Well, well, well. It seems the Yanks have finally found a use for their former leader’s face that doesn’t involve a court sketch artist. In a move that redefines the term ‘passport control’, the United States has announced that, for the 250th birthday of their grand experiment in democracy, every new passport will feature the scowling visage of one Donald J. Trump. Yes, the man whose hair has its own postcode will now be the gatekeeper to the Land of the Free. Huzzah.
Now, as a gin-soaked chronicler of the absurd, I couldn’t help but wonder: what do the British branding experts make of this? After all, we’re a nation that puts our queen on stamps and her face on coins, and she smiles. She doesn’t look like she’s about to demand the recipe for the Crown Jewels.
I rang Sir Nigel Crumblehorn-Whiffle, a branding guru who once redesigned the London Underground map to look like a digestive biscuit. ‘It’s a masterstroke of unintentional comedy,’ he drawled, sipping a sherry that probably cost more than my flat. ‘Putting Trump on a passport is like putting a picture of a wasp on a jar of honey. It’s a warning.’
But wait, there’s more. The Department of Homeland Security, in its infinite wisdom, has decreed that the Trump feature is optional. ‘If you don’t want his face on your passport, you can request a standard version with a picture of a bald eagle, a gun, or a cheeseburger,’ said a spokesman who clearly had a sense of humour bypass. ‘We’re about choice.’
Choice? My dear chaps, the only choice here is between a hideous orange gargoyle and a cliché. I asked a branding expert from the University of Nowhere-in-Particular, Professor Belinda Snodgrass, who wrote a paper on ‘The Semiotics of Facial Hair in Diplomacy’. She opined: ‘The inclusion of Trump’s face effectively redefines the passport as a weapon of mass irritation. Customs officers worldwide will now need to stock up on nausea bags. It’s a bold statement, like putting Putin on a Russian visa. Oh, they did that? Well, then it’s like putting a picture of a hole on a donut.’
And what of the mundane reality? Imagine queuing at Heathrow, clutching your new passport. You hand it over, and the border guard stifles a laugh. ‘First time in the UK, Mr. Trump?’ He’ll say. You’ll want to say, ‘No, that’s just his face. I’m Canadian.’ But you won’t. You’ll just stand there, a tacit endorsement of a man who once asked if Finland was a real country.
The British reaction, predictably, has been a mix of horror, delight, and smug superiority. ‘We have the Queen, they have Trump. It’s like comparing a Fabergé egg to a Kinder Surprise,’ said a Daily Mail columnist who has never seen a real egg. ‘Americans are welcome to their orange overlord,’ chortled a tweed-jacketed gentleman in a club that probably doesn’t allow women. ‘But they should at least make the passport slightly less terrifying. Perhaps a note inside saying: “Sorry for the face, it’s not you, it’s us.”’
But let’s not be entirely negative. Perhaps this is a stroke of genius in disguise. Think of the merchandise: Trump passport covers with the slogan ‘Make Passports Great Again’. Think of the Instagram opportunities. Think of the children who will now believe that all Americans look like a melting-wax sculpture of a citrus fruit. It’s educational.
And let’s face it, the real joke is on the branding experts. They’ll be paid millions to analyse this, and their conclusion will be: ‘It’s bold. It’s disruptive. It’s Trump.’ Meanwhile, the rest of us will just have to carry his face to the beach, to the bar, to the airport. It’s like a bad tattoo you can’t remove. Welcome to the new normal, chaps. I’ll be at the G&T.