A huge day in import-export yesterday, as even Rome’s billion-per-cent tariff on American popes was lifted. The much bigger news, though, concerned the partial easing of recently imposed import taxes on British goods in the form of a starter UK-US trade deal, leaving the biggest little country in the world basking in the glow of an achievement our own prime minister seemed to hint had something of VE Day to it. In Britain, we have an old saying about dejection – “you look like you’ve lost a pound and found a sixpence” – but this was an entirely new spin on that scenario, given we were mostly celebrating being back to paying 10% more tariffs than we were subject to a few weeks ago. Yessss! A sixpence! Good times.
Before we get to the specifics of the deal, the theatre. I do find myself increasingly mesmerised by Trump’s Oval Office tableaux, which typically feature him surrounded by a cluster of sniggering mooks (eg the vice-president). Trump is like the boss in a cartoon about a crew of gangster dogs. Like Fat Sam from Bugsy Malone – but a bloodhound-chinese crested cross. Call him The Dogfather. So yes: the big dog was seated at his desk, while the henchdogs stood awkwardly round ready to laugh obsequiously on cue. And, bless them, they hit every single one. On this occasion, the boss dog was basking in their oleaginously indulgent chuckles, but you get the feeling that on a bad day it could go quite the opposite way. “Shaddup, Vance, you idiot. Did I say you could snigger?” “No, boss. Sorry, boss.”
