Domhnall Iain Trump is a real estate titan. A bit like D J Peteranna of Uist Builders. Only bigger. He jetted into Stornoway having jigged to Bennie And The Jets at an Elton John concert just hours before. He was snuggled up in a huge double bed in his private Boeing 727 as it whooshed over the Atlantic to the Hebrides. Just like Maggie Thatcher, he needs only three or four hours sleep before he pops up again ready for another day of hiring, firing and slagging off Aberdeenshire refusenik councillor Martin Ford.
A jostle of big-name journalists and cameramen formed on the tarmac. They elbowed for position, crippling each other with tripods and heavy camera bags. Then the most recognised businessman on the planet glided down the steps from the back-end of Trump One.
Only The Donald could have the Western Isles’ top industrialist, North Tolsta whizzkid Innes Macleod, as his driver abouter. Reputedly a millionaire himself, Innes is the president of Texas-based electronic engineering outfit HDL International Inc who conducts worldwide business from the big house next to where Kenny the Barber lived on Oliver’s Brae.
I am told he is also an incurable bluenose. You would think an entrepreneur like him would be able to get tablets for poor circulation in his extremities.
But Donald always gets the top people to work for him. His butler was the mayor of Martinsburg, West Virginia. A mayor? That’s like our convener, Alex Macdonald, being hired to serve the soup in Oliver’s Brae.
The Donald’s weekends are mostly spent at his Mar-a-Lago home in Florida. It is also a private club with 58 bedrooms, 33 bathrooms, a spa, a ballroom, tennis courts, a nine-hole golf course, and a private tunnel leading to his favourite beach on the Atlantic Ocean. Hey, come to Bosta on Great Bernera, Mr T. We have a beach on the Atlantic Ocean. Just no private tunnel or tennis courts or, in fact, any of the rest. We used to have a one-hole golf course in front of our byre but that probably doesn’t count.
At the press conference, nobody except the national press wallahs cared much about the £1billion plans for the Balmedie golf resort. Trump would only harrumph: “Who? Martin Ford? Don’t know the man. I just hear he’s not very popular, that’s all.” No, the big buzz in the Woodlands Centre on Monday was whether he would say anything about saving Lews Castle, our own crumbling landmark. He’s gonna think about it and come back to us.
A mock-Tudor folly, built with the wealth of a dodgy opium king it would, consultants reckon, be just the job for a hotel and conference venue but could cost anything up to £20million to do up. The castle has a few towers so he could boast: “I have two towers in New York and four in Stornoway.” If he also snaps up the Tower Guesthouse on James Street he could have five.
The Donald’s sister is a star too. They call Maryanne Trump Barry the diva judge. You do not want to mess with her. She reminds me of the Golden Girls. Sweet as apple pie, she fondly recalled being chided with “a ghraidh” (my dear) as her grannie suggested she stop doing whatever she was doing on the Sabbath.
Don’t be fooled. Maryanne is as tough as old Arnish boots. Now a federal appeals court judge, she is a former prosecutrix. That means she was New York’s answer to David Teale, the supercool Stornoway procurator fiscal. But in a shawl. And high heels. Wow, imagine that? No, nor me.
Appointed by some white-haired guy who is married to the famous Hillary Clinton, they call Maryanne a diva because of her bench-slapping. That’s American for making mincemeat of opponents. I think I know why. She probably swears at them in Gaelic. And we all know that Tong Gaelic is a coarse, unintelligible dialect that has always baffled people in the civilised world this side of Ford Terrace in Tong.
She jumped right in there when she twigged that Domhnall Iain was being hassled by the scribblers. You could almost hear the snarl. “Mom would be proud, he’s a good boy. He’s funny too.” Coolly, calmly, she stared out the reptilian slitherers.
Her piercing don’t-even-go-there gaze made them recoil. Even the most noble among the pack, veteran scribbler Bill Lucas, belted up smartish. I heard a woman from an American paper gasping: “Oh no, Maryanne is looking this way.” It would be good to chat to Maryanne properly. I haven’t interviewed what you would call a real prima donna for ages. Not since Mary Bremner left the council anyway.
Published in the Press and Journal on June 11, 2008
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