In a development that has sent shockwaves through the chintz-and-tassel community, the cost of refurbishing the White House ballroom for President Trump's second inaugural festivities has doubled. Yes, doubled. Like a startled flamingo on a pogo stick, the price tag has leapt from a modest $2 million to a staggering $4 million. And who, you might ask, is blowing the raspberry at this fiscal fandango? None other than the British architectural establishment, a group of men and women who can spend half a day debating the correct shade of beige for a National Trust teashop curtain.
Let us, for a moment, imagine the scene inside the Trump White House. The President, presumably clad in a suit that costs more than a small African nation's GDP, is pacing the length of the newly expanded ballroom. 'More gold,' he bellows, his voice echoing off the mirror-lined walls. 'I want more gold. And can we get some eagles? Big eagles. With lasers.' And so the contractors, a motley crew of former reality TV set designers and shady oligarchs, set to work. The result is a ballroom that looks like the love child of a Las Vegas wedding chapel and the Palace of Versailles, if Versailles had been decorated by a team of meth-addicted ostriches.
The British architectural response has been, predictably, one of refined fury. Sir Reginald Fotheringay-Phipps, president of the Royal Institute of British Architects, was quoted as saying, 'This is an absolute travesty. The proportions are all wrong. The cornices are a disgrace. And what is that colour? It's not even a proper gold. It looks like someone regurgitated a box of Coco Pops and smeared it on the walls. We demand an international commission of inquiry.' Indeed, one can almost hear the collective tutting emanating from the Home Counties, a sound like a thousand tweed jackets being adjusted in quiet indignation.
But let us not be seduced by the siren song of British snobbery. The real question is this: what does $4 million buy you in a world where common sense has been replaced by a desire to make the White House ballroom look like a giant's discarded bumblebee? Initial reports suggest the funds will cover an additional 500 crystal chandeliers, each one capable of causing a small earthquake if it falls, and a new dance floor made entirely from the tears of environmental activists. The catering budget alone could feed a small African nation for a year, but instead it will provide solid-gold toothpicks for the prawn cocktails.
Meanwhile, the American taxpayer, that beleaguered beast of burden, is expected to foot the bill. They will no doubt be consoled by the knowledge that the ballroom will be used for exactly one night, after which it will fall into disuse, becoming a dusty monument to a man's desperate need for validation. The architects, of course, will have already moved on to their next project: perhaps a golden toilet for Mar-a-Lago? Let us not give them ideas.
In the end, the British are right to be sceptical. But then, they always are. It is their national pastime, second only to drinking warm beer and complaining about the weather. The real tragedy is that nobody stopped to ask: does a man who has never danced in his life really need a ballroom? The answer, like the cost, is purely ornamental.
