In a move that has sent ripples through the horticultural underworld, the recently reanimated Nostalgia-in-Chief has declared a national emergency. Not over a pandemic, nor a crumbling infrastructure, but over a patch of green slime that has dared to defile the sacred Mirror of the Mall. Yes, the Reflecting Pool, that watery window to the soul of American democracy, is currently hosting an algae convention of such magnitude that even the ducks have joined a health club.
Sources confirm that Trump, mid-golf swing at Bedminster, was alerted to the crisis via a tweet from his own hair. ‘The pool looks terrible, terrible. Like a swamp. But a bad one. Not the good kind we drain. This one is green and smells like the inner thigh of a tax accountant.’ Within hours, a directive was issued: ‘Fix it. Now. And make it better than it was, which was already great. But now it looks like a hippie’s toilet.’
And so, in a burst of pique that could power a small country, the President has bypassed the Environmental Protection Agency, the National Park Service, and common decency, and instead called in the British. Yes, the very nation we allegedly told to get lost in 1776 has been summoned to clean our puddle. A crack team of English landscape architects, pond specialists, and one bloke who really knows his way around a thatched roof, are reportedly queuing at Heathrow with steel briefcases full of promises and leaf blowers.
The logic, as explained by a White House aide who wished to remain anonymous but was unable due to a poorly executed fake accent, goes thus: ‘The British have fish. Famous fish. Carp that have been greasing their gills since Victoria’s day. They know how to bully algae into submission. Plus, they’re polite. They’ll say “sorry” before they scrub out the guck.’
But let us not be mistaken. This is not merely a bucket of bleach and a stiff upper lip. This is international diplomacy at its most absurd. A £2 million contract has been mooted, though the Treasury is reportedly ‘looking into it’ in the same way a man looks into a dark alley after hearing a growl. The British team, led by one Professor Algernon Plimsoll, who looks exactly like you’d imagine, has promised a ‘bioremediation solution using native UK aquatic flora and a stern talking-to.’
Meanwhile, environmentalists are having a small meltdown on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. ‘Algae is natural!’ they shriek, waving placards made of unsold kale. ‘You can’t just import foreign opinions on pond slime. This is protectionism! It’s a green wall!’ But the President is unmoved. ‘I didn’t get elected to let a pool get dirty. I got elected to win. And we’re going to win so much on that pool, you’ll get tired of winning. And then we’ll make the pool great again. It’ll be the greatest pool. Maybe even the greatest pool in the world. A pool like you’ve never seen.’
Let us pause to consider the symbol here. The Reflecting Pool, that iconic stretch of water where Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed his dream, where Forrest Gump hugged Jenny, where thousands of tourists have dropped ice cream, is now the battleground for a spat between a reality TV star and a colony of cyanobacteria. And the cavalry is British, arriving with scones and a theodolite.
What next, one wonders? Will the Queen’s swans be deployed to eat the invaders? Will the National Trust be put in charge of Air Force One’s interior? This is Gonzo journalism’s worst nightmare: a story so ludicrous it writes itself, leaving me with nothing to exaggerate but my own exasperation. I need a drink. Preferably something British. And cold. And alcoholic. Cheerio.