Trump

“I say, Jeeves, I’m bally well not looking forward to meeting this fellow. I’ve heard he’s rude and coarse.”

Jeeves, polishing a cufflink with the air of a man buffing the crown jewels, inclined the dome.

“Public reputations, sir, are often exaggerated. One must allow for the distortions of the press, the wireless, and the modern habit of speaking before thinking – something that this colonial gentleman has perfected into an art form.”

“Well, even so,” I said, pacing the room like a cat with a mild grievance, “the whole thing gives me the heebie‑jeebies. The Foreign Office expects me to stride into the White House and charm the chap. Me! Bertie Wooster! A man whose last diplomatic triumph was persuading Tuppy Glossop not to punch a policeman dressed as a mermaid.”

“A notable achievement, sir.”

“Notable, yes, but hardly the sort of thing that prepares one for tête‑à‑têtes with world leaders.”

Jeeves slid the tie he’d chosen for me across his arm — a sober navy number that looked as though it had been raised in a monastery.

“If I may suggest, sir, a calm and courteous demeanour will serve you well. A light conversational touch. Avoidance of contentious topics. And perhaps refrain from mentioning the bombing of children in Gaza and Tehran.”

Bertie looked aggrieved. “I was jolly well planning to bring up the killing of the little mites, Jeeves. Jolly bad show!’

Jeeves coughed discreetly.

Bertie looked uncertain. “But perhaps I should put the future of the Empire first. One would not like to be the other who sparked off World War Three. Wouldn’t go down at all well at the club, eh Jeeves? Not like me to put the bally foot in it, what?”

“One can never be certain, sir.”

I sank into the armchair, feeling the weight of empire pressing upon the Wooster shoulders.

“Jeeves, old thing, what if he asks me about trade? Or tariffs? Or—heaven forbid—Brexit? I don’t know the first thing about any of that. My knowledge of international relations begins and ends with the fact that the French make jolly decent cheese.”

“I shall be present to guide the conversation, sir.”

“Well, thank heavens for that. Because between Gaza, Iran, and the tariff situation, I feel as though I’m being sent into a room full of dynamite with a candle strapped to my head. I read something in the paper about Gaza that made my toast go down sideways. Dashed gloomy stuff.”

“Your natural charm may prove disarming, sir.” Jeeves helped adjust the tie. “Global affairs are indeed in a delicate state, sir. Best avoided.”

“Jeeves, the last thing I want is to blunder into a discussion about sanctions or nuclear whatsits. If the President fellow asks me about Iran, I shall simply say, ‘Jolly tricky business, what?’ and then pivot to something safer. Golf, perhaps.”

“A sound strategy, sir.”

 “Well, that’s just the ticket, isn’t it? They send me—Bertie Wooster, a man whose most significant diplomatic achievement was convincing Gussie Fink‑Nottle not to release his newts at the school prize‑giving—into the midst of a world bristling with tariffs, tensions, and what‑not. And on top of that, there’s Iran. Every time I open a newspaper, Iran is doing something that makes the Foreign Office twitch.”

Jeeves gave a small, respectful cough. “It would be prudent, sir, to refrain from offering unsolicited commentary on such matters during your meeting.” Jeeves allowed himself the faintest, most Jeevesian of smiles.

“I shall endeavour to keep matters on a safe and civilised footing.”

“I shall be there to guide you, sir.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Because if left to my own devices, I’d probably end up telling him about the time Gussie Fink‑Nottle tried to teach newts to dance the Charleston.”

“Anecdotes of that nature, sir, may in fact prove disarming.” Straightening the tie.

“Disarming? They’d have him calling security.”

“On the contrary, sir. Many individuals of prominence find eccentricity refreshing.”

“You mean if he starts talking about sanctions, I should counter with a story about Tuppy Glossop falling into the ornamental lake?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Jeeves… are you actually suggesting that my natural Woosterishness might actually help?”

“It has been known, sir.”

“Well, dash it all, that’s the first encouraging thing I’ve heard all morning. Right then, Jeeves. Let’s go face the music. If the subject of Iran comes up, cough twice. If Gaza, cough thrice. If tariffs, just faint dead away.”

“I shall endeavour to signal discreetly, sir.”

 “Well, that’s a relief. I can do that. I’ve got enough Tuppy material to defuse half the crises on the planet.”

I stood, unstraightened the tie, and attempted to look like the sort of chap who could represent the British Empire without accidentally setting fire to it.

“Very good, Jeeves. Let’s go and meet the man. If disaster strikes, you have my permission to intervene.”

“I shall be vigilant, sir.”

“And if I say anything frightfully idiotic—”

“I shall cough discreetly.”

“Splendid. Lead on, Jeeves. Let us face destiny, handshakes, and whatever ghastly canapé they serve in the Oval Office.”