Trump's UK State Visit: Pomp, Pageantry and Pancreatic Panic.

From Windsor to Westminster: A National Circus of Pomp, Pageantry, and Protests.

A Humiliating Return to Reality.

Well, hello there, fellow mortals. I'm back. And by "back," I mean fully re-inhabited this meat suit after a brief, yet deeply immersive, holiday in what I can only describe as a state of "sedative bliss." It was an all-inclusive trip, courtesy of our beloved and, by the looks of it, slightly caffeinated, NHS. My luggage for the journey? A healthy dose of drugs and a curious mind, wondering just how much a human can forget in a single day.

And get this—apparently, my pancreas is the new rockstar of my body. It's like, I'm just here trying to get by, but my pancreas is out there getting all the attention. The doctors were just fascinated by it, giving it a level of focus I’ve never seen. Meanwhile, the rest of my organs are probably sulking in a corner, feeling completely ignored. My stomach's probably like, "Hello? I've processed a million late-night kebabs, and no one cares!"

Honestly, I'm a bit miffed. Here I am, a perfectly good human being, and my pancreas is the one getting all the praise and prodding. It's the Brad Pitt of my insides, and I'm just the supporting actor. I guess I should be proud, but mostly I just want to know what my pancreas did to earn all this VIP treatment. Maybe it's got a great personality? Who knows.

What Did I Miss? A National Meltdown.

Well, it seems the world just carried on without me, in its usual, and mostly unhinged, chaotic way. For a start, the government announced yet another "bold new initiative" to fix the NHS, which everyone knows will solve nothing but will look great in a press release. The latest plan involves giving every citizen a rubber duck to squeeze when they feel unwell, apparently to "promote positive mental well-being and reduce A&E wait times." It's a proper British solution: passive and a little bit silly.

Meanwhile, the tabloids are in a frenzy over a C-list celebrity who was caught wearing socks with sandals. The outrage has been immense, sparking a national debate on the very fabric of our society. It’s a truly serious matter, you understand. Forget inflation or strikes; this is the real crisis.

And speaking of crises, I heard about a little legal kerfuffle while I was away. Apparently, a chap in a bit of a tug-of-war with his deportation to France claimed he couldn't read his tenancy agreement. And yet, this same person somehow managed to read, understand, and then expertly navigate the dense, labyrinthine legal code of the European Human Rights Convention to oppose his deportation. A truly remarkable feat of selective comprehension.

Trump's UK State Visit: The Pomp and the Circus.

Then, somewhere in the oblivion of sedatives wearing off and late-night radio, I recall hearing something about a VIP American visitor touching down on British soil, and every bell and whistle being plucked from obscurity to mark the occasion. Or, maybe I was just still creatively floating on the sedative effect. The whole country apparently went into a frenzy. The Red Arrows, a flypast of every known aircraft since the Wright brothers, and a twenty-one gun salute that probably terrified every pigeon in a five-mile radius. Was this truly all for real?

Then, I woke up this morning and it was all true! The Donald, the President, came to town and said hello to the circus. Then, off he went with a Trumpety Trump. Trump, Trump, Trump. And, if it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing. So, in a special message to mark this world-class visit, an impromptu, sort of fringe cinematic welcome to Windsor Castle suddenly became as big as the visit itself. What a shame he missed this!

Anyway, with no sign of the Prince, otherwise known as Andrew, nowhere to be seen, and quite possibly banished to a cottage on the Balmoral estate for the rest of this week, and BBC news on catch-up, hundreds of anti-Trump protesters somehow assuming the USA's not very famous President would be hosting his very own phone-in show, assembled themselves outside the BBC's Broadcasting House in central London full of anticipation, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that he would be some twenty miles away in Windsor. Still, never mind, worth a try eh?

The Special Relationship & Frogmore Cottage.

But, as they say, the show must go on, and The King, the Queen and the Prince and Princess of Wales have welcomed Donald Trump and his wife, Melania, to the UK as the US president’s historic second state visit got underway. After arriving in the Marine One helicopter, the American leader and First Lady were treated to a personal, family-centred greeting outside Victoria House, a little-known property on the private Windsor estate, reserved exclusively on Airbnb for occasions such as this. I say 'little known', but neither this, nor the name Victoria House, is actually true, since, previous to this name change, it was Frogmore Cottage, which Prince Harry and Meghan Markle previously occupied. But, for purely diplomatic reasons, and just like Andrew, the less said about them the better.

And of course, the pomp and pageantry are out in full force. The military ceremonial is expected to be unprecedented in its scale and spectacle, culminating in a joint US-UK flypast, no doubt to be followed by a lavish state banquet. Meanwhile, the UK’s prime minister, Keir Starmer, is expected to use the visit to bolster the “special relationship” in a private arse kissing ceremony, where, in Cardinal style, our beleaguered Prime Minister will be invited to kiss the President's ring. In return, of course, Starmer will be presented with a special treat from the 'Trump Merchandise' collection, of a gold-plated, diamante-encrusted collar and lead. You know, for those 'special' occasions.

Dining with Dulux: A Truly Palatial Feast.

Meanwhile, as Trump engages in semi-somnambulistic conversations about potential trade deals, whereby Dulux becomes the preferred supplier of paint to the Whitehouse, and the Donald is introduced to the finest of Manchester's very own 'Burger Slut' menu, Mrs Melania will, no doubt, be enjoying afternoon tea and cakes, compliments of Harrods, while a procession of personal shoppers display the store's finest of everything for her delectation and delight, knowing the Trump card as an endless line of credit at her disposal.

So, as this Trumpian visit draws to a close, it's time for one and all to stuff their faces on real food, which may come as something of a shock for the visiting President, after drooling over the menu of Manchester's finest—even if it ain't Maccy D! I hear that before the feast, a team of royal tasters had to sample every dish, not just for poison, but to ensure there wasn't a single pickle in sight. It's a culinary tightrope act, with everything that grows from the ground, flaps its wings, or comes from ovine or bovine royal stock carefully chosen to avoid any accidental 'salad' incidents. Tonight's grand feast is less about gastronomy and more about avoiding an international incident involving a misplaced vegetable.

The Aftermath: So What Did We Learn?

And so it ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper, a half-eaten scone, and a few choice words about the cost of diplomatic decorum. The cameras will soon be packed away, the Red Arrows will return to their sensible, non-Trump-related duties, and our politicians—both those who bowed and those who protested—will be left to pick up the pieces. We'll all return to our usual brand of low-level chaos and a national conversation about potholes and the price of a pint. But in a few years, when our economy is teetering on a trade deal no one quite understands and our foreign policy seems to be dictated by whether we remember to send a birthday card, we'll look back at this week. We'll scratch our heads and wonder, was all the pomp, all the ceremony, and all that grovelling worth it? My guess is no, but at least for a full twenty-four hours, my pancreas got some well-deserved rest. As did my mind.