My interview with Donald Trump. A memory:

When I arrived in his office he pointed at a small pile of cocaine on his desk. I was horrified. A British guest should never impose like that.

"No thanks, I've brought my own." I said.

He grabbed my crotch.

"So, is that a B17 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me Jeff?"

"Mike." I corrected. "And its an erection." You could feel the electricity in the room.

Not wanting to be too forward but fully aware the special relationship needed maintaining,

I asked if I could massage his shoulders. He agreed.

"Do you think your incessant debasement of standards, associations with racists and paedophiles, and utter unsuitability for presidency, will have a negative effect on American politics?"

He passed me the Kentucky Bourbon

scented massage oil.

"Rub that into my neck fat and see if that gives you an answer Nigel."

"Mike."

"Whatever. I guess what you're asking me, is can you squeeze the blackheads on my ass? And the answer Colin"

"Michael."

"Nigel.

"Michael."

"Is yes."

An aide began

to undo the velcro on his trousers for him. I couldn't believe it. If you'd told this humble kid from Aberdeen he was one day going to get squeeze puss out of the acne scarred arse of the world's most powerful man, he'd never have believed you.

And that's when they took this: