Some Thoughts on the Hideous Way Theresa May Is Holding Trump's Hand Here

Cometh the day, cometh the Trump. After years of threatening it, Donald Trump is here, in the UK, physically within us. He was officially received yesterday, via a red carpet reception at Blenheim Palace, and today thousands will turn out in London to protest him, a racist, misogynist dog treat made flesh.

He was met yesterday by Prime Minister Theresa May, not the most affable of humans, as we well know, and the two were caught on camera doing their usual bizarre fumbling, resulting in yet another arse-clenching photo of them holding hands. I thought about this image for a bit, and then because the thoughts were so many and so bad, I typed them out to get them out of my head and inflicted on you:

I'm initially quite tempted to say that it's an old person thing: old people hold hands more regularly than the rest of us, whether it be to greet each other, or to help each other along as they're walking. They're dying soon! They're over observing social boundaries among themselves! It's sweet! At the same time, though, doesn't it feel somehow perverse to associate Theresa May and Donald Trump with normal old people? T’n’D couldn’t be further away from nice, sweet, noble old people who have those two-wheel trollies to take their shopping on the bus; or who go to water aerobics; or who know no greater pleasure in the world than just sitting down. So it's not that.

It could also be because neither of them understand how to be around other humans. Trump's hands are the arcade machine claws of politics, grabbing and ripping at everything in sight, and Theresa May is a cyborg that malfunctions more severely every day. It makes sense that they would mistake holding hands as an expression of genuine human warmth and feeling. But this, too, is not the whole story.

May and Trump have held hands once before, and you would think that Theresa May would have learned her lesson from The Awfulness of January 2017, when she was pictured locking digits with your man at the White House, and subsequently eviscerated by the British press for it. You’d think she’d be avoiding that mucky little Trump hoof with every muscle in her body. And yet she does not. She’s weak, and is pulled back in every time by wormy sycophancy. She’s Blair. That is the only explanation.

You know when you were a small babby person and you went on your first holiday – maybe somewhere like Skegness, or Weston-Super-Mare, or Devon – and your mum or dad or whoever carried you about on their shoulders in the sun, and made you a little ice cream cone by snapping the bottom off their own big ice cream cone and dipping that into the top of their Whippy? And you ate your little treat delightedly, toddling along, not realising that the ice cream was melting, dripping down the side of the cone, and making your tiny hand sticky? And then your grown-up – your trusted, beloved grown-up, who you loved with all your baby heart despite having none of the means to express it – took you down to the sea to paddle and rinse it, all your little fingers wrapped around two of theirs?

That’s exactly how Theresa May is holding Donald Trump’s hand in this photograph, isn’t it? Mummy Trump.

Do you think that Theresa May couldn't answer the International Women’s Day question about what she does to unwind because her actual hobby is sitting in Number 10 furiously hot-gluing diamantés to bangles?

This is the most horrific single digit I have ever seen. It is worse than a toe. Trump's one finger here – the finger of a man walking around a shopping centre hand-in-hand with his mistress, who has just caught sight of a friend of his wife's and isn't sure if she's also seen him, but is desperately trying to wriggle free anyway – is an awful, awful sight. Like an unseasoned Peperami.

May’s desperate grip; Trump's Finger pulling away. Something something, please don’t take the fucking trade deal away, something?

@hiyalauren