Desperate for American co-operation with post-Brexit trade, Britain is hamstrung in her reaction to Donald Trump’s withdrawal from the Iran nuclear deal. A man in Southend-on-Sea, who just wanted bendy bananas, eats takeaway butterfly wings, and a nuclear missile hits Tel Aviv.

In July, Guardian and Observer readers, their furious tofu-smeared faces red with righteous rage, will doubtless wish to greet visiting American president Donald Trump with well-punctuated placards, laced with Pythonesque whimsy.

Meanwhile, a crazed Islamist lone wolf will already be preparing a bucket of unstable fertiliser to use as a home-made bomb. And prankster Simon Brodkin will already be preparing a bucket of Russian prostitutes’ urine to use as a photobomb.

Realpolitik appeasers like Boris “Piccaninnies” Johnson assure us, with one eye on transatlantic trade deals in the dystopian post-EU wasteland he has engineered, that we must respect the office of the president of the United States. But Boris “Watermelon Smiles” himself described the current president, in 2015, as “unfit to lead the United States”, “clearly out of his mind”, and “stupefyingly ignorant”. Less impressive U-turns have given Richard Hammond whiplash.

But life goes on, and the really important cultural questions blare from the Sunday supplement headlines. “Wham! Bam!! Pow!!! Have Superhero Movies Finally Grown Up?”; “Gnngh! Squish!! Yuk!!! Is Our Love Affair With The Smoothie Maker Finally Over?” “Squelch! Squish!! Ker-ching!!! Has Porn Finally Entered The Mainstream?”

At least one of these great debates is at last resolved. Porn has finally and undeniably entered the mainstream, like a massively mammaried Milk Tray man, slopping his pendulous udders one at a time through the unlocked hotel bedroom window of one Donald J Trump, the 45th president of the United States of America.

Franklin D Roosevelt bequeathed the New Deal, Theodore Roosevelt the Teddy Bear. Donald J Trump means even Sister Wendy Beckett may now have read about the president’s paid-off lover’s 2004 video vehicle, Toxxxic Cumloads 6.

Obama was the first black president. And Donald J Trump is the first porn president. He has pornified not the high street, not the world of fashion, but the whole world itself. What unregulated internet access began, Donald Trump has finished, his porn star affair inadvertently dissolving the last vestiges of modesty displayed by the world of monetised desire. And the phrase “porn star” now sits comfortably in the mouths of Today programme presenters, TV newsreaders, and year 4 schoolkids.

This presents a dilemma for Theresa May, who looks increasingly like something that lurches up at you on a ghost train. And so, in the interests of gender equality, does her husband, Mr Theresa May. How does the vicar’s daughter from Eastbourne court and entertain the president of porn, upon whom our post-Brexit future depends? My Whitehall mole has leaked Theresa May’s plans to welcome Trump in an appropriately pornographic way.

On Friday 13 July at 11.08 am, President Trump and Melania Trump will be met on the tarmac at Heathrow airport by the prince and princess of British pornography, Ben Dover and his ex-wife Linzi Drew, who have been persuaded to partner up again in the interest of post-customs union trade opportunities.

Having explained to the Trumps how the joke in Ben Dover’s name works, and that Ben Dover is not his real name (it is Simon Dover), the Drew-Dovers will then whisk the Trumps away in a Routemaster bus with a bouncy suspension, driven by the late Reg Varney.

On the way, the Drew-Dovers will explain to the Trumps the fascinating differences between saucy homegrown British pornography and the more airbrushed fantasies of the American version, and what this tells us about our two historically close nations and their unbreakable special relationship.

While the president will doubtless have a lot to contribute to this discussion, his wife is expected to sit in silent, smouldering resentment, like a big pile of disappointed hate, brushing away any attempts at physical contact, as Ben Dover tries to smooth over the situation with seaside postcard humour and amusing anecdotes about mishaps on the set of Ben Dover’s English Muffins.

At 1.17 pm, the Trumps will arrive in newly gentrified Soho, where they will be met by the billionaire pornographer and former Birmingham City chairman David Gold, and his daughter, the sex-toy retailer Jacqueline Gold (CBE). The Golds will show the Trumps around the historic pornographic district, temporarily restored to its 70s glory, with swathes of hairy suede-denim filth flung over the contemporary ciabatta outlets, bringing innocent joy to Donald Trump’s orange face.

Now hopefully suitably buttered up, and in a brief respite from pornography, the first family will proceed to the otter enclosure at London Zoo, where the foreign secretary Boris Johnson, dressed as a glistening wet otter, will cavort and frolic to the Trumps’ delight with real otters in their pond, and toss a stone from hand to hand, hopefully disorienting Donald Trump to the point where he will accidentally agree some kind of trade deal. Melania will be invited to choose which otter she would like made into a hat, and the doomed mammal will then be slaughtered and skinned in front of her by a vengeful Terry Nutkins, to the obvious distress of schoolchildren, before the bloodied pelt is presented to Mrs Trump on a silver tray.

That evening, at Buckingham Palace, alongside the Royal Family and armed forces veterans, the Trumps will enjoy a late-night charity gala screening of the Stormy Daniels 2007 Gulf-war themed sex comedy Operation: Desert Stormy, with Kentucky Fried Chicken finger buffet.

Oh for God’s sake, it’s going to be awful for everyone, much worse than all the rubbish I’ve written above. And someone’s bound to get killed.