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Have you seen that ghastly American reality TV show that is all over the news and social media at the moment?
The star of this grotesque circus is wealthy older man Donald Trump; who believes that being a famous, rich, white, racist, sexist qualifies him to be voted in as the 45th President of the United States during the election this November, while masterfully showcasing all that is wrong in the land of the free at the moment.
In a recent episode, Trump bizarrely assured would-be voters that he has a massive schlong, whilst revealing that he is still insecure over a decades-old dig from actual (as opposed to pretend, like he is) politician Marco Rubio, who once pointed out that Donald has teeny hands.
Trump was so enraged by this slight that he immediately called in his beauty team to carefully coif his guinea pig-shaped, brassy-blonde and ginger-hued weave, layer thick nicotine-shade bronzer all over his face and apply a delicate slick of light pink gloss across his lips.
Next, he angrily puffed up his paunch, resembling a wig-sporting Homer Simpson on a meth binge, and stepped up to the podium to address his meagre-brained supporters:
"He referred to my hands, if they're small, something else must be small... I guarantee you there's no problem. I guarantee" - clearly referring to the size of his plonker.
But how does he know I wondered?
Did a professional gold-digger inform the billionaire, who celebrates his 70th birthday this June, that he's the owner of one large penis (plus presumably the low-hanging balls that dangle like an ever-present reminder of a gent's advancing years), or does he casually eye up other men's junk whilst lurking in urinals across America to compare and contrast with a tape measure?
Regardless, any man who feels a gnawing need to tell the world - via the medium of international news television cameras - that he's packing like a prize bull in the trouser department is undoubtedly hung like a gerbil.
One can only assume that shagging Trump would be akin to having a beached whale flailing uselessly about on top of you for thirty seconds, before he collapses in a sweaty heap with a toe-curling grunt.
So then, can it be that due to years of boffing broads who lie back and think of the new mega-yacht they'll buy with their post-marriage millions, instead of reaching for an emesis basin as those of us without charred wizened souls would do, that this full-size Oompa Loompah now accidentally considers himself to be a 'perfect ten'?
I decided to conduct a totally 'scientific' and carefully collated poll of women across the UK, asking them if they would have sex with Donald Trump and, if so, how drunk would they have to be and what their terms might be.
Because let's face it, nobody's going in there without alcohol and he surely got the idea for that wall he wants to build along the US-Mexico border from one of his ex-wives insisting upon having a mountain of pillows down the middle of the bed post-coitus - in case she accidentally sobered up during the night.
"Ten bottles of whisky, five beers and dentist gas and I'd do it" said Angela in Cardiff, while Karen in Brighton answered: "I'd accept maybe a million for doing the job, a million for long-term damages. And a million punitive. It would be like that movie with Demi Moore and Robert Redford, except Robert has aged horribly and has a spray tan, a nest of fake hair and a gut where the top of his thighs should be."
Sophie, who lives in Ealing, replied, "He's a double fister I'd say - as in I would need to be clutching a bottle of tequila in each hand to help me through it, plus I'd be wearing one of those baseball caps with a beer holder on either side of my head feeding rum into my mouth via a plastic tube."
Anna, from Bristol, answered: "Perhaps ten shots of Jack Daniels and several Ambien as a starter, oh and Quaaludes in lieu of an after-sex smoke." And Carolyn, who lives in Fife, claims, "It would have to be at gun-point and - even then I would need to be hooked up to a vodka drip. Is Michael Jackson's doctor still available for hire?"
But while the majority of those that we polled (99%) agreed that no amount of booze, narcotics or money could ever persuade them into the sack with Donald's delicate digits, the most thoughtful comment of all was from Hillary in Chappaqua, who insisted that she would accept: "One gin and tonic and a promise he would quit politics for good and get the fk off my Twitter feed!".
Perhaps we can fly en masse to the US and form a drunk and disorderly queue outside the next Trump rally while holding up signs offering to give Donald the attention and adulation that he so clearly craves, so long as he immediately cancels his bid for the White House?
Can we screw Trump out of politics, before he gets a chance to screw America?
With thanks to the brilliant Aisling O'Connor for help with the polling and for adding a heavy sprinkling of LOL