Ruth Wishart: Swivel

IT’S a right worry. At this rate we’re going to run out of asylums for the lunatics to take over. This past week has seen much evidence on both sides of the pond.

The American Justice Department threw a few more pages of the book at the orange facts-bender, whereupon a tidy few of the Republican faithful chorused that it mattered not if the former commander-in-chief was sent to the pokey.

And you will know why if you listened to some of the rightward-facing telly pundits earning their nightly corn by telling the public that it would be OK if the Supreme Court chief justice had to swear in Trump in the clink since a minute later he could pardon himself.

And would, of course. DJT has never been on nodding terms with shame and, as countless instances assure us, is a total stranger to the commodity formerly known as the truth.

The Republican Party in the States could never be accused of soggy liberalism any time in its past. But the Grand Old Party was at least once a recognisable political entity. Now it’s a rag-bag of spineless wonders leaving the average tremor bereft of anything to run up.

Even those congress members and their senatorial colleagues who had to cower under their desks to avoid the attention of the Trump-inspired mob trashing their seat of government have now rewritten the January 6 script. Just a few tourists having a bit of a laugh.

Former US president Donald Trump on the 15th hole at Trump International Golf Links & Hotel in Doonbeg, Co. Clare, during his visit to Ireland in May (Image: Brian Lawless)

That’s because they’re even more scared of Trump and his baying base than they were the day democracy damn near died. They can’t bring themselves to acknowledge that they’ve presided over an ugly makeover of what used to be a recognisable brand of politics.

When a former member of their tribe stood up and told the unvarnished truth about Trump at a meeting in Iowa, home of the first election primary, he was booed off the stage. Apparently for Trump worshippers, it’s well-nigh obligatory to believe a dozen impossible things before breakfast.

They buy in to the nonsense of a stolen election which their hero lost. They ignore cast-iron evidence of his trying to invent state electors or bully Republican governors into finding “lost” votes for him. They accuse their opponents of stuffing fake ones into Biden’s ballot box. By any definition, this is madness on stilts.

Ironies abound. They berate Biden on account of his age – a whole two years older than their man. Yet ignore the fact that their elderly party leader had to be led away from a podium last week having mislaid anything resembling the plot.

They still shout about locking up Hillary Clinton who, the last time I looked, hadn’t been running for the past seven years. They still think she orchestrated a paedophile ring from a non-existent basement.

They used to say what happens in America is mimicked in the UK a few years down the line. Now we don’t hang around that long. Now we can manage our very own brand of political lunacy thank you very much. Pretty well instantly.

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You could run out of fingers trying to remember how many PMs, chancellors and health secretaries have been in post since the greased piglet slid into Number 10. I’ll see your Donald and raise you Boris. Plus we are an equal opportunities employer in our very own asylum. Just ask Liz Truss who lasted less time than I had between haircuts.

Then along came Rishi. Quite small but perfectly formed compared to his predecessors. Or so it seemed. Until it became clear that this ex-financial services whizz kid wasn’t that clued up about politics, given that he only came into the Commons in 2015.

He ran into a bit of trouble as a tyro Chancellor of the Exchequer when it turned out his missus had non-dom status, which meant that the Treasury (run by her hubby) wasn’t getting its mitts on her UK profits.

When he gave up that gig to point out to a wholly unsurprised electorate that the man who would be world king was a bit of a lazy shyster, he contrived to lose a tussle with Truss for the top job. Not so much savaged by a dead sheep, as monstered by Barbie. In his defence, the only electors asked were paid-up members of the Tory tribe.

And when he did manage to get up that greasy poll after Lizzie introduced us to Trussonomics, he had to smooth his passage by genuflecting to the Tory right wing in the shape of the horrendous Braverman. You have to go some way to make Priti Patel seem cuddly by comparison, but Suella is a mistress of the darker Home Office arts.

Currently he’s exploring one of California’s now two Disneyland experiences. Though if it’s Fantasyland he seeks, he could surely have stayed home.

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And here we must pause to consider the point at which the US Republicans and the Conservative Right seem to have jointly become prisoners of what was once considered the lunatic fringe of their respective parties.

For it’s not just those damn Republican Yankees who have cornered the market in swivel-eyed weirdos. I give you (gawd forgive me) Nadine Dorries, for whose formal resignation from the Commons we still await.

Nadine, you see, said she was going because her bestie Boris had just got his jotters, ie the man who had promised to make her Lady Dorries in his resignation “honours” list.

When her name fell off the back of that particular lorry, it was rumoured that she was delaying signing on the dotted resignation line in case she could get re-instated on Truss’s list. What, I hear you cry – you can get on a PM’s leaving list having been outlasted in office by a supermarket lettuce?

Apparently so, and a rather tidy lifelong pension forbye. I would be more than happy to stand corrected on either count.

Then there’s her other best buddy, the utterly risible Jacob Rees-Mogg who recently earned a knighthood for services to toadying. JR-M is living proof that you can still get away with spouting complete hogwash in the palace of varieties (copyright the late Sir Julian Critchley) provided you do so in a properly plummy accent.

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He’s a handy fella, mind. He can argue black is white and the reverse on consecutive days – no mean skill.

And they wonder why politics often gets a worse name than journalism.

Still and all, at least we got rid of Boris – over there it seems Trump is still working away at his get-out-of-jail-free card.

Except that while Trump is monetising his serial indictments – every time he gets one he fires off another GoFundMe plea to the faithful – poor old Boris has to get by on millions of post-politics earnings.

Having heard the blond bombshell at assorted podiums over the years, I’m still at a loss as to why anyone imagines him to be a skilled orator.

Another arithmetical conundrum which he chooses not to solve for us is precisely how many of his assorted liaisons resulted in fatherhood.

However many there may be, they have my heartfelt sympathy; you wouldn’t want to go through life knowing that Boris is your actual daddy and that a certain proportion of your genetic makeup is courtesy of Mr Johnson.

On the other side of the pond, the Trump progeny seem all too anxious to endorse the nonsense that he’s the victim of a politically inspired prosecution.

Swiftly out the blocks came Don Jr last week, echoing Dad’s tattered script, swiftly followed by a daughter-in-law who claims to be of sound mind.

Some American retailers must be clear out of Kool-Aid.

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