Sightings – and soundings – of the Great Orm of Balmedie are being reported increasingly, and especially amidst the sound of a terrible storm brewing in the United States. Citizen Cuddis – recently released from enforced rehab – returns to Newsnet with a special report.
A muckle beastie (known locally as the Great Orm of Balmedie) has taken up residence on the dome of one of the world’s richest individuals, that great scourge of the wind-farm himself — Donal’ Trumpington Windbag IV. It hunkers ‘aboon his heid’ from which vantage point it has recently witnessed the spat between its landlord and Alec Sammin.
Is it a hairpiece? If it is, there’s just has to be some shadowy subsidiary (Salon Trump?) whose coterie of coiffure specialists, stands ready in the shadows to re-position each errant wisp that the New York born tub-thumper’s tub-thumping dislodges.
Is it a parasite? An optical illusion? Should somebody call Mulder and Scully? Classification aside, the Sammin does the cause of independence no favours by engaging in battle with a man with a flapdoodle’s quiff where his real hair should be. It isn’t a fair fight. The onlooker gains no frisson from wondering who the victor will be. That’d be the forgonest of forgone conclusions — like predicting the outcome of a bare-knuckle boxing match between ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson and Fluffy ‘Toffee-Hammer of the Scots’ Mundell. The bookies would refuse to take bets.
The only sport would be in guessing which round paramedics have to leap into the ring with the triangular bandages and ice-packs. Alec could defeat, with a withering sneer, adversaries armed with claymores. Why bother with this baldy badinage? After all, he’s not squaring up to an intellectual giant here. This is the same Donald Trump who said, ‘I try to learn from the past, but I plan for the future by focusing exclusively on the present. That’s were the fun is.’ Try picking the sense out of that after a firkin of Old Speckled Hen.
However unworthy an opponent for Alec Sammin Trumpetty is, there’s still a lot going-on in the North Polar regions of this billionaire’s bonce to be concerned about. How, for example, is the beastie held in place? Why doesn’t a light breeze waft it out to sea? If there’s hairspray involved then surely there’s a fire hazard; Trump should be ordered to stay well away from naked flames. Perhaps there’s some invisible underwire bra type scaffolding involved.
There hasn’t been this much speculation since voters tried to deduce the fiscal mechanics of Kezia Dugdale’s multiple Groundhog Day cash hand-outs from the same mythological cornucopia of non-existing Air Passenger Duty funded leprechaun dosh.
Stop! Reality check. Perhaps there’s nothing in Trumper’s anti-cyclone shaped rooftop phenomenon to cause Mulder, or Scully to open an X-File. Is he simply one of those unlucky thousands of men who have real hair that just happens to look like a toupee-beastie? We may never know. But what scares me is that when a man with a beastie on his head and enough money to out-Buffet Buffet, aspires to be the next president of the United States — a job whose duties include strolling hither and yon across the White House lawn with a thumb clamped over the Armageddon button — I feel like hiding under my bed.
Since the shouting match between Sammin and Trump, I’ve been forced to re-arrange the list of things that keep me awake at night, elevating Trump’s cranial camouflage to my number one slot, pushing the failure of Scots to gain independence during my lifetime, negative equity and sub-prime lending into 2nd, 3rd and 4th places respectively.
We should remind ourselves that we’re talking entrepreneurial royalty here. Some estimates put the hairstyle-challenged property magnate’s net worth at ten billion dollars! Once reminded of such fabulous estimates, Trump said, ‘I’m really rich!’ It’s this staggering degree of commercial self-awareness that led to him having so much cash he had to erect a skyscraper to keep it in.
Success may have been his life-long companion but I have a theory: I think the Trumpster is flat broke. I think he couldn’t afford to rent a fire-damaged Skid Row apartment on which the borough had slapped a demolition order. Where’s my evidence? Well, surely nobody with ten billion dollars could possibly choose to culture a hairstyle of such comic immensity. Q.E.D
Mind you, I remain worried. Isn’t all of this covered under the 28th amendment of the US constitution? The individual’s right to arrange his hair as he or she sees fit? Even if it does end up looking like a Wookie’s arse. If so, I should back down. I have no desire to be the first person in legal history to be sued by … whatever the beastie is — hairpiece, spores of some species of intergalactic body-snatching xenomorph, or indeed some varmint David Attenbourgh hasn’t got round to filming yet. And neither should you Alec. Be warned!
(*Or is it..? Ed)