I had that Donald Trump in the front of my cab the other day. “US embassy please,” I said, but he turned and said in an accent part Mockney, part Queens: “Saff of the river? No chance, mate, I ain’t going to that s***hole”.
But, as he sped off and I hurriedly closed the door, he told me not to worry, he’d let me off on Lambeth Bridge just because he was “the best cabbie in the world”. “Look at the magazine, see, even Time agrees,” he said.
Sure enough, there was a framed Time cover story glued to the underside of one of those fold-down seats black cabs have. “Trump is hitting on all fronts … even TV!” it proclaimed.
“You were on TV?” I asked. “Get smart!” he snapped back. “I’m the biggest world’s biggest reality TV star … everybody says so.”
“Isn’t Vauxhall Bridge closer?” I asked, but he confidently assured me no one knew “the Knowledge” like he did. “I’m actually a genius.”
A hint of scepticism flicked across my face.
“A very stable genius!” he roared, swerving suddenly to avoid a rapidly approaching lamppost on the pavement.
At the new US embassy, I approached the front desk. “Hello, I’ve come to protest.”