A monkey-brained case for Donald Trump

A few years ago I was asked to speak at a conference in New York. ‘Where would be the best place to stay?’ I asked my assistant.

‘Well, you’re booked into The Trump SoHo’, she said, careful to pronounce the capital H.

‘Are you completely deranged? Do I look like a man with a craving for gold taps and Swarovski-encrusted towelling robes?’

‘The conference organiser has booked it. They’ve got a special rate.’

So a few weeks later a Lincoln Town Car (which after a long flight, for some unfathomable reason, is the best car in the world) dropped me in front of The Donald’s hotel.

I have to say, it was nothing like my stereotype: in fact, it was bloody marvellous; simply and elegantly decorated (perhaps by the fragrant Ivanka) and with wonderful staff. A year later I revisited by choice.

Since I follow a simple heuristic rule that no one who brings me eggs Benedict with a tiny bottle of Tabasco sauce can be altogether bad, I always experience a small ‘yes, but’ in the back of my head whenever Europeans verbally frotteurise each other by hating on The Donald. I also have long supported his bid to build a hotel in Scotland. My view, if I may pause briefly to urinate over my own surname, is that there is nothing the American billionaire could build nastier than the Scots would choose if left to their own architectural devices.

No, I’m not sure about my prefrontal cortex, but if I were American, my amygdala would vote for Donald. Because, in primatological terms, Trump is a beta male’s idea of what an alpha male should be. Trump does what most normal people imagine they would do if they had a billion dollars: he enjoys it.