Sympathy for Trump.

OK we went on Sheffield’s ‘Fuck-off Trump’ march on Friday but the man’s had a hard life. When I was five in bliss on our landing riding my new scooter he probably got cufflinks befitting the son of a multi millionaire. When I was twelve adventuring on my second hand bike he was probably riding his ranch on a top-notch pony. At fourteen, I contemplatively fishing, he hunting dear triumphantly. At sixteen me struggling with self-image and girls and he having his pick of the most beautiful, I weak and spindly, he strong enough to beat up any guy. At twenty-one his father gave him a million dollars to make is fortune and my dad wished me luck. All in all we learnt different things. He could have what he wanted and could acquire the best, and I had to work, learn and struggle with old moto-crossers, people and myself. He was educated by privilege and I by Mr Green at my secondary modern. I’m not romanticising the nobility of struggle rather its potential for growth, fulfilment and the pure pleasure of it. I’m not enviously bitching about Trump’s silver spoon wealth rather the paucity of his education by privilege. How could he grow when pre-given everything? Where is the pleasure in not attaining it? How can you feel fulfilment when you can just grab the pussy of existence? He was born on a bleak mountaintop where only ego, needing nothing but itself, can survive. And the rest of us, born much lower in uncertain yet fertile valleys, have the potential to flower. No Trump has had the worst of it by far but still doing his best to achieve worthless trophies and bully fortune to his uneducated will. He might still be, albeit unconsciously, trying to find out what the rest of us know, how to struggle with insecurity, exams, overdrafts, real relationships and true fulfilment, and the pleasure in achieving them.