Let us pause, dear reader, and marvel at the latest act in the grand, gaudy circus that is American political theatre. Doctor Ronny Jackson, that loyal court physician, has emerged from a brief encounter with the former president to declare Donald Trump in 'excellent health'. The report, predictably, is a masterpiece of vagueness, a document designed not to inform but to reassure. It is the sort of pronouncement one might expect from a Tudor astrologer, heavy on confidence, light on verifiable data.
But the real story here is not Trump’s blood pressure or cholesterol count. The real story is the ritual itself. The US presidential medical check‑up has become a public relations stunt, a choreographed performance of vitality in a nation that worships youth and fears frailty. Every four years (or, in Trump’s case, whenever the mood strikes) we are treated to this quasi‑medical pageant: a few pokes and prods, a smile for the cameras, and then a glowing letter from a hand‑picked physician. It is reminiscent of the Victorian practice of 'taking the waters'—more about social performance than actual healing.
Consider the historical parallels. In the late Roman Empire, emperors would parade their physical vigour before the legions, holding aloft the severed heads of barbarians to prove they were still strong enough to rule. Today, the barbarians are replaced by media, the heads by a laminated health summary. But the underlying message is the same: 'I am still capable. I am still the alpha. Do not doubt my stamina.' It is a form of political jousting, a tournament of testosterone disguised as medicine.
Yet what is actually being measured? The check‑ups are notoriously superficial. They ignore the cognitive tests that might actually matter for a leader, the psychological evaluations that could signal early decline. Instead, we focus on the irrelevant: weight, pulse, the number of times the president can pump iron. It is a reduction of leadership to the biological, a denial of the fact that governing requires something more than a working heart. Augustus ruled Rome for decades with a chronic liver ailment. Churchill led Britain through war while drinking like a Viking chieftain. The obsession with the president’s physical fitness is a symptom of intellectual decadence, a society that has lost faith in judgment and wisdom and now clings to the mirage of eternal vigour.
And so the charade continues. Doctor Jackson declares Trump to be in 'excellent' health, and the media dutifully reports it, some with glee, some with scepticism. The sceptics are right to ask: why is this a story? Because it is not about health. It is about the illusion of control. In an age of national decline, we want our leaders to be supermen, to defy the entropy that threatens us all. But entropy wins. Rome fell. The British Empire crumbled. And no doctor’s report can prevent the slow decay of a republic that has lost its purpose.
So go ahead, Mr. Trump. Jog on the White House lawn. We will not be impressed. We have seen this play before. The curtain will fall eventually, and we will be left with the one truth no physician can deny: time is the great unmaker, and it spares no president.
Arthur Penhaligon.
