Melania Trump’s diary of the state visit

Friday 31st 

Dragi Dnevik*,

Is three days till Donald and I fly to UK for state visit with tiny Queen and also meeting with Prime Minister who is not Prime Minister apparently. I have mix feeling. On one hand I look forward to be in Europe again — people here in USA so loud and vulgar and gross, at least that my experience.

On other hand, Buckingham Palace so CRAMPED and no closet space, and British people so badly dressed it hurt my eye to look at them. Donald in good mood till CIA man tell him he not get carriage ride through centre of London after all. 

“Is it because my husband look like big baby in carriage and they already flying big baby balloon overhead?” I say. 

“No ma’am,” say CIA man, and he sweat a bit. “It’s, uh, because of security concerns. And uh, also Mr President, you’ll be staying at the ambassador’s residence not Buckingham Palace as the Queen has some, uh, construction work going on.” 

“Cudovito**!” I cry. “Maybe they put in PROPER SHOWER now and also conservatory and big wall at front to stop all those kmetov — peasants — staring in all time…”

“QUIET!” shout Donald and stand up so fast his tummy knock over desk, which pretty heavy thing actually. He storm off to room where he go for “executive time” (KFC, Diet Coke and old VHS copy of Karen McDougal Playmate of Year video centrefold — he think I not know). Later I learn he impose tariff on all Mexican goods five minutes later.

Saturday 1

We only in UK three days and it almost IMPOSSIBLE to restrict myself to only 87 outfits. Is with regret I Ieave behind my Ocasio and Cortez python-skin playsuit with “I DRINK ORPHANS’ TEARS” written across back in diamonds. And also Pence x Pelosi slingbacks with kitten heels made from real kittens. Anyway, low heels really only for NASTY FRUMPS like Meghan Markle. As international-top-model-turned-FLOTUS I must wear stilettos EVERYWHERE, even in disaster zone, like Puerto Rico or Britain. Is my burden.

At back of my mind is niggling memory about something else I must leave behind. Jewels? No, I would not deny poor English Queen the chance to be dazzled. Make-up? No moznosti***!  Um… er… oh… is BARRON. My son. All other Trump children going — Ivanka and android husband, Mini-Donald, Mini-mini-Donald and trailer-park Barbie — but poor Barron must stay behind. I would very much like him to marry British Princess — the one that is left, we can always give her makeover — but Donald say no. “In case something happens to the rest of us, someone has to carry on the Reich… 

I mean the righteous work of this administration,” he say, staring lovingly into a mirror. I make sure Barron have plenty of family separation documents from the border to burn, to keep himself amuse. 

Meanwhile, Donald give interview to British journalist in which he say a fat, blonde womanising politician who insult everyone and always say first thing that come into his head would make a great leader. Hmmm… He also say he never call Meghan Markle “nasty”, he never cheat at golf, and he never get doctor to falsify his BMI.

Sunday 2

Donald reserve whole floor of Corinthia hotel in London for his spawn — I mean, my ljubljeni**** stepchildren. He do it through Trump organisation then charge it to White House with 40 per cent booking fee on top. “Only 22,000 dollars a night for a suite?” he say. “Wow, those Brits really are scratching around for nickels. Could be time to have some fun.” 

He give interview to another British newspaper saying some horrid man who smell of cigarettes and beer when I meet him one time is very fine person — like Nazis in Charlottesville, I guess — and should negotiate with the EU. He then say Britain should stop negotiating with EU, walk away, come back, try to sue EU, do the do with EU, tell EU they are through, and then do trade deal with US after leaving EU in October. 

When journalist leave he call up all his friends in Big Pharma and say: “Well boys, look like we’re having the British Health Service for Thanksgiving dinner. Do you want a leg or a breast? None of it’s chlorinated… yet!”

Monday 3

Force One, because Mayor of London Sadiq Khan say he “one of the most egregious examples of a growing global threat”. “ONE OF?!?” Donald shout, trying to tweet and eat three cheeseburgers at once. “ONE OF?!? He should know I am THE greatest example of… of… EVERYTHING! I am a very stable genius. And a very genial stableboy…” I notice CIA men all trying to hide nuclear briefcase in closet. 

Personally, I think Sadiq Khan very attractive. He keep slim, let his hair go grey, he is feminist and he so small I not have to wear high heels… erm, anyway, as we come into land, I notice a long, strange shape mowed into field next to airport. Donald measure it between his little thumb and forefinger. “Is that a…?” he say.

“It look like a penis,” I say, “only bigger.”

I get off plane in sexy flight attendant outfit but by time I step out of helicopter at Buckingham Palace — ta-dah! — I am in sexy Princess Diana coat-dress which I think will be nice for Prince Harry. (I have soft spot for ginger men and nasty Meghan not there…) The sight of me make nearby soldiers in funny hats discharge their weapons. 

“Have you come far?” a bald man with big ears ask me. 

“All the way from Novo Mesto, Slovenia, to the White House, BABY,” I say.

We have horrid lunch in horrid cramped Buckingham Palace and tiny Queen pay more attention to her dogs than me. Donald keep staring at family portraits and I know he wondering if he can get phoney Time magazine cover of himself up there. We have tour of Royal treasures — cheap — and Westminster Abbey — draughty. 

Tiny Queen gives me little silver box, which is lovely gift. For DOWDY HOUSEWIFE. She give Donald a copy of book by Winston Churchill. “Total loser,” Donald whisper to me. Then tea with Big Ears who try to talk about climate change. “Total loser,” Donald whisper to me. Then state banquet back at Buckingham hovel. Tristo kosmatih medvedov*****, it never ends! Is midnight before we get to ambassador’s house — poky, but has American plumbing! And separate beds!! 

Tuesday 4

Donald meet with Theresa May and senior ministers to discuss whether he declare war on Iran (maybe), whether he dictate UK policy on use of Huawei systems (probably) and whether he buy NHS outright after Brexit (yes). He tell me ministers all “total losers” and that every time May speak he cup hand to his ear, look around and say “Who said that?” 

As he is eating usual mid-meeting Big Mac, May give him copy of Churchill’s blueprint for the United Nations and says, “You see, Mr President, America didn’t ALWAYS put America first,” and she laugh nervously. Donald wipe his mouth with blueprint, burp and ask for ice cream: three scoops. Later, May take him to visit Churchill War Rooms — very low ceilings, apparently. 

Tomorrow we commemorate something called D-Day which Donald think is named for him. And he still want to visit parliament so he can offer to buy it, knock it down and built a Trump hotel. 

I am sad there is no time on this trip for my true vocation. Shopping… I mean, humanitarianism. But is all good practice. Donald see his family as a dynasty, and think one of his older spawn will be president. Hah! Losers. My little Barron’s time will come…

* “Dear diary”

** “wonderful”

*** “no way!”

**** “beloved”

***** “Three hundred hairy bears” (traditional Slovenian expostulation)