Hot dogs, tech bros and chess with Trump: Inside King Charles’s state visit to the US

1: Preserve the integrity of the “special relationship” by agreeing with President Trump about everything.

2: Reassert British sovereignty over the Falkland Islands by laughing loudly at all of President Trump’s jokes.

C: Get the Strait of Hormuz reopened without recourse to explicit negotiation by saying “Phwoar” every time President Trump objectifies a woman.

Upon landing, we were taken to the ambassador’s house for a private briefing. In the light of Saturday’s shooting, an MI6 advance team had swept the residence for conventional threats – an exercise that prompted questions when Camilla discovered a pair of white Y-fronts wedged down the side of the chaise longue she’d just sat on. As envoy, Sir Christian Turner KCMG, explained, “My predecessor left in something of a rush.”

Sir Christian is a diplomat of quiet authority and rare judgment who combines intellectual acuity with succinctness, composure and the instinctive ability to steady even the most delicate of international conversations:

“Sir. Ma’am. He’s fucking loco.”

After swearing on a copy of Tatler that we wouldn’t meet any Epstein survivors, we set forth for tea with President Trump. He received us with his characteristic ebullience while Melania floated, calm and unpredictable, like a ceasefire. The tea, meanwhile, was reminiscent of the Strait of Hormuz: beyond recognition since America had interfered with it.

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We were then led towards a ‘garden party’, which was such a gathering in name only. In place of the civic heroes, grassroots volunteers and men who’ve run around Rotherham with a bag of coal on their back for a hospice that  we invite to Buckingham Palace, our hosts had assembled a vapidity of tech billionaires, reality stars and hedge fund managers whose sole unifying characteristic was ghastliness.

They engaged in a form of networking so reverent to the form, as to be materially nauseating, while the waitresses – who judging by the brevity of their outfits, had notably broader professional horizons – brought around flamingo-shaped cocktail glasses of strawberry daiquiri (pronounced ‘die keerie’) and hot dogs. 

I was hearing about the urgent need for a purge of deep state bureaucrats from a wellness entrepreneur, when Mr Trump called me over to show off his favourite valet, a man called Vance.

“This is JD. He does anything I say. Do you have men like that?”

“Yes. One has footmen and equerries. . .”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. This guy will literally do anything. Watch this. ‘Yo, JD, go and explain tariffs to the string quartet.’”

The odd little man duly berated the ensemble, linking the demise of the American automotive industry to cheap cello imports.

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“See?”

“Yes, he appears very biddable.”

“JD, you little shit stain – tie my shoelaces.”

The wretched fellow stopped mid-sentence, returned to his master’s feet and began tying his laces.

“Have you got guys who do this stuff?”

“After a fashion”

“We call him the Bikini Line. Witkoff, tell him why.”

“His moustache, your highness. A little bit of peach fuzz on a pussy.”

“Yo, JD, get a rubber glove and…”

At this point, mercifully, we were called to the ceremonial military review. As an armada of F22s, F35s, and VH 92A helicopters soared overhead. The poignancy was tangible. How many of these knights of the sky, one wondered, will have been eliminated by American special forces during bungled pilot extractions by year’s end?

A scheduled bilateral meeting with Mr Trump then took place over Big Macs in the Oval Office. Gherkins tumbled around his chair like shattered patriot missile casings as he talked unceasingly of his many and varied distinctions. How he’d just carded 53 at Mar-a-Lago, how he crushed the Iranian regime singlehandedly, and perhaps most intriguingly, that he is a chess grandmaster. 

At his invitation, we played a game on his WWE-themed chessboard, where it soon became apparent that he was untroubled by the usual anxieties of positional play. I only just managed to lose. Not since Diana have I tried so hard deliberately to relieve myself of an unwanted queen.

Exhausted, we retired to our lodgings whose interior designer, I suspect, misunderstood the parable of Midas.

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Tuesday, April 28

A traditional American breakfast – Sunny Delight and over-easy factory-farmed eggs – was not to one’s taste, particularly after sleeping on a leopard print waterbed under a mirrored ceiling. But there was no time to dwell: this was the day of my address to Congress. A make-or-break opportunity to demonstrate the monarchy’s indispensability. 

Should I get it right, there was every chance it could buy Sir Keir, two, possibly three hours’ reprieve from Mr Trump’s derision. Get it wrong, and we could be on the business end of a Harry Potter tariff.

I rehearsed in front of Camilla, who, rather unhelpfully, was absorbed in reruns of Jerry Springer, offering the sort of distracted attention one associates with probing Andrew on the latest headlines.

Once in the Capitol, I realised I was nervous. This felt odd, given that stood in front of our homegrown equivalent of a room full of deranged firearms enthusiasts – the Countryside Alliance – I’m completely at ease.

I was unable to address core issues surrounding Mr Trump’s presidency (for instance, that he is a narcissist, a bully, a liar, a sower of chaos who disdains law, or rounds up citizens like the Stasi) and spoke instead of the enduring special relationship, of our shared history and of how last evening he eviscerated me at chess.

State Dinner followed. I found myself disobligingly close to a credulous fellow named Joe Rogan, who conspiratorially explained his belief that the ceremonial uniforms of the soldiers present were “evidence of something bigger.”

The President, meanwhile, called Camilla a “great piece of ass”, asked whether Andrew had ever “got those grass stains out of his trousers”, and began showing me pictures of scantily clad young women on his phone. Was this the moment to address the Epstein in the room? Abuse of the powerless by the elite matters, after all. But not so much (I concluded, as I issued some Foreign Office–approved “Phwoars”) as the British tourist industry’s dependence on the monarchy.

At one point, he scrolled onto a picture of a rather fetching stallion at Mar-a-Lago and confided that he was thinking of making it his secretary of state for education. I reassured him that one of Mr Starmer’s recent predecessors had done something similar with Therese Coffey.

The evening was memorable for many reasons, like being served KFC Buckets at a state function, but seemed to peak when Mr Rogan called Mr Hegseth a “soyboy” for using a knife and fork.

The secretary of war, who I sense has unmet therapy needs, immediately ripped off his shirt, bellowed “Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat” and challenged his accuser to an impromptu press-up contest. Mr Rogan agreed and rapturous chanting of “U-S-A” by America’s elite ensued. As the air filled with testosterone, and flecks of supply chain poultry, I made a mental note to dig out Gibbon’s Decline and Fall.

Back at our lodgings Camilla made White Russians with a bottle of vodka Melania had given us with “HELP” scrawled on the label, and UHT milk capsules from the tea caddy. 

The toughest test of a reigning monarch since Bosworth Field, we agreed, had been passed.

*Yes, it’s satire. For more world exclusives from Henry Morris, read his Substack