a great movie," Moon Jae-in cuts in firmly but cheerfully as he turns to his advisors. "Isn't it, guys-?"

 

"...That's right, Mr President," foreign minister Kang Kyung-wha nods awkwardly, flashing a look of desperation at unification minister Cho Myoung-gyon. "I love it."

 

"I love it, too," Cho says, grinning blankly at Kim.

 

"He likes his movies!" Kim Yo-jung smiles, patting her brother's head.

 

"Well, it certainly sounds like it!" Moon chuckles, turning to face Kim. "But there is something very, very important I think Mr Kim wants to talk to me about. Would you like to talk to me about it, Mr Kim?"

 

"Maybe," Kim says sheepishly, crossing his arms and burying his chin into his chest.

 

"I think you do, Jongie," his sister says softly. "Would you like to tell the nice Mr Moon what you want to talk about?"

 

"Armistice," Kim mumbles. "Want to talk about the armistice."

 

"What about the armistice, Jongie? Hmm-?"

 

"End it," he says, studying the scuffmarks on his shoe caps.

 

"Well, I think that's a wonderful idea, Mr Kim!" Moon replies, leading his ministers in a round of applause. Kim's face lights up and he giggles happily.

 

"Our proposal is a simple one, Mr President," Vice Chairman Kim Yong-chol says. "That is, denuclearisation along the Korean Peninsula and an end to the American military presence in your country."

 

"Well, we'd have to consult our delegation in Washington before drafting any such motion," Kang Kyung-wha clarifies.

 

"Do you think the United States would be amenable to this action?" North Korean foreign minister Chou Son-hui enquires.

 

"We'd have to confirm the details of the peace settlement first," Moon says, "but I don't think-"

 

"Spike Lee remade Oldboy!" Kim cuts in. "It wasn't as good, though."

 

"No, I- I gather it wasn't," Moon says softly. "But anyway, as I was saying, once we've negotiated full terms it's entirely likely President Trump would-"

 

"Have you met him?" Kim asks.

 

"Yeah. It's entirely likely he-"

 

"You've met the President of the United States-?" Kim says, genuinely astonished. "Like, the actual President?"

 

"Yes, I have," Moon replies, his patience clearly starting to waver.

 

"Do you think I could?"

 

"I don't know," Moon shrugs. "Maybe if you prove to him you're serious about denuclearisation, perhaps?"

 

"Wow!" Kim gasps. "Did you hear that, Rich?"

 

"I did, yeah," I reply, returning to my crossword book discreetly tucked between my minutes of previous inter-Korean summits.

 

"Meeting the American President would be, like, the coolest thing ever!" he says. "No, even cooler than that - it would be ice ice baby! Ding-ding-ding-ding-diddle-ing-ding! Ding-ding-ding-ding-diddle-ing-ding..."

 

Kim jumps from his seat and starts bouncing around the room, punching the air as he launces into Vanilla Ice's masterpiece.

 

"All right, stop! / Collaborate and listen / Jongie's back with my brand new invention..."

 

As the entire room watches Kim with horrified fascination, Kim Yo-Jung turns to the President of the Supreme People's Assembly, Kim Yong-nam.

 

"It's gonna be a bitch getting him sleep tonight," she sighs.

 

* * * * *

 

12th June, 2018

 

"Now remember what we rehearsed, Mr President," I say, brushing some dandruff off Trump's shoulder. "You walk up to Kim, greet him formally on behalf of the United States, and-"

 

"Has anyone ever told you you're a real pain in the ass?" he growls, snatching my hand away. "I'm the fucking President, okay? A statesman. I don't need some pussy like you telling me how to conduct myself."

 

The North Korean delegation arrives, flanked by an entourage of dangerous-looking men in sunglasses and imitation Armani suits. At the centre of the throng is Kim, eyes wide, panting with excitement as he stares open-mouthed at the President. He walks slowly towards Trump, his tongue practically hanging out.

"Shalom!" Trump says, raising his hand in a Vulcan greeting. The North Koreans stare blankly at us for a moment before conferring amongst themselves.

 

"What gives, Dicky Boy?" Trump whispers, eyes narrowing in confusion. "I thought you said these guys were Jewish?"

 

"No, Mr President," I sigh, "Juche. It's a sort of hybrid of Stalinism and North Korean nationalism that-."

 

"Yeah, whatever," he booms, turning to face Kim again. "It's all just Fu Manchu talk to me, anyways. How're you doing, Rocket Man?"

 

"OH MY DAD!" Kim squeals, grabbing Trump's hand and shaking it wildly as he turns to address the men and women of the world's media. "IT'S THE PRESIDENT! I'M WITH THE ACTUAL PRESIDENT!"

 

"The one and only," Trump smiles, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his lapel.

 

"I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!" Kim shouts, waving triumphantly as his advisors fidget uncomfortably.

 

"Yeah, well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, kiddo," Trump replies, his mouth twisting into a smirk.

 

"Will you sign this for me?" Kim asks, signalling one of his delegates, who reaches into a briefcase and takes out a laminated publicity still of Trump doing his "You're Fired!" pose from The Apprentice.

 

"My pleasure!" he says, setting to work with a marker pen.

 

"That's Kim with an 'i', sir," I offer helpfully.

 

"Go fuck yourself," Trump mutters, returning the photograph to a delighted Kim.

 

"This is AMAZING!" he squeals again, holding the autograph close.

 

"It must be a real honor for you," Trump says, winking for the cameras. "Betcha thought you'd never meet a living, breathing President of the US of A."

 

"Dad met Bill Clinton once!"

 

"Clinton-?!" Trump snorts. "He was a lousy President!"

 

"Oh no, he wasn't President then. It was after he got kicked out for lying about an affair."

 

"Was it?" Trump asks flatly.

 

"Oh yeah!" Kim continues. "He was a bad man. Meeting you is a much bigger deal! They say in your country this is like Nixon going to China."

 

"Well," Trump grins, puffing out his chest. "Who am I to argue with history?"

 

"He got kicked out, too," Kim says. "He pretended not to know about some people making his opponents look bad."

 

"Whatever!" Trump barks impatiently before pointing at the door to the conference room. "Are we gonna do this thing or not?"

 

As Kim nods and dashes on ahead shouting "¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale, ándale!", Trump leans over to me with a raised eyebrow.

 

"Call Melania: tell her I'll be home sooner than expected..."

 

* * * * *

 

13th June, 2018

 

As the credits roll on Rocky IV, I lean over and tap the snoozing President on his shoulder.

 

"Don, can I ask you something?"

 

"Shoot, Dicky Boy!"

 

"What was all that really about with Kim?"

 

"Diplomacy!" he smiles, stretching his arms in a massive yawn. "You should try it sometime. Start by changing your aftershave: it smells like an explosion in a shit factory."

 

"Ah, c'mon, Don!" I reason with him. "Everyone else may have you pegged as a boorish, brain-dead arsehole but I know you better than that."

 

"Look, they asked for a summit and they got one," he snarls, staggering to his feet and cracking open a can of Pepsi from the Air Force One minibar. "If you're looking for self-interest you're pissing into the wind, kiddo."

 

"Bullshit," I reply, helping myself to a miniature bottle of Jack. "Everything you do is about putting The Don first."

 

He watches me take a swig, then holds out his hand and coughs. I reach into my pocket and hand him five dollars.

 

"Okay, then," he says, taking a seat at his desk. "Trumpology 101: you tell me what you think this is all about, Dicky Boy."

 

"You agree to lift sanctions if they go ahead with denuclearisation," I offer, "but we both know damn well Kim won't do that because his little firework collection's the only thing standing between him and a bullet in the head."

 

"Ooh!" he hollers sarcastically. "You learn fast, Dicky Boy!"

 

"You expect him to break the deal, don't you?"

 

"I'm counting on it!" he chortles, picking up a paperweight and tracing his fingers around the Presidential seal. "Unless it's slipped your attention, kiddo, there's a trade war coming. What, you think I'm just gonna bend over and let China ream us in the ass?"

 

"So rather than get into a straight trade war with China - one you couldn't possibly win in the long-term - you get Kim to agree to a settlement he won't be able to keep so you'd have the option of slapping secondary sanctions on China for providing North Korea with economic support?"

 

"What can I say?" he grins, spreading his hands. "That's the art of the deal, Dicky Boy!"

 

"How much are you worth?"

 

"Why, how much d'you want?"

 

"No, I just wanna know. Three billion?"

 

"Three point one."

 

"How much better can you eat? What can you buy that you can't already afford?"

 

"The future, Dicky Boy! The future! They say in fifty years those little yellow bastards are gonna be four times richer than us. When I meet the Gipper in the great ranch in the sky I don't wanna have to explain why that Marxism-Leninism crap wasn't finally put on the ash-heap under my watch. At least this way I get to slow 'em down. And you know what's so sweet about it, Dicky Boy? I didn't have to do anything to get the ball rolling - not a goddam thing!"

 

"As little as possible..."

 

"Exactly!" he smirks, leaning back in his chair. "I tell ya, I can almost smell that Peace Prize. Well, that and your aftershave."

 

"Do you really think you deserve it?"

 

"Shit, if that fat-assed Kraut can get it for bombing the hell out of Cambodia I stand a pretty good chance, don't you think?"

 

"You nasty, self-serving son of a bitch!" I yell, launching myself across the desk and grabbing his pudgy, thick throat with both hands. Mike Pompeo and John Kelly rush over and try to loosen my grip as Trump's eyes practically pop out of his ugly, fat, orange head. Suddenly I feel cold metal pressing into the back of my neck.

 

"It's not worth it, son," a federal agent says, cocking the gun and brushing it against my ear. "It's really not worth it..."

 

I let go of Trump and place my hands behind my head. As the security staff lead me to my seat to handcuff me in I look over my shoulder at Trump, who beams back at me as he loosens his collar.

 

"Forget it, Rich," one of the feds whispers. "It's Singapore."

 

An awkward silence washes over us as the President rises to his feet.

 

"You're a grand old flag, you're a high flyin' flag," he starts singing, "And forever and ever you'll wave..."

 

"You're the emblem of the land I love / The home of the free and the brave..." the chiefs of staff join in.

 

"Every heart beats true 'neath the red, white and blue / Where there's ne'er a boast or brag / Should auld acquaintance be forgot / Keep your eye on the grand ol' flag..."