The Anonymous Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #4
As transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI
19 February 2020
Melania Trump rang. She and I go back a long way—since her modelling days in Milan. We share ways to annoy the extra-sensitive left-wing media. I’m her go-to man for fashion tips (you can blame me for the disastrous African wardrobes) and I even posed her for the famous photo shoot in Max, but not the vulgar one in GQ.
‘Hang on, Mel,’ I said. ‘I’m watching something important on TV.’
‘What is more importan than speaking to First Lady of United States?’ the famous voice intoned in her first ever polysyllabic sentence.
‘Which Australian singer makes it to Eurovision Song Contest.’
‘Australian, not Austrian.’
‘But Australia is not in Europe.’
‘Geographically they’re not, mentally they are.’
‘Which is why they have problem.’ The astute political commentator was definitely breaking new ground with long sentences that night. ‘When they accept they are sixtieth state of the United States they have no problem.’
‘The U.S. has fifty states.’
‘Sixty,’ Melania repeated in a steely voice. ‘Israel, Iraq, Ukraine, Saudi Arabia, North Korea, Argentina, Nicaragua—‘
‘I get your point,’ I interrupted. ‘What do you want?’
I put the television on silent, sipped my martini, and waited, one eye on the tele, as a lower class of Australian says.
Things have been testy between Melania and myself since she married the Master of the Combover. I do no approve of him or his children. Far too bargain basement for my tastes. But I accept that, as a devoted wife, Melania’s loyalties lie with her millions. In my opinion, a savvy girl like her could have done better. Putin, for instance, or Lukashenko in Belarus. Even the startlingly beautiful Angela Merkel was after her at one stage.
‘I am rinking to tell you Donal is not getting him peached,’ Melania breathed.
‘Pardon, I didn’t quite catch that.’
Melania’s English is not good at the best of times, and I had a bit to drink.
‘I say, Donal not him peached.’
‘Oh, I see. Donald is not going to be impeached.’
‘Thaz what I say.’
‘He’s been acquitted, has he? That must come as a surprise to no one. Except the Democrats.’
‘Thaz right, Donal is acquittal and I am invite you to celebration party at the Rococo Palace.’
That’s what the Trumps call the White House after the post-Obama combover. I mean makeover.
‘That’ll be nice,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been to the White… I mean the Rococo Palace since Bill docked cigar with intern.’
‘What about George Bush?’
‘Bill didn’t fuck George Bush with a cigar. Hillary drew the line at that.’
‘Silly. I meant didn’t Bushes invite you to White House.’
Without knowing it, Melania had strayed into a minefield. I needed to scald the old wind pipes with another martini before I answered.
‘George might be hanging out with Ellen Degenerate now, but he didn’t want to be seen with Uranians when he was president,’ I uttered after a good quaff.
A brief silence before Melania said, ’I didn’t know you were from another planetarium.’ Her voice was filled with awe.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Nein, mein liebchen,’ I said. ‘That’s an old fashioned way of saying homosexual.’
Longer silence this time. ‘I didn’t know you were gay.’
‘I dip my wick in occasionally.’
‘God does not like to see such things,’ Melania intoned, her Catholicism bubbling to the surface.
‘Then he shouldn’t watch.’
Melania laughed. ‘You are so cheeky. What about Obamas? Didn’t they invited you?’
‘The Obamas wouldn’t have a bar of me.’
‘Why not? You are so nice.’
‘I sided with Grace Jones when she said Barack could not be trusted because his eyes were too close together.’
Melania laughed again. No doubt her pen was poised at the other end, ready to note any new and startling revelation. It was all going in her autobiography, Becoming Melania Trump: wife, mother, first lady, fashion icon, inspiration to blue-collar workers everywhere. So I thought I’d give her something to write about.
‘Besides,’ I added, nonchalant, ‘Michelle won’t let me near her husband.’
‘Barack and I were an item at Harvard Law School. Grace Jones was right. You can’t trust him. Gave me herpes.’
There was an audible gasp. I could almost hear Melania’s Aurora Diamante Fountain Pen fly over the offical Rococo Palace notepad.
‘Ugh,’ she said when she finished scribbling. ‘Michelle is so creepy. She left traces of her good taste all over the place. It has taken me ages to get rid of it.’
Suddenly, there was an explosion of activity on the television. Glitter flew everywhere.
‘Hold on,’ I said to Melania. ‘I think they’re announcing the Australian entrant to Eurovision.’
I turned up the volume on the TV. My voice was flat when I returned to Melania seconds later.
‘Who won?’ she said.
‘Some blue-haired clown called Montaigne.’
‘Oh, I tried to read his essays once,’ Melania said. ‘They were all me me me. We threw them out with Barack’s other first editions.’
‘All right,’ I said, deflated after the Eurovision announcement and in need of another drink. ‘I’ll see you at the party.’
‘Make sure you come. There’s surprise special guest.’
‘She’s coming to eat humble peach pie in front of everyone. I send Airforce One to collect you.’
‘That’s rather extravagant, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry, the American people pay for it.’
And there you have it, reader. A peek behind the scummy plastic shower curtain of current world politics.
Until next we meet. Cheerio!
The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker and a Greek bear wrestler. Of no fixed abode, he has subsisted in Istanbul, Rome, London, New Orleans and is currently hiding out in Melbourne. He partakes of four bottles of Bombay gin and four packets of Dunhill cigarettes a day.
His mortified amanuensis, Dmetri Kakmi, is a writer and editor. The fictionalised memoir Mother Land was shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia. He edited the children’s anthology When We Were Young. His new book The Door and other Uncanny Tales will be released in May 2020.