Pouring Oil on Ruffled Feathers

Britain's Head Boy is preparing himself for a diplomatic encounter which might prove a trifle awkward, not least because it will involve a larger, louder, fatter and stupider version of Boris Johnson. There are rumours that Donald Trump intends dropping in on his golf course in Scotland, which would naturally be a matter of concern for the Conservatives as golf courses are among the few parts of Scotland they care about. The Head Boy has described Trump's anti-Muslim blather as "divisive, stupid and wrong", and indeed it stands in ignoble contrast to the Head Boy's own recent backing of Zac Goldsmith's mayoral campaign right down the sewer; to say nothing of his Middle East policy of wog-bombing and concentration camps, his dismissal of the resulting Calais refugees as "a bunch of migrants" and his let-'em-drown policy in the Mediterranean.

Still, despite such displays of bleeding-heart metropolitan liberalism, the Head Boy probably has little to fear from an encounter with the blustering purple thing that dangles from Trump's hairdo. After all, Britain's Head Boy is the chap who used his dead child to lend credence to all the sweet nothings he was burbling about the NHS, and then turned the NHS over to Twizzler Lansley and Jeremy C Hunt. Britain's Head Boy is the chap who hugged huskies and then signed over half the country to shale frackers while letting illegal polluters poison forty thousand people a year. Britain's Head Boy is the chap who claims to lead the Conservative Party and to believe in Europe, while risking a British exit in order to humour some baboons on his back-benches. Britain's Head Boy is, in short, not the sort of chap to balk when it looks as if his immediate interests might be served by a bit of the old fast and slimy. Whether Trump's hairdo or its dangler will have the subtlety to appreciate the manoeuvre is another question.