It’s weird being friends with someone who suddenly becomes President of the United States, not least for the reflected glory that suddenly rains down on one’s own far less powerful cranium. I was roundly ridiculed by numerous high-profile journalists and celebrities for predicting Donald Trump’s victory throughout his 16-month campaign. Now, many of those same egg-faced mockers slither up at festive parties to whisper a variant of: ‘Any chance you could put a good word in for me with Donald?’ To which my preferred response is to place a patronising hand on their shoulder and say: ‘It’s Mr President-elect Trump to you.’
When I spoke to Trump after he won (I got 15 minutes, five more than Theresa May; not that I’m suggesting for a moment I’m more important than the Prime Minister. Obviously) it was clear that he, too, is highly amused by the sheer scale of the unctuously sycophantic U-turns he’s had to endure since landing the White House.
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