LADIES and gentleman, I can now say with fear of contradiction that I am in a position to run the free world.

At the time of going to press, I’m not sure how I’ll go about this. Perhaps I might get things under way by standing for the local community council. Start small. I’m reminded of the musical treatise on world domination by Scotland’s super “news singer” Tommy Mackay which, derived from an effort by the late Leonard Cohen, had the title: “First we take Lumphinnans.”

If that’s my starting point, what in the name of the wee man, you might ask, is my endgame? Why, the clue was in the first sentence with its inane reference to “the free world”. I will become President of the United States.

You laugh (looks out on a sea of scowling faces) but I find that I’m perfectly qualified for the task, and not just because my hairstyle required planning permission. Nope, it’s because I’ve taken the same cognitive test as was forced on Donnie Trump recently, and got the same top marks as did he.

We’ve so much in common, apart from my dislike of golf and, you know, private enterprise. If you fancy joining our club, varieties of the test can be found on yonder internet, including the Herald and BBC websites.

The questions, it is fair to say, are not too taxing and mainly relate to telling the time, remembering your name and being able to distinguish between a rhinoceros and a tapir.

So much for the mental stability needed to rule the world. You’d have thought that, with his teetotalism and predilection for fast food, the Trumpling would be a physical wreck. But White House physician Ronny Jackson checked him out and found the 17-stone statesman was in “excellent health”.

Not only that but he had “above average” exercise capacity, despite the fact that the only effort the lardy goon makes is waddling roond a coiffured landscape hitting a wee ba’ with a stick.

Mr Jackson attributed the President’s top physical state to “incredible genes” but, across the United States, health experts and nutritionists bunged themselves out of windows as their message of many years was undermined by Mr Trump’s savoury lifestyle.

Donnie has always been unrepentant about this. In 2015, he pooh-poohed the whole idea of jogging down to the gym, noting astutely: “All my friends who work out all the time, they’re going for knee replacements, hip replacements. They’re a disaster.”

Face it, some of you secretly sympathise with this view (as an objective journalist – ken? – I’m saying nothing), and you might also envy the alleged fact that, according to recent revelations, the President likes to be tucked up in bed with a plate of unhealthy food by 6:30pm.

He watches the three television screens in his bedroom, so that he can monitor them for Cake News. I wonder if he also reads The Times, a British newspaper. Yesterday, it ran a headline saying: “My rumpy pumpy with Trumpy.” Not The Times. What’s that other tabloid-sized scandal-sheet? The Sun.

It reported that a porn star called Stormy Daniels – not her real name; perhaps she suffers from wind – claimed to have had an affair with Donnie in 2006. It is unimportant to note that the President denies this.

According to Stormy, the windbag was sprawled on the bed in his pyjamas watching TV (man’s an addict clearly) when first she arrived at his hotel room. Shortly afterwards, they had (allegedly!) what she called “textbook generic” sex, though possibly she meant “geriatric”.

Regardless of the truth of the situation – what’s up with you now? I’m a journalist, not a scientist – we get out our usual yardstick and ask: could you imagine a headline like “My rumpy pumpy with Trumpy” being written about Sir Harold Macmillan? “In the sack with Mac”?

Sir Anthony Eden, yes (“Sir Ants was in my pants”). He was notoriously louche. But not the average, gentlemanly British prime minister. If someone in stockings emerged from the shadows and said to Clement Attlee: “Fancy some fun, ducky?”, he’d have replied: “Oh, rather! What do you propose? A walk on the promenade? A visit to the museum’s industrial history section?”

I guess it’s just another typical week of Trump headlines. Man’s a classic case of what I have warned you against repeatedly: letting businessmen anywhere near politics.

Journalists are a different kettle of fish. And, if you think I’m taking the piscine, just remember that, not only can we tell a rhinoceros from a tapir, but we go to bed at a proper time, eat lots of salad, and spend every spare moment in the gym or meditating or drinking in moderation. Also, and I cannot stress this at all, we’re the best bluffers in the business.