Trump's biggest thrill is still life in the celebrity lane

British artist Michael Crawford was a nominee for past performances of the Phantom Of The Opera: the thought of a tragic misunderstood outcast lurking in the corridors of culture clearly resonated with Trump. Maybe something to do with the uproar that greeted his takeover as Kennedy Center chair, and other arty intrusions and cultural liberties since winning his second term.

At the Kennedy Center, his complexion a fetching shade of chewing tobacco, Trump talked about wanting the honour himself and how he’d screened out “wokester” nominees. He then mused about his erstwhile success hosting The Apprentice US and having his own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. At which point, sadly, I had to withdraw and seek medical treatment for injuries sustained from cringing too violently for another human being.

Trump is the leader of the free world. Why is he bragging about his Walk of Fame star? Might there be an element of him pining for the kind of less demanding public profile that doesn’t involve emergency summits on the Middle East and Ukraine?

Was he simply happier in the celebrity lane? It’s chilling to think that America’s biggest problem all along is that it’s had the equivalent of a thirsty X Factor wannabe sitting in the Oval Office.

A key facet here is, of course, that Heseltine is an arch-remainer, and blames Johnson, among others, for, you know… (mouths “Brexit”). Heseltine can’t go back in time and reverse the result of the referendum. Thus, he appears to have appointed himself as Johnson’s unofficial anti-spokesperson, always available for a newsworthy quip. Sometimes revenge is a dish best tasted cold; sometimes it’s drawled into festival-podcast microphones.

Guilty as charged. I never make puddings and rarely order them in restaurants. I probably have a spoonful of someone else’s sticky toffee pudding every five years and even then I wonder if sugar rushes can be life-threatening. The problem is that claggy old English puddings seem outmoded. They’re just too sweet, big, filling; unfit for the fussy modern palate. One argument is that they should have been euthanised along with the swans and starling pies that graced the banquets of Henry VIII? Or is English Heritage right? We could be sorry in 2075, when, meal after meal, we’re tucking into our tragic frozen yoghurts trying to remember how rhubarb crumble tasted.

Photograph Alex Brandon/AP