A lifetime ago, back in journalism college (yes, we learned on typewriters), our lecturers warned us that being reporters meant we would sometimes be exposed to the seedier side of humanity and would have to dig into the harsher climes of society’s underworld, revealing hidden secrets and exposing ourselves to risks as we raked through layers of muck in a quest for the truth.
Then this week I get this commission. Three decades of journalistic endeavour have led me to this point. I am pleased to confirm my appointment as The Guardian’s first (and only) Donald Trump cocktails correspondent, all expenses paid naturally. Unfortunately, the contract was for three hours only.
Not everyone appreciated my hard work, however. One commentator on my story suggested that: “Everyone involved in bringing this article to press should be required to clean lavatories in a refugee camp for six months.” Which is preferable to four years of a Trump presidency, I guess.