Donald Trump swaggered into the White House Correspondents’ Dinner expecting a victory lap. He left looking as though he had spent three hours trapped in a lift with the Epstein files.
The night proved to be a slow-motion mugging of his ego, staged beneath chandeliers while journalists he has attacked, threatened and smeared were applauded for investigating him. The loudest cheers went to The Wall Street Journal reporters whose work examined Trump’s past friendship with his “best pal”, sex offender Jeffrey Epstein, and reported on an alleged birthday letter bearing the president’s grubby name.
Trump denies writing it. Yet there he sat, jaw clenched, as the people who exposed one of the most damaging stories of his presidency collected awards a few yards away. He had arrived for dinner and discovered he was the main course.
For a President who dismisses every uncomfortable fact as “fake news”, the evening was exquisitely hostile. The reporting had put on black tie, walked on stage and accepted a trophy while he was forced to watch. There was little wonder he nodded off.
Trump tried to sit through them with the expression of a man pretending the fire alarm was part of the entertainment. Every burst of applause appeared to remove another layer of fake tan, all while his carer, Melania, was nowhere to be seen.
The First Lady stayed away from Friday night’s rescheduled event, leaving her husband without the traditional reassurance of a spouse beside him. Perhaps she had seen the running order. Perhaps she had heard the jokes. Perhaps she simply had somewhere less humiliating to be, such as a root canal appointment.
It wasn’t long before Trump started falling asleep.
The 80-year-old President repeatedly appeared to close his eyes for extended periods while others spoke. For years, he ridiculed Joe Biden as “Sleepy Joe”. On Friday night, the nickname came back like an unpaid hotel bill. He looked less like the leader of the free world and more like a pensioner who had accidentally been locked inside a pub’s bathroom at closing time.
When Trump finally reached the microphone, he attempted to turn a celebration of press freedom into a MAGA rally. He bounced from Iran to crowd sizes, then to his new White House ballroom and the possibility of having the dinner renamed after himself.
Trump could attend the opening of a fridge and demand it be called the Donald J Trump Refrigeration Ceremony.
He then bragged about going for a “fourth term”, after falsely claiming he won the 2020 election. In Trump’s own arithmetic, losing counts as winning, two terms somehow become four, and the Constitution is apparently a set of optional guidelines written for other people. Even a calculator would have walked out.
Then came the comedy.
One supposed joke involved a senator being unable to climb the stairs and make love on the same night. It landed with the force of a wet sock falling from a radiator. Trump stared into the silence and asked whether anybody understood it. They understood. That was the problem.
He then explained the punchline, performing emergency surgery on a joke that had already been pronounced dead at the scene.
The evening only grew uglier when he turned on CNN journalist Kaitlan Collins after she won an award for her reporting. Trump called the award fake, commented on her appearance and repeatedly told her to smile.
Nothing captures his attitude towards women more neatly than an elderly man demanding a female journalist look happier while he insults her work. He then compared Collins to transgender influencer Dylan Mulvaney. Again, the room responded with the kind of silence usually reserved for a relative who has said something appalling over Christmas dinner.
Trump appeared thrilled with himself. The audience looked ready to chew through the tablecloth.
He also mocked members of his own administration. Robert F Kennedy Jr was ridiculed over the dead bear he once dumped in Central Park. White House communications director Steven Cheung became the target of a joke about his weight.
Trump’s idea of loyalty involves humiliating people in public and expecting them to clap afterwards. But the humiliation came from his inability to control the room.
At Trump rallies, loyal supporters laugh before he reaches the punchline. At cabinet meetings, his cronies praise him as though he has personally invented electricity. Friendly broadcasters translate every ramble into an act of political genius.
At this dinner, the pauses remained painfully empty. Trump has always mistaken attention for admiration, fear for respect and silence for agreement. That night, he received endless attention, very little admiration and enough silence to open a monastery.
He had insisted the rescheduled dinner should go ahead, presumably imagining a triumphant return after years of boycotting the event. He expected cameras, applause and a captive audience forced to indulge him.
Instead, he watched journalists collect honours for their examination of his friendship with Epstein. He sat through a video roasting his attacks on the free press and America’s rejection of kings.
Then he gave a speech that explained precisely why both subjects were worth raising. The President who loves to boast that he owns every room never came close to owning this one. By the end, Trump looked tired, bitter and painfully unfunny.
The president wanted a MAGA rally. He got an awards ceremony for his investigators, a public autopsy of his sense of humour and a three-course serving of humiliation.
For once, nobody else was picking up the bill.