Sometimes life writes stories that make even the sharpest satirists faint. The new revelation about Prince Andrew and Donald Trump is such a case - a global elite porno, performed on the stage of international scandals, with the refined English nobility of an Andrew Lownie and the sleazy New York twang of a Donald Trump. Welcome to the first Bunga-Bunga Biennale, generously supported by the glossy press and eternal denial. The ingredients? A disgraced prince who would now prefer to wash his coat of arms with disinfectant. An American president who does not see "pussy grabbing" as a faux pas but as an icebreaker. And a number of alleged accomplices with sonorous names like Ghislaine Maxwell or Virginia Giuffre - all of them actors in a mafia-like circus of power that even makes Jeffrey Epstein look outdated.
Andrew Lownie’s new biography about the Duke of York is not a literary hand grenade but more of a fragmentation bomb - it hits in too many places to pretend that anything is a coincidence. Suddenly that episode from the year 2000 appears, when Trump and Andrew - newly introduced by Ghislaine Maxwell, that gray eminence of sophisticated human trafficking - have a conversation that makes every escort service look old. Trump, the world-class gentleman, hands Andrew a list of massage therapists after their small talk about “p***y.” The message: Those who have rank and name do not just have the world delivered - they order it to the hotel for a massage. Anyone who thinks of diplomatic courtesy should quickly say goodbye to that illusion. In the salons of the super-rich, the rules of silence, double standards, and paid hush money have always prevailed. It is not about sex, not about passion, but solely about power, possession, and the exclusive license to sin. Andrew and Trump, as this scene shows under a magnifying glass, were never masters of their impulses - they were just children in the playroom of the privileged, equipped with letters of nobility and hotel vouchers.
Andrew Lownie’s book is less a chronicle of scandal than an archaeological excavation of a caste that considered itself invulnerable. The trips to Thailand - orgies included - are no side note but part of the system. Every handshake, every massaging grip, every nightly invitation was a mosaic piece in the international art of looking away. Trump, who likes to present himself as the king of deals, supplied the addresses, Andrew the royal seal of approval. Together they wrote a manifesto of disgusting hubris that would drive even the last doubters to despair. And yet, one is astonished: While the world revels in the revelations, the legal consequences remain a global running gag. Trump waves from the golf course, Andrew cites old noble privileges, Ghislaine Maxwell remains silent in her cell, and the Daily Mail sells dream editions. In the end, what remains is the impression of a grotesque ballet in which power, sex, and decadence are so closely entwined that even the paparazzo wonders whether he should really capture it all. Anyone who still wonders today how this elite swamp could come about should be told: It was never any different. The names change, the tricks remain - and sometimes only satire helps to endure the extent of the depravity.
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Krank, Krass und würdelos diese Leute.
Das dieser Prinz alles andere als ein Gentleman Adliger ist, dürfte Jedem mit logischen Menschenverstand klar sein.
Er hat sich mit Geld und royalen Einfluss „frei gekauft“.
Schuldig ist und bleibt er trotzdem.
Mal sehen, wie Trump mit Klage, Regress oder Beidem droht.