The president’s plane took off from Paris. He was going home. Before reaching the Atlantic, there was a huge explosion of lightning in the sky like Armageddon. It struck the plane, a wing caught fire, smoke was billowing everywhere.
‘Parachute! Parachute!’ the captain shouted. ‘Prepare the president for emergency exit.’
Two of the crew bundled him out of the toilet where he’d been tweeting.
‘Hey, what about my pants?’
‘Strap this on!’ one guy shouted.
‘Open exit door!’ said the second.
‘Release!’
The president, falling to earth, trouserless, looked up at the plane wreathed in fire. Next thing he knew his parachute was snagged on top of a metal tower, the heavens still electrically charged with tongues of lightning.
I have seen the wrath of God. Aimed at my opponents! he tweeted. TRUST ME!
A teenager on Blackpool beach rang 999.
‘Fire service! There’s a bloke wi’out his kecks dangling from top of t’ tower. What? Drunk? I ain’t chuffin` drunk!’
The U.K. prime minister got an urgent call from the White House.
‘We’re watching it unfold by satellite. His underpants have blown off in the gale.’
‘He’s such a show off,’ the British P.M. mumbled.
‘And his wig. Get your rescue services up there NOW! A replacement toupee. Orange. And outsize underwear. NOW!’
A woman using the beach telescope was scrutinising the President’s genitalia.
‘My. That Stormy Daniels was right. As tiny as a stickleback.’
The president, dangling by the snagged parachute, tweeted: Aircraft crash? FAKE NEWS. I’m on the Eiffel Tower. Great view folks.
A fire engine wailed, the crowds got out of its road. The afternoon sky was raining. The lightning continued to crackle.
Evens he falls before the fire service get him, a local turf accountant’s website said. Two to one major injuries. Three to one he’s mentally incapacitated.
How will we know? a regular punter posted on the site.
A phalanx of firefighters swarmed up the five hundred feet tower. They cut away his parachute bindings and got a winch on him. They lowered him gently like a nurse with a new-born infant.
French firefighters. Almost as good as U.S. I’ll cut French trade tariffs, he tweeted from his celestial cradle.
When he reached the ground, he said: ‘They gave me a bad pilot. Bad. I’m firing the chief of the airforce. Incompetent.’
When told by a journalist he wasn’t in France but Blackpool, he said:
‘Hey! You got a golf course. Links, right? I’m unbeatable on links.’
‘Where next for you?’
‘Greenland, then Canada and Panama. Gonna plant the American flag on them. MAGA! After that, the Trump Gaza riviera.’
‘What about global warming, sir?’
‘Fake news. Drill baby drill!’
He departed, a Blackpool towel, toga-like, around his midriff, an object like an askew Belisha beacon on his head.
‘He’s the sort of leader this country needs post-Brexit,’ a woman told BBC Blackpool.
A large pair of underpants flew down from the tower, wrapping themselves around her head, silencing her.
