TRUMPOCALYPSE NOW! A GLOBAL CHESSBOARD WITH MISSING PIECES

If anything good came out of the 'understanding' between Trump and Putin — they call it negotiation, we prefer to label it a geopolitical bromance with overtones of Balkan soap opera and a Russian thriller soundtrack — it’s that Europe has, at long last, begun to close ranks. Not out of conviction, but rather like someone who belatedly realises their trusted friend is holding a knife and an oddly timed dinner invitation to the Kremlin. When your protector starts flirting openly with your aggressor — live, during primetime — you begin to question whether you’ve misunderstood the nature of the relationship. The old arrangement was faltering anyway: lounging in the shade of the American nuclear umbrella, like a guest at some all-inclusive geostrategic resort, and paying for security what you might for a lukewarm espresso tossed out in a German train terminal. It was pleasant, warm, comfortable — but even sweet dreams have expiration dates. And when Trump declares that NATO is basically Netflix — “pay up or I cancel your account and block you” — one can’t help but feel that foreign policy is now in the hands of a petulant teenager who’s just discovered the thrill of the 'unsubscribe' button. The great irony? Europe — that perennial land of interminable reports and never-ending summits — might, astonishingly, be on the verge of growing up. Not because it wished to, but because its adoptive father has revealed himself to be, in fact, an unstable uncle, with a soft spot for oligarchs and a business sense that would make any vintage local baron green with envy.

About Trump? His unmistakable style of doing business — a rare cocktail of reality television, orchestrated bankruptcy, and live-streamed narcissistic therapy on Twitter — seemed, at first, like it might reinvent America. Everything looked glossy and grand, like an ad for “Iowa-made steak.” That is, until the moment of truth arrived: delivering something tangible to the American people. But instead of results, what we got were 3 a.m. tweets, speeches that read like they were drafted by a traumatised AI, and promises stamped with the delivery date: Soon™. Which, in Trumpian parlance, translates roughly as “never, but with absolute confidence.” So far, the record reads like it was compiled by an accountant in the throes of an existential crisis: prices have gone up, new jobs are arriving with the speed of the Messiah stuck in Manhattan rush hour, and the economic benefits are so “obvious” that only Trump — and perhaps an esoteric council of economic astrologers wearing augmented reality goggles — can see them. Meanwhile, Europe has been antagonised with the grace of a drunken elephant on a diplomatic holiday in a Habsburg-era porcelain shop. Canada — the eternally mild-mannered neighbour, fluent in UN handbooks and infinite patience — has reached its breaking point and banned even American whiskey. When even Canadian politeness gives out, you know the red line has not only been crossed, but trampled, possibly while someone was waving a maple syrup flag.

Relations with China? Picture an economic ping-pong match played with flaming balls, tariff-laden steel paddles, and a tempered glass table that, predictably, fractures with every blow. No clear victory in sight — just a spectacle of sparks and nervy statements delivered through strained diplomatic smiles. And yet, the cherry on top of this uncertainty-frosted cake: the billionaires have begun to growl. Not on Twitter — in their portfolios. Tens of billions have evaporated, and when the kind of people who sip coffee laced with edible gold start tightening their belts, we’re no longer talking about a 'market correction' but a full-scale reality check — invoice included. And then there’s Musk. Elon 'Space-Jesus' Musk, who’s begun to distance himself — not in the usual 'let’s-build-a-city-on-Mars' way, but in the 'this-looks-like-a-failed-undergrad-lab-experiment' way. When even Musk starts glaring toward Washington and mutters “Too much drama”, maybe it’s time to ask yourself: have you, perhaps, become the villain in a poorly written, over-budget season of a bad political series no one really wants to renew?

The fateful number approaches: 100. Not days, but degrees — on the internal political Fahrenheit scale, where the thermometer has long since shattered under the pressure of toxic enthusiasm and incandescent tweets. Protests, still small and seemingly harmless, already carry the sour tang of uprisings in incubation. There’s that unmistakable scent of recycled cardboard and permanent marker — a sign that the placards are ready, only the protestors are still debating their outfits. The progressive universities? Tense and trembling like a cello string tuned a notch too high. Not that they’re particularly right — in fact, they often aren’t — but once you’ve paid for the banner printing, it feels wasteful not to show up. Iran is growling in classic fashion, like a disgruntled neighbour who wasn’t invited to the nuclear soirée. Greenland? Didn’t sell — although there may have been a serious offer at some point, likely with installment plans and a free spin at Trump Casino Reykjavík. Panama? Abandoned. Treated like a beta app with great promise but no updates since the last summit. A textbook case of geopolitical ghosting. And across this Doomsday Deluxe landscape — with geopolitical storm clouds, larval-stage protests, and a stock market bungee-jumping without a safety cord — one truth emerges, shining so brightly not even sarcasm can obscure it: Trump has two clear achievements, glowing like twin LED bulbs in a post-ironic fallout shelter. First: he’s managed to irritate everyone, simultaneously — a rare feat, worthy of the Guinness World Records, under “Fastest Global Polarisation.” Second: he forced Europe to do something it hasn’t done in decades — speak to itself without requiring an American brunch guest to broker the conversation. The rest? Still being written, in real time, in vanishing ink — subtitled, Netflix-style: “Are you still watching?”

Let’s be clear: even though he’s checked off a few spectacular bankruptcies in his lifetime — the kind that light up Wall Street in shades of red — Trump does know how to do business. Strictly in his own interest, of course, but somehow, through ricochet logic and a dash of capitalist sorcery, it occasionally aligned with American interests as well. He managed to rattle the planet with the finesse of an irate pirate discovering that his treasure map was upside down. He slapped tariffs on everything that moved — from steel and aluminium to ocean breezes and, presumably, polar winds. (Ask the penguins; they’re still comparing tax receipts and wondering where it all went wrong.) And yet, in his apocalyptic-spectacular style, he accomplished something that few leaders in the so-called free world can still manage: he commanded attention. The kind of attention that makes you check your wallet and passport at the same time. Trade partners began rifling through their pockets, offshore accounts, and unresolved economic trauma, while adversaries were left trembling — unclear whether in fear or in uncontrollable laughter — at the idea that the man with the nuclear codes was playing geopolitical chess using only knights. And ironically, out of this chaos, Europe appears to be waking up. A near-biblical miracle, tinged with Kafka and directed by Lars von Trier. Macron is shaking Meloni’s hand, Meloni is embracing… Meloni (even she seems unsure which editorial version of herself is trending this week), and everyone’s out for coffee with Ursula. It’s not quite revolutionary fraternity, but it’s the most Yalta-esque thing we’ve seen in decades — minus the cigars, plus the Instagram filters. The European Union is beginning — shyly, but visibly — to look like it has an idea of what it wants. Or at least to simulate coherence convincingly enough that we don’t immediately notice it’s still winging it. Elections have come and gone — some in silence, others in rock opera mode with an agitated audience — but astonishingly, here we are, at the doorstep of what could just pass for quieter years.

Of course, that’s only if we choose to ignore the proverbial elephant in the war room: Ukraine. A single issue — yet dense enough to sustain the entire geo-strategic analysis industry and the flow of hard liquor through European newsrooms. And so we arrive at the final act of this global theatre: what will become of American involvement in the peace negotiations? Will Zelensky prove to be the chess partner Trump had long awaited, or just another entry on the “failed ventures” list, destined to become punchlines in B-grade Hollywood comedies? Talk has already turned to "rare earths" — those elusive, quasi-magical elements that keep the digital world running and international conflicts nicely complicated. More crucially, they now threaten to become the crown jewel in a new global economic war. And if this scenario unfolds in true Trumpian style, it wouldn’t be entirely unexpected if, instead of peace, we get a theme park: Trump Rare Earths Resort, built — naturally — on the ruins of a former battlefield. An ideal destination for tourists of the future, who will pay their admission in crypto, sip cocktails beside a laser-lit fountain flowing with water from a ‘secret Moscow spring’, and enjoy the nightly light show of negotiations, projections, and power plays. But, as Trump himself might say, “It’s gonna be tremendous.” Or, more realistically, catastrophic — but assuredly televised, with ratings to rival the Super Bowl.