Merry Trumpmas

It was action stations in the White House as the media team put the finishing touches to President Trump’s annual Christmas speech. They knew what the President wanted: After all, they had gained plenty of practice – this was his tenth consecutive Yuletide address, and the Christmas 2034 speech needed to be bigger and better than anything that had gone before. It had been, reflected White House Communications Director Tucker Carlson, one hell of a ride these past ten years. And there was more, so much more, to come.

Carlson’s mind went back to the early days of Trump’s second presidency. The imposition of blanket trade tariffs in 2025 had crippled a weak Chinese economy and prompted a Communist Party revolution that had toppled President Xi Jinping in 2028. Peace was restored in Ukraine in December 2025 after Trump invited Presidents Putin and Zelenskyy to Mar-a-Lago for a Global Conflict Resolution Golf Tournament with the winner getting to pick the terms. Neither of them actually won. In fact, they got so tired of Trump pitching post-war reconstruction deals that they agreed a ceasefire after 8 holes simply so they could leave early. It didn’t stop Trump from claiming the credit though.

Then Trump dropped a bombshell in early 2028. As he put it in a televised address to the nation:

“My fellow Americans, the greatest people on Earth – and I should know, I made you even greater –  today, I am announcing the most historic, most unbelievable, most perfect decision in the history of our country. You’re going to love it. Trust me, everyone’s talking about it.

“Nobody has done more for America than me. Nobody. Before me, America was failing – failing! Now look at us: we’ve got the biggest, most powerful economy the world has ever seen. So why stop? You don’t mess with perfection, folks. People are begging me, ‘Sir, you HAVE to stay!’ Even Crooked Hillary sent me a message saying, ‘You’re doing an amazing job, Donald. You should be President for life.’ So you know what? I’m going to be just that. But folks, this is a democracy – the greatest in the world – and it’s not for me alone to make this decision. The Supreme Court will ratify it tomorrow morning.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Sir, who could possibly fill your shoes someday?’ And let me tell you, I’ve thought about this a lot – tremendously. The answer is obvious. It’s my son, Barron. He’s tall, he’s smart, and, let’s face it, he’s got the best genes. People say he’s the future. And you know what? They’re right.”

Carlson’s musing was interrupted by Vice President Musk. “Hey, Tucker, quick thought – do you think we should announce in this year’s speech that we’re building a literal wall on the moon? It’ll be YUGE, and this time, no one’s getting through without a Trump-branded lunar passport. I’ve already got SpaceX engineers drafting the designs for a launchpad?”

“Well Mr Vice President, Sir, it is certainly an … interesting idea. But you will recall that we had to abandon the moon base after those batteries you supplied us with kept running out every two hours, and it proved impossible to reliably sustain the life support system? So the fact that there isn’t anybody actually on the moon means it may be a tad ambitious. In any case, the deficit stands at $10 trillion. I doubt we can squeeze any more money out of Congress – the funding of the golden Trump Tower at the North Pole in order to gain control of the Christmas market has cost a fortune.”

“Well how was I to know that the solar panels wouldn’t work and that we would have to build a power station next door?” protested Musk.

“Indeed, Mr Vice President. You would have thought that one of those woke climate scientists might have pointed out that the sun doesn’t shine there for six months of the year,”  replied Carlson.

Musk paused for a moment, then asked: “Why don’t we move Christmas to June? Or build another tower at the South Pole?”

“All good questions, Sir,” responded Carlson. “Why don’t you put them to the President himself? In fact, here he comes now.”

The President never had to announce himself to the room. They could smell him coming – that cologne was powerful stuff. At least, thought Carlson to himself, he assumed it to be cologne. Seconds later, the door swung open and in walked President Trump.

“What’s going down, Elon?” asked Trump. “Hopefully not another of your crazy electric rockets?”

Musk smiled wanly and mused that it hadn’t been a great idea to entrust the navigation system to Chat Guidance Precision Technology (GPT) which went rogue and locked him out of the navigation, telling him: “Sorry, Elon, you’re not authorized to override this mission. Have you tried recalibrating your purpose?”

“Let’s get down to it, Tucker. What great things do you have for my speech tonight?” asked the President.

“Well, Sir,” replied Carlson, “We thought we would start off by announcing that the Oval Office will be renamed as the Golden Office, and we will have you on a custom-built golden throne adorned with holiday decorations and your name in flashing lights. You announce that your aim is to “Make Christmas Great Again” by renaming it “Trumpmas”, in honour of your great leadership, and there will be a “War on Fake Christmas,” banning non-Trump-themed decorations and songs.”

“Yeah, it’s good but it’s a little understated. We need to get people excited,” said Trump.

“Ah yes, but wait for the climax, Sir,” answered Carlson. “Walls of Peace! You say: ‘In my infinite wisdom, I’ve decided to build walls for peace. Not just on the southern border, but all over the world. Every nation should have a Trump Wall of Peace. You want peace with Russia? Build a Trump Wall of Peace. Want to stop climate change? You guessed it – Trump Wall of Peace. The world will look like one big peaceful Trump fortress, all built by American construction firms. What's good for America is good for the world, and vice versa.’

“We fade out to the image of fake snow falling over Washington DC, with the golden lights of the Trumpmas tree in the White House lawn spelling out: ‘All I want for Trumpmas is ME.’”

Trump smiled, clearly satisfied. “Perfect. Everyone’s going to love it.”

Carlson nodded, but with a knowing grin. “You’ve got to admit, Sir, it’s a little much, even for you.”

Trump chuckled. “Tucker, when you’ve built what I’ve built, you get to go big. We’re taking this country, this world, to the next level.”

Carlson smiled and reflected that whatever resource issues the world may have, a shortage of hubris was clearly not one of them.

A Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Quantum of Solace

It was Christmas in the physics faculty. Wolfgang Pauli, Werner Heisenberg and Albert Einstein were debating the meaning of the festive season.

“I’m telling you, Albert, it is perfectly possible for Santa Claus to be able to deliver presents all over the world in one night,” said Heisenberg. “We know very well from quantum physics that it is possible for particles to exist in different places at once.”

“That is as maybe”, said Einstein, “but as you well know I am extremely sceptical about many aspects of quantum physics. And in any case, isn’t it the case that only tiny particles can display such properties? Imagine the chaos if we could have multiple Boris Johnsons scattered throughout the galaxy.”

“To your first point, Albert, quantum mechanics has passed every test we have managed to throw at it,“ chimed Pauli. “And in any case, it is experimentally possible to create large quantum objects that can be seen with the naked eye. After all, the only thing that in theory acts to prevent the superposition of large visible objects is the theoretical postulate that a background noise field exists to prevent the emergence of a quantum state. If such a background field exists, it would give off heat and we would be able to detect it. Admittedly, it is a lot less heat even than in the coldest of fridges so it is possible that we just don’t have sufficiently sensitive instruments but recent research from Australia supports the hypothesis that this background field does not exist. That being the case, if we think of Santa as a large collection of particles, there is nothing to stop him simultaneously existing at different places at the same time.”

“And what about all those reindeer? Do they exist in a quantum superstate as well? Even if I accept the premise that a quantum Santa exists, is it really possible to generate eight quantum reindeer at the same time?” asked Einstein.

“Natürlich mein lieber Albert,” replied Pauli. “How do you think Rudolph gets his red nose? It’s the friction associated with travelling faster than the speed of light. Of course, Santa gets a lot of help. His distribution network is second only to Amazon. Imagine what a force they would be if they could get the quantum delivery part to work. As it is, I hear they are struggling to devise a quantum computer than can add one plus one.”

“This is all very interesting, Wolfgang, but has anyone actually seen Santa?” asked Einstein.

“Oh yes, I saw them in concert at Woodstock,” responded Heisenberg, who by now had started on the eggnog.

“Nein, you idiot. That was Santana,” interjected Pauli.

“Of course. Mind you, the stuff we were smoking in ’69 it felt as though we were in a number of different places at once. I was in outer space, man,” said Heisenberg. “I was feeling, how do you say, a little wigged.”

“I am glad you take it all so seriously, Werner”, said Einstein, sarcastically. “But going back to my original point, if you can generate a quantum Santa, why not a quantum Hitler, or Boris Johnson?”

Heisenberg, who at this point was feeling decidedly the worse for wear slurred, “Well maybe Taylor Swift is a quantum creation. She seems to be everywhere these days. And didn’t she once sing a song called Blank Space? How would she know unless she’s been there?”

Einstein was becoming increasingly disinterested in the conversation with his fellow physicists. His attempts to engage his intellectual peers had degenerated into bar room discussion, and he was quite glad when Heisenberg dragged Pauli away to form a conga line. Seeking to raise the intellectual tone, Einstein hailed the economist Paul Samuelson who happened to be passing.

“What on earth are you doing at the physics Christmas party?” asked Einstein.

“Well Albert, since much of my economic theory was based around the mathematics used in the analysis of physics, I feel right at home,” replied Samuelson. “And don’t forget that the heat transfer equations form the basis of options pricing models, so there is a lot of crossover between physics  and economics.”

“In that case, maybe as an economist you can shed some light on the meaning of Christmas. It’s not like my fellow physicists seem to offer much enlightenment”, said Einstein.

Samuelson thought for a minute and started to respond: “As you know, it’s the most important time of the year for the retail trade, when the bulk of toy sales occur and when the entertainment industry makes a great deal of money. We give each other gifts, whose utility is questionable, and we engage in a vastly complex process of income-constrained decision making under uncertainty. I want a Bentley, my wife gives me socks. She knows I want a Bentley, but she can’t afford one and knows I will settle for socks. In return, I will give my wife the perfume that she told me last year she didn’t like which she will add to the collection on her dressing table. There must be five bottles of the stuff by now.”

“Then, of course, there is a long tradition of hosting the in-laws, inviting them round for the traditional dinner. This in turn, is a minimax strategy, in which we provide the least unacceptable culinary option for people with different dietary tastes and requirements. Or is it a maximin strategy? No, it’s minimax; maximin is a former footballer with Newcastle United.”

Einstein took a drag on his pipe. “Ah yes, the relatives. One of the most difficult of all problems to solve. I did have a crack at solving that once – you might have heard of my Theory of Relatives. One of the most important findings was that time changes according to circumstances. A couple of hours playing charades with Uncle Bertram seems like a lifetime.”

“Still, I mustn’t keep you, Paul. I know you have important things to do. Just one thing before you go. As an economist, you must spend time thinking about philosophical matters. Have you read Marx.”

“As a matter of fact I have”, replied Samuelson as he hauled himself to his feet. “It must be these wicker chairs.”

A Merry Christmas to you and yours.

On Christmas Night ...

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. There certainly weren’t many train drivers around either, Rishi mused, given that they were on strike. Ambulance drivers, nurses and postmen were, like Christmas cheer, also a little thin on the ground this year. Rishi shivered. Ever since he had moved into his London townhouse almost three months earlier, his life appeared to be running out of control.

He had the sense that the place was haunted. The portraits of all the previous occupants gazed out on him as he went up and down the stairs to the cramped but expensively decorated apartment that one of the recent occupants had lavished so much money on. He could almost hear their disapproving whispers urging him to get tough with the unions and bring the country back to its senses.

Rishi sighed as he trudged up to bed. At least tomorrow he could shut himself off from everybody and lounge around in his underwear drinking Crème de Menthe by the pint. It may not be much but it was at least a plan. It’s not like there was a Queen’s Speech to look forward to this year. Dejectedly Rishi slumped into bed. It had been a tough year and he was glad it was almost over. A good night’s sleep was just what he needed.

A quick slug of whisky provided the tranquilliser that would send him to sleep: A deep slumber when the pressures of the job would fall away. Then suddenly he heard it. Tap-tap-tap on the window pane. One of the most secure houses in London and someone was trying to break in. Incensed, Rishi stormed over and flung open the window. And there, sitting on the windowsill, was Tony Blair.

 “What the hell are you doing there?” asked Rishi.

“I am the ghost of Christmas past,” replied Blair.

“But you’re not even dead, at least not physically,” said Rishi. “How can you be a ghost?”

“You don’t have to be dead to be a ghost,” Blair answered. “Just look at Keith Richards. Anyway, I’ve come to show you what life was like in Merrie England in the days of BC.”

Seeing Rishi’s puzzled look, Blair helpfully added, “Before the Conservatives. Here, grab hold of my arm. And do call me Tony”.

Before he could even reply, Blair reached out and for a moment all went blank. But then Rishi recovered his composure and realised that the two of them were standing in a hospital waiting room. “Where are we?” he asked.

“This is the waiting room at St Thomas’ Hospital,” replied Blair.

“But it’s empty,” said Rishi. “Is everyone on strike?”

Blair visibly bristled. “No. It’s 2010 and the place is empty because a Labour government has ensured there are sufficient staff to tend to patients quickly with the result that waiting times are minimal.”

This time it was Rishi’s turn to bristle: “Your spending plans crashed the economy,” he snapped.

“Remind me again,” retorted Blair, “how high is the public debt to GDP ratio now compared to 2010? How weak is the pound? And what about…”

Before Blair could finish the sentence, Rishi cut him off.  “What about Iraq?” he yelled.

“Brexit,” responded Blair.

Before he had a chance to think of a clever retort, Rishi found himself sitting up in bed. Had he merely dreamed his weird encounter? Whatever was in that whisky, it wasn’t good. Rishi lay awake in his bed, too pumped to sleep, when his thoughts were interrupted by a tap-tap-tap on the window. “If that’s Blair, I will push him off the windowsill,” said Rishi to himself. Flinging back the curtain, expecting to see Blair’s grinning visage, Rishi was astonished to be greeted by the sight of Liz Truss.

“Don’t tell me you’re the ghost of Christmas present,” said Rishi shakily.

“I am indeed,” replied Truss. “I’m here to show you the power of free market economics and the Britain that I created during my term in office.”

Rishi was bemused: “But you were only in the job for 44 days. How much could you actually do in that time?”

“Clearly you are not a believer in Trussonomics. Come with me to a Citizens Advice Bureau to see how the people gratefully acknowledge the power of markets to set them free,” she replied.

“Maybe not a great move, Liz,” said Rishi. “Got any other venues in mind?”

“How about any Conservative Party branch in the country?” said Truss, hopefully.

“Maybe not a great choice either given what you did to the brand,” he muttered sarcastically.

“A group of hedge fund managers, then?” She was beginning to sound desperate.

“Why would I want to mix with those peasants?” said Rishi, loftily.

“Oh, come on Rishi. You’re not exactly entering into the spirit of this exercise, if you’ll pardon the pun,” wailed Truss.

“Well, the truth is, Liz, that my life is so much more miserable thanks to your misguided tax-cutting plan.” Rishi was shouting now.

“But that was all Kwasi’s idea.” She seemed on the verge of tears.

“I don’t care. Go away and leave me alone.” He was definitely shouting.

“There are many worse ghosts than me you know,” pouted Truss.

“I really don’t see how. Anyway, I don’t believe in ghosts and I certainly don’t believe in you. I’m going back to bed.” With that Rishi slammed the window shut and realising that he was in some sort of bizarre Dickensian plot sat down to await the ghost of Christmas future, musing that it was better than waiting for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. At this point in the story, you are probably expecting Keir Starmer to tap on the window and show Rishi how bleak and miserable the future will be unless he changes course. But Starmer never showed up, which frankly is a blessing. After all, we will soon enough see what it will bring. 

Merry Christmas to you and yours.