I wish for Donald Trump and Stephen Bannon to fall in love. Unable to keep their hands off each other, they will steal kisses in the oval office and spend long, post-coital hours cuddling in bed as gentle sunlight slips through the curtains and caresses their languid bodies. They will gaze into each others eyes, whispering sweet nothings and playfully feeding each other grapes, a kaleidoscope of butterflies permanently aflutter in their tummies, around which the flab will soon melt away, their burning passion providing the only nourishment they need. Their love will be so strong as to utterly consume them, and before anyone else finds out, they will shout it from the White House rooftop, blissful and proud, and do so every single morning until the day they choose to take their own lives, unable to bear the thought of their love ever diminishing or face the terrifying inevitability of one of them dying before the other. They will be buried in the same coffin, as per the final Executive Order, Stephen on top, their corpses decaying into a tangle of bones as a symbol of their eternal union.
I wish for Vladimir Putin to transform into an eagle and soar to the plains of Alaska. There, he will become a bear and eat all the fresh salmon his furry belly can hold. Mating season will come around, and Vladimir, a female, will soon be impregnated by a much larger male. He will raise his litter as a single parent, compensating for an absent father with an abundance of tough but tender motherly love, until his brood grow up into strapping specimen and go off on their own adventures, leaving Vladimir sad and lonely but with the deep contentment of having known motherhood — or at least as capable of such introspection as his ursine consciousness will allow.
I wish for David Duke to wake up with a craving for golden age hip hop, prompting a move to Brooklyn and a career reinvention as MC Double D. Lacking in talent but filled with enthusiasm, he will release only one song, which will fail to break the charts. Threatened with a copyright infringement lawsuit by Australia’s MC Double D and dismissed by Pitchfork as a “shouty and tiresome sub-Vanilla Ice”, he will drop the name and the MCing but continue to chase his musical dreams, focusing on his productions and purchasing an Akai MPC 2000 on eBay to record 9 albums of moody instrumentals in his bedroom studio, all available for free download on Bandcamp.
I wish for Simon Cowell to discover an urge to sing. Desperate to express himself but fearful of mediocrity, he will lack the courage and confidence to act upon his desires, until his supportive but tone-deaf 20 year old girlfriend convinces him to audition for The X-Factor, providing the world with another viral clip for the ages — the funniest to date.
I wish for Piers Morgan to transform into a human being.
I wish for Theresa May to feel a sudden need to take a gap year. She will purchase an InterRail ticket and backpack across Europe. Boris Johnson will join her in Marseilles and they will enjoy a brief summer romance during the Italian leg of their journey, before falling out on the ferry to Greece and parting ways after a tense week in Zakynthos. Back home, they will try to rekindle their flame, but it won’t be the same, as both will have changed and matured as individuals. Theresa will get a TEFL certification and move to Budapest, while Boris will start wearing sandals year-round, losing political credibility but gaining freedom around his toes.
I wish for Nigel Farage to hear the call of Allah and convert to Islam. He will grow a beard and attempt to enter Syria in a bid to bring a message of peace to his radicalised brothers fighting the Holy War against the West, only to be discovered hiding in a lorry at the Turkish border. Deported back to England, he will live the remainder of his days under house arrest in Brexit heartland Stoke-on-Trent, persecuted by his UKIP neighbours but finding hidden depths of self-support in the unwavering strength of his religious beliefs.
I wish for Richard Spencer to develop an inability to digest anything other than curdled goat’s milk. He will travel to Mongolia in search of the ultimate goat, and upon his return to the United States will pen an 85 page manifesto entitled The Genetic Supremacy of The Aryan Type, which will remain on point for two paragraphs before veering into a meticulous discourse on Mongol creation myths and popular folklore, of which he’ll have nurtured a secret obsession since his stay in a farmer’s yurt. Uploading the manifesto to his website, he will feel a tingle of nervous excitement and a surge of optimism for the future that lies ahead.
I wish for Mike Pence’s hair to grow at a rate of one inch per minute, except when he’s whistling Otis Redding’s (Sittin’ On) The Dock Of The Bay.
Make a wish, people, and click the little heart. Each recommend will be a penny down the well.