In a development that has sent shivers down the spines of every NHS-funded therapist in America, Donald Trump has threatened to cancel the US Freedom festival after a mass exodus of artists. The event, a celebration of liberty so profound it could only be conceived by a man who has never read the Constitution, was intended to be the greatest show of patriotic fervour since a bald eagle sneezed on a flag. But now, with musicians fleeing faster than a squirrel from a MAGA rally, the President has thrown a tantrum of biblical proportions.
'If they don't want to perform, I'll shut it down,' he bellowed, presumably while clutching a cheeseburger and a grudge. British event planners, accustomed to bailing out rain-soaked festivals and arguing about portaloos, must be watching with the detached amusement of a cat observing a toddler having a meltdown. The irony is thicker than a royal yacht's custard: a festival celebrating freedom that hinges on the approval of one man.
Or as the PM might say, 'Bollocks to that.' The artists, a ragtag bunch of lefty lute-strummers and gravel-voiced poetesses, have cited 'political differences,' which is showbiz code for 'we don't want to be linked to a man who thinks wind power is a Chinese conspiracy.' Meanwhile, Trump's alternative lineup includes a few has-beens and a man who claims to play the banjo with his nose.
The event planners, a stoic breed who have survived Glastonbury mud and Brexit, are taking notes: always have a contingency for when the main attraction is a narcissist with nuclear codes. One can only imagine the panic in Whitehall as they realise their own summer jubilee might be derailed by a royal who forgets to wave. In the end, the only freedom being celebrated is the freedom to be absolutely ridiculous.
And for that, at least, we can be grateful. The gin is running low, but the satire is flowing like a broken water main on Oxford Street.
