scalded cat

“Why do some British people dislike Donald Trump?” Nate White, an eloquent and witty English writer, gave this magnificent answer: Trump lacks certain qualities that the British traditionally value. He has no nobility, no charm, no composure, no gravitas, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour, and no grace — qualities with which, strangely enough, his predecessor, Mr Obama, was abundantly blessed. Although Trump may be ridiculous, he has never said anything ironic, amusing, or even remotely funny — not once, ever. I do not mean this rhetorically. I mean it literally: never. To the British, a lack of humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it is a fact. He does not even seem to understand what a joke is. To him, a joke is a crude remark, an illiterate insult, an act of casual cruelty. Trump is like a troll: he never laughs or enjoys himself; he merely squeals with delight or derision. And the most frightening thing is that he does not merely utter crude and stupid insults: he actually means them. His mind is nothing more than a robotic algorithm of petty prejudices and instinctive malice. There is no irony in him, no complexity, no subtlety, no depth. Everything is superficial. What we see is a man without an inner world, without a soul. In Britain, we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are courageous underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither courageous nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite. He is not even merely a spoiled rich boy or a greedy fat cat. He is more like a giant white slug, a privileged Jabba the Hutt. And, worse still, he is a bully. When he finds himself among other bullies, he suddenly becomes a whining lackey. He punches down — something a gentleman should never, could never, and must never do — and every blow he delivers is below the belt. He particularly enjoys attacking the vulnerable or the voiceless, and he kicks them when they are down. That is why the fact that a substantial minority — perhaps a third — of Americans watch what he does, listen to what he says, and then think, “Yes, he seems like my kind of guy,” is a source of bewilderment and profound distress to the British. After all, it is impossible to read a single tweet of his or hear him utter a sentence or two without staring into the abyss. He turns shallowness into an art form. He is the Picasso of pettiness, the Shakespeare of shit. His flaws are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on to infinity. There have always been stupid people in the world, and villains have never been in short supply either. But rarely has stupidity been so evil, or evil so stupid. He makes Nixon seem trustworthy and George W. Bush seem intelligent. If Frankenstein had decided to create a monster composed entirely of human flaws, he would have created Trump, and the remorseful Dr Frankenstein would have cried out in despair, “My God, what have I created?” If an idiot were a television show, Trump would be the entire set.