Constance Beasley makes impassioned plea to Donald Trump

I refer to the disappearance of Sean Spicer from the airwaves. For several weeks, as press secretary of the Trumpreich, this handsome man held nightly press conferences, broadcast around 12.30 at night on CNN. I would watch – transfixed, mesmerised, and utterly enchanted – as this godlike being read from a script, muttering the words rapidly in his best oratorical monotone.
My suspense would mount as the clock neared the witching hour of 1am, when Christiane Amanpour would shatter the spell by bursting onto the screen in her loud, bombastic and arrogant manner to proclaim the beginning of her programme. Sean (and why do they call him Shawn when his name is spelled Sean?) might have been announcing the start of World War III, or an invasion by an army of extraterrestrials, or the collapse of our entire ecosystem. But it wouldn’t faze the obnoxious Christiane – she would cut him off in mid-sentence and barge onto the screen every night, precisely at the stroke of one.
Now, for several weeks, we have been deprived of Studmuffin Sean’s nightly display of macho charisma; and I, an ardent fan, am devastated. Mr Trump, sir, King Donald if you like: you may nuke North Korea, deep-six Obamacare, cancel Social Security, tax us all into oblivion, build a wall that reaches the moon – but give us back Sean Spicer.
Thank you.
Constance Beasley