The Donald is in Britain. As a holidaymaker used to budget flights, I associate Stansted airport, where Trump landed last night, with precisely the amount of glamour it currently offers, but I also know it was where planes in distress are directed to on their return – its long runway giving them the best chance of survival. Stansted is where imperilled dreams go in the hope of rescue. As Trump arrived, I realised its tarmac had not done for me what it once did for others. For them, that blessedly long runway was salvation. For me, it’s where my resistance crashed and burned. As I peered at the pictures of the US President emerging from his 747, his face set in that familiar absence of reflection, I realised something startling: I have come to value Trump.

This is not something I have face

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