Does anybody know what happened to Donald Trump?

 Does anybody know what happened to Donald Trump.

It does seem that Donald Trump may have vanished without trace. We may have missed something but the former President United States seems to have dropped off the radar which is not to say that he's taken the first plane to nowhere in particular. On second thoughts this can't be the truth because air travel has been chronically limited if negligible and Trump could be anywhere, still seething, frothing at the mouth and ready to go to war with anybody opposes him or stops him from doing what he wants to do. The rebel and loose cannon that is Trump is livid, disgusted, disgraced, a grizzly bear who just won't let it drop.

In the depths of his mind and subconscious, Trump stubbornly believes that he is still the President of the United States and he won the recent American election conclusively. In truth the lingering belief is that the man has lost possession of his senses, gone stark raving mad and bonkers and is clearly in the land of the Beatles marmalade skies and angelic fairies. Here is a man who some believe could be deranged, disturbed and demented. But that may do him a slight disservice. 

So it's late at night in the White House and the Oval Office and the man who would probably crave world- domination, has now settled down for some shut-eye, locked himself in the darkest wardrobe and switched off the lights. Here is a fearless and unapologetic figure who delusionally thinks that America still loves him and there can be no reason to leave the White House under any circumstances. 

Then he sneaks covertly into his bedroom, shuts all doors before creeping surreptitiously into a dusty study where his egotistical memoirs and vainglorious Twitter rantings are carefully preserved for posterity. Quietly Trump then draws the curtains, shuffles across to his wardrobe, knocks over the most expensive after-shave lotion bottles accidentally and then rummages through his vast collection of designer clothes wherein lies the repulsive smell of gaudy wealth and cosmetic accessories. 

For Donald Trump Christmas, in keeping with the rest of the world, may have to be cancelled or delayed until next Christmas. But then he realises that he can still be in charge and can still hold lavish, glitzy parties complete with all the trimmings. So Trump, still kidding himself and so aggrieved that he can hardly hold back the simmering fury, checks a cocktail cabinet of festive booze, rumbling and grumbling, brimming with outrage and annoyance. He crashes into a yet to be revealed Christmas tree, blurts out a whole series of curses, oaths and obscenities, blaming both the carpet and the dining room table. 

He is now stumbling around the residence that he thought would turn into a permanent home. He keeps searching for a thousand cans of Budweiser beers, lorry loads of lager and anything that resembles consolationary alcohol. But the festive season will still going ahead in Trump towers and the former President of the United States grabs hold of the tinsel and wrapped presents hidden away in a cupboard and confidently tells himself that he's still the greatest thing since sliced bread. Nobody can depose Trump. 

Then he gropes around in the dark, blustering and bumbling, murmuring and muttering to himself, congratulating himself unashamedly on his fake re-appointment before curling himself up into a ball in a wood-panelled library, twisting the key on the door and cowering away like a frightened kid on his first day at school. But hold on. Trump simply doesn't do fear or anxiety so he combs his hair for the best part of two hours and then just revels in self -aggrandisement. Doesn't he look handsome and how could America have let him down and stabbed him metaphorically in the back? 

But this Christmas will be like every Christmas the Trump family has ever known. They'll still be surrounded by a crazy dysfunctionality, still figuring out the pecking order and still terribly pleased with themselves. There will be an overriding sense that everything is perfectly normal and no virus will ever get the better of them. So they'll gather by the tree, immaculately suited and booted, clothes designed to fit perfectly by Hollywood fashion gurus who worship the Trumps because Donald expects the best. And everything Trump demands he invariably gets. 

And yet the weeks and months are racing past until the day Trump has to come out of the White House with his hands in the air, as police sirens wail and blue lights flash dramatically. He will protest his innocence quite vehemently because Trump hates losing and will never accept defeat. So he struggles with his hand cuffs, shouting the most foul, industrial language before being frogmarched into a van where the former President kicks his feet into the air, wriggling, snarling, swearing and then grinning for the cameras because Trump just adores the camera and being the sole centre of attention.

Still, there are a couple of months to go before the lease runs out on that valuable property at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. The chances are that Trump will still have its whimpering lackeys and so-called friends around for some farewell games of poker and rummy, long sessions of Bourbon drinking, plotting his next cunning plan and then smoking yet another Havana cigar. He will undoubtedly accuse everybody of wrong doing and criminal malfeasance. The American public will miss Trump and they'll regret their final judgments of that there can no doubt whatsoever. 

At the moment it's all gone very quiet in Washington. The whereabouts of Trump are not shrouded in mystery because we're aware of his enduring passion for golf. But how many fairways can you walk and bunkers negotiate? And how many miles can you walk on those billiard table green courses without throwing away a three iron on the 18th hole and not complain of boredom and repetition. We shall see Trump at some point but here we are in the middle of November and Thanksgiving Day is imminent. OK Donald, where are you? We know you're in there and you may have to explain your actions.