Dear Dunderheid,

The Irish gied Kennedy tae the warld. The Kenyans, Obama. Heck, even the Dutch hae kicked in wi a Roosevelt or twa. Sae can ye imagine whit a beamer it is for us tae finally snuive a loon o oor ain intae the White Hoose an find him oot tae be the presidential equivalent o a fart in a phonebox? Twa hunner an fifty odd years, an aw we’ve got tae show is a chiel that’s ten pairts Scrooge McDuck tae yin pairt Connor MacLeod – less Doctor Finlay, mair Donald Findlay.

Weel, Donald – Jock Tamson’s Bairns an aw that. Ye’re wan o us still, an mebbes aw the mair for bein sic a swaggerin disaster o a man, an oorie doppelganger o aathin we claim tae haud dear, an illustratit anatomy o Caledonian antisyzygy. An ye dae luik like wan o us. The wans ye sometimes see doon the watterfront in Greenock at the back o nine on a Thursday mornin, ploddin aboot the esplanade in the rain wi a turquoise shellsuit an a hauf bottle o wreck-the-hoose-juice, waitin for Aulds tae open its doors…

But, Donald, this job – it’s killin ye. We can aw see it. Even the wifies doon the post office hiv stairtit tae whisper it – ye’re no a weel man. That’s you hairdly even a year in an awready ye’re luikin like a nicht-shift wirker answerin the door tae the postie in his wife’s hoosecoat. Ye’re gaun aboot like a hauf-shut knife, thae mood rings unner yer drappin een turnin daurker an daurker as ye strauchle tae wirk it aw oot … Yon cockieleerie-comb o thatch on yer heid is witherin like a brain-eatin parasite that’s stairvin hauf tae deith, an the portrait o yer conscience that’s hingin ower the unkent cludgies o Mar-a-Lago has lang syne meltit awa intae a Munch paintin o the toxic waste guy fae Robocop…

It’s a holiday ye’re needin, an mebbes bein back in Scotland will be jist the verra dab. We’ve got oor differences in this kintrae – no least o aw ower whether we’re even a kintrae – but whitever oor odds wi oor political opponents, ah like tae think we’re aw on the same page here when it cams tae pittin bairns in cages, or BAMEs in boxes, or wirkin fowk in thae inescapable poverty traps ye cantily sell as “a great deal”.

Coorse, politicians can ayeweys surprise ye, an nae doot ye’ll find the odd yin or twa here that’s fawin ower themsels tae chum up wi ye. But if ah’d money left tae bet, ah’d pit the hale stack on yon extra runway at Heathrow bein chock-a-block awready wi Tory leadership candidates fleein the kintrae like rattons, onybody wi a howp o a political futur disappearin aff on a junket fae lastminute.com raither than find themsels staunin in a reception line as Donald, Destroyer o Warlds, wirks his wey taewards thaim, layin waste tae wan career efter anither wi yon Scabby Smit o a haunshak…

It’s awfie haird tae watch, Donald, this weird Mad Max fanfic prequel that’s unspoolin in front o oor een, kennin that the ainly reason ye’re actin like this is that ye want fowk tae like ye. For loons like masel, that grew up wi the Nazis as B-flick bad guys, it’s a paradigm shift like a rollercoaster’s swoop, tae find that fascism wis never the alliance o the evil wi the greedy, but ainly the desperate wi the unluved.

Fascism is nae disaster. It’s no something that draps oot o the clear blue sky. Fascism is whit happens when the fowk wi pouer stap listenin tae the fowk wioot it, until the fowk wioot it gang awa an find some snake-ile merchand wha WILL listen tae them, or at least let on tae. But then, you ken that as weel as onybody, Donald…

The voters o the US were hit wi a choice atween the status quo an disaster, an whit they chose wis disaster. Whit daes that tell ye aboot hou bad things maun be? An hou can onybody blame thaim? If, efter anither year or twa o this, ah’m faced wi a pick atween Theresa May an Godzilla, ah’ll be pullin the lever for the big man aw day lang. They’re aw lizards onywey, accordin tae David Icke, an gin we’re gonnae hae a monster on the randan in doontoon Embra, ah’d at least want it tae be yin that ah can see, an that’s got as much chance o smashin throu Morningside as it has Craigmillar…

Aye, ye’re a disaster awricht, Donald, an even yer ain voters ken it… Which is exactly why they pit ye in there, in the Oval Office, wi yer nuclear fitba an yer legislative pen. A hurricane disnae ken tae skirt aroond the beach-hooses. A earthquake cannae choose tae lea the mansions staunin. If the business o the US government is the distribution o pain – an let’s face it, whit else are youse lot up tae? – it maks sense at least tae hae a programme o redistribution, yin that will parcel the misery aroond a bit, insteid o jist stampin the hale jingbang for the attention o the wee fowk an drappin it in their mailbox…

Which is exactly whit’s gonnae happen onywey. The sentiment that drove some fowk tae pit ye in the White Hoose is no really aw that different fae the yin that maks still ithers strap fankles o nails an explosives tae theirsels an brek for the nearest Marine base. Ye can caw it terrorism or ye can caw it desperation, but in the end it aw gangs unner jist the wan column – suicide.

F Scott Fitzgerald said that there are nae second acts in American lives. Weel, mebbes sae … And yet it’d be nice tae think that Scottish lives are different, an that ye’ll find some wey tae reinvent yersel afore the damage ye dae tae the warld is mair even than can be fixed bi whitever Steradent son o a Harvard graduate the Democrats pit up anent ye next. Still. In this kintrae we mak the maist o the haun we’re dealt, an if you’re the president that Scotland’s been stuck wi, an the maist we can mak o ye is a teachable moment aboot the importance o kindness in an ill-dividit warld, an listenin tae fowk wha are shoutin thaimsels hoarse aboot the state of their hooses, their communities, their lives… Weel, ah suppose that’ll need tae dae.

President, ye’re nae Jack Kennedy. An nor are ye the president yer 63 million voters, an the warld they strauchle tae be a pairt o, deserve. In a wey, ye’re as much a victim as onybody else that’s caucht up in this hale sorry spectacle. A man as poor in spirit as yer kintrae’s immigrants are in siller, a refugee fae yer ain hert. Ye’re the warst aff o the warst aff, Donald. The cage that hauds ye fae yer luved yins is yersel.

Onygates, welcome hame. Wipe yer feet, an stey as lang as ye’ve a mind tae. Ah’ve a spare ruim gaun, if ye want it. In this kintrae, we ayeweys dae.

Aw best,

Tam