A Royal Pussy

Alas, the greatest diplomatic coup of Tin-Pot Tessie's administration seems to have been postponed. It will be remembered that only a few days after several people turned up for the Trumpster's inauguration, and after the Trumpster himself had completed his discussions with the strutting ex-Caudillo of the Farage Falange, the dead-eyed warden was eventually allowed into the wendy-house, only to be so overwhelmed by the Presence that she invited the Trumpster for a state visit to Britain. In the ensuing six months, the Trumpster hasn't yet condescended to appoint an ambassador to his greatest little ally in the world, although he has made his appreciation known in any number of unobtrusive ways: in the past couple of weeks alone, for example, he has pulled the USA out of the Paris climate agreement and used the London terror attacks as an excuse to insult the city's Muslim mayor. Now, however, he seems to be losing his enthusiasm; evidently the rabid tribble sitting on his head has been squeaking insidious hints that his popularity is not all that it might be, even in the Recrudescent Global Imperium of Westminster, Gibraltar and the Falkland Islands. Hence, despite the Conservative and Unionist Party's present enthusiasm for all things orange, the much-pestered benefits claimant Mrs Battenberg may have to wait a while longer before she feels that special little handshake.