Today, on the 50th anniversary of the passing of PG Woodhouse, we celebrate a writer whose literature continues to enthral audiences today. Born in 1881, he penned over 90 books, countless short stories, and a raft of plays and musicals, all soaked in his inimitable wit. PG Woodhouse was a man of two continents, he spent much of his life shuttling between England and America—a land that often served as a glittering backdrop for his tales of hapless aristocrats and ingenious valets. Take one Bertie Wooster and the peerless Jeeves who are always high on the list of Woodhouse favourites and a testament to his genius for crafting a never-never land of hilarity. So on this anniversary, and just for fun, we honour his genius and ponder what the befuddled Bertie might make of a modern American phenomenon: one Donald J. Trump.
Bertie Wooster on Trump.
by Beverley Review
[The scene: Bertie Wooster, in a state of mild agitation, is discovered pacing the drawing room of his Berkeley Mansions flat, a half-eaten crumpet abandoned on a side table. Jeeves, impeccable as ever, stands by the fireplace, polishing a silver cigarette case with an air of serene detachment. Bertie addresses him as if letting him in on a frightful secret.]
BERTIE:
By Jove, Jeeves, what a frightful bind a fellow finds himself in! If there’s one thing guaranteed to put a chap off his morning egg and b., it’s politics, and I’ve always made it a firm rule to keep the old bean as far from the stuff as Aunt Agatha’s summons to a health spa in Harrogate.
[Pauses, shudders visibly at the memory of Harrogate’s mineral baths.]
But even a Wooster, ensconced in the safety of his armchair, cannot help but notice the absolute ruckus kicking up across the pond. And at the heart of this ballyhoo, waving a metaphorical megaphone, is one Donald J. Trump.
JEEVES:
[Polishing pauses briefly, eyebrow raised.]
Indeed, sir. A gentleman of some prominence in the American political sphere, I believe.
BERTIE:
Prominence, Jeeves?
[Mimes embroidering with exaggerated enthusiasm, then stops, alarmed.]
What’s a fellow to make of a cove who slaps his own name on buildings in the manner of an overzealous maiden aunt embroidering her initials on a tea cosy? It’s all a bit too reminiscent of Roderick Spode, that blighter with the toothbrush moustache and an unshakeable belief in his own magnificence. You’ve spent years drumming into me—usually while extricating me from some ghastly scrape—that a chap who’s too fond of his own infallibility is bound to end up in the mulligatawny, and no mistake.
JEEVES:
[Resumes polishing, tone measured.]
A most astute observation, sir. Overconfidence is indeed a frequent precursor to misfortune, as the philosopher Epictetus might have noted.
BERTIE:
Epictetus, eh? Well, Trump, from what I gather, is the sort of chap who lives life in capital letters, bellowing pronouncements with the gusto of Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps after a particularly stiff cocktail.
[Adopts a booming voice, arms flung wide.]
He has a habit, I’ve noticed, of repeating himself—“tremendous, folks, really tremendous”—in a way that’s positively Bingo Little-esque after one too many pink gins at the Drones.
[Mimics Bingo’s glassy-eyed enthusiasm, then catches himself, horrified.]
It’s all very well for a bit of a laugh over the port and nuts, but when the cove in question is steering the ship of state, it’s enough to make a fellow choke on his crumpet.
JEEVES:
[Places cigarette case on mantelpiece, turns slightly.]
One might suggest, sir, that the art of governance benefits from a certain restraint in both rhetoric and action.
BERTIE:
Restraint, Jeeves! That’s the very word.
[Places a finger to lips, then looks around nervously as if expecting Aunt Agatha to appear.]
And then there’s the distinct lack of what I can only call Jeevesian finesse. Now, I’m no expert on the art of governance—my own attempts at managing anything more complex than a boiled egg have generally ended in disaster—but surely the essence of leadership is knowing when to button the lip? Discretion, tact, the ability to avoid making a prize ass of oneself in public—these are the qualities you’ve spent a lifetime trying to instill in me, with, I must confess, limited success. But Trump, it seems, has tossed all such virtues out the window, preferring instead to biff about on social media like an overexcited aunt let loose on the sherry decanter.
[Flails arms as if tweeting wildly, then collapses into a chair, exhausted.]
JEEVES:
[Retrieves a decanter of brandy from a sideboard, pours a small measure.]
A regrettable lapse in decorum, sir. Perhaps a restorative might assist in calming the nerves?
BERTIE:
[Waves off the brandy, then reconsiders and takes it.]
Mind you, Jeeves, I can’t help but think he’d have been a dashed good egg at the Drones Club. One imagines him propping up the bar, regaling the chaps with tales of his latest wheeze, all delivered with that flamboyant flair that would give even Freddie Widgeon pause. But the idea of putting such a fellow in charge of anything more serious than a fancy-dress competition is about as reassuring as being handed a stick of dynamite and told it’s an extra-long cigar.
[Mimes lighting a cigar, then leaps up in alarm as if it’s exploded.]
JEEVES:
[Smooths a cuff, unperturbed.]
An apt metaphor, sir. Dynamite, I believe, requires a steady hand, much like the stewardship of a nation.
BERTIE:
Quite, Jeeves, quite. Having spent a fair bit of time in America myself—jolly place, full of skyscrapers, cocktails, and people who call you “buddy” without a formal introduction—I can’t help but wonder how you’d have handled the man. One pictures you gliding in with a tray of restorative beverages, murmuring,
[adopts a Jeevesian tone, eyebrow raised]
“If I might suggest, sir, a few pages of Marcus Aurelius, and perhaps a more subdued shade of hair tint?” But alas, no such guiding hand has emerged to steer Trump away from the political equivalent of falling into the lake in full evening dress.
[Mimes a dramatic tumble, clutching at imaginary tails.]
JEEVES:
[Picks up the abandoned crumpet, inspects it with mild disapproval, and places it on a tray.]
A most lamentable state of affairs, sir. One can only hope that a figure of comparable sagacity might yet emerge to restore equilibrium.
BERTIE:
All in all, Jeeves, the whole business strikes me as a most rummy affair. Trump, I suspect, is the kind of cove who’d be tremendous fun at a weekend shooting party—provided someone else is holding the gun—but a dashed unsettling presence at the helm of an empire.
[Sips brandy, then brightens.]
I say, Jeeves, do you think there’s a chance you might pop across the pond and sort the whole thing out?
JEEVES:
[A faint smile flickers, then vanishes.]
I fear, sir, that my services are fully engaged in ensuring the smooth running of Berkeley Mansions. However, I shall endeavor to procure a suitable volume of Stoic philosophy for your evening reading, should the political climate continue to distress.
BERTIE:
[Rises, clutching the brandy glass, and heads for the door.]
Well, that’s that, then. Until some transatlantic Jeeves turns up, I shall stick to my morning tea and leave the tumult to those with stronger constitutions.
[Pauses at the door, turns back.]
Toodle-pip, Jeeves!
[Jeeves inclines his head slightly, resumes polishing the cigarette case, as the curtain falls.]
A juicy piece, indeed.
Scrumptious!