What we’ve learnt from Donald Trump’s UK visit is that he has a new tactic: tell the truth and then tell a lie about it

We’re all familiar with the billowing, flame-producing pants of Donald J Trump. The current US President is the most famous liar since Lillian Hellmann (of whom it was said: “Every word she writes is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the’.”) He lies about things he doesn’t even need to lie about, so much does he cherish untruth.

So it is very disconcerting that he seems to have changed gear on his visit to the UK. What’s he up to? What’s his game? He has started telling the truth. Or, at least, telling the truth, then telling a lie about it. I’m reminded of the old riddle about twin brothers guarding a pair of doors, one of which leads to ruin and the other to riches. One always lies; the other always tells the truth. And Trump, in this version of the riddle, plays both roles at the same time.

Look at his trip to Europe. He said Europe freeboots off the US in Nato —which it kinda does. He said Britain was in turmoil , which it kinda is. He said remaining tied to European regulations will impede the chances of a trade deal with the US, which it kinda will. He said Theresa May was making a hash of things, which she kinda is.

And then, not hours later, he said all that was fake news, that Mrs May was doing a brilliant job , we were going to strike a tremendous deal, and that having had a word with the other members of Nato the whole freebooting thing was going to be tickety-boo.

The gaslighting extended to Her Majesty the Queen. By his actions — keeping her waiting, failing to bow, striding off ahead of her with his chin jutting like a tetchy shopper overtaking a granny in the aisle of Lidl — he indicated an unappealing truth: she may be the Queen of England but she no longer commands the sort of gunboatage that makes visitors from the colonies feel the need to act towards her with any sort of respect or good manners.

But into the conch-like ear of Piers Morgan he afterwards described Her Majesty as “an incredible woman […] so sharp […] beautiful — inside and out” and their conversation as “magic”. And — in a slight breach of protocol — he let slip that she had told him Brexit is “a very complex problem” , which it kinda is.

The final truth-bomb, also in that Piers Morgan interview, was somewhat inadvertent: “You have different names — you can say “England”, you can say “UK”, you can say “United Kingdom” so many different — you know you have, you have so many different names — Great Britain. I always say: “Which one do you prefer? Great Britain? You understand what I’m saying?’”

And the White House tweeted that he had “departed the UK” when he was en route to Scotland. So: not a detail guy. But wait a couple of years and he may turn out to be right.

In this riddle, unfortunately, both doors lead to perdition.

This dad is not amused by the tale of the lost mussel

“It’s all YOUR fault, Dad.” Such is the refrain of my four-year-old, whether or not I’m within striking distance, when he drops something, breaks something, trips over or otherwise suffers a misfortune. I have broad shoulders. I can take it.

The latest was a doozy, though. It was my fault, he said, that he’d dropped his collection of shells — gathered from a Welsh beach — all over the back seat of our new car.

He was particularly exercised by the disappearance of “my mussel”. The one shell that still contained a mollusc: a whole mussel the size of a thumbnail, and the same shade of black as his car seat and the new car’s upholstery.

Seat-belt crevices, tracks, declivities: all were rummaged. The bivalve Pimpernel has gone. But I suspect we have not heard the last of it. What will the hidden mollusc smell like in two weeks’ time? I relate this for your amusement, but I’m struggling to find it funny myself.

Did Job, in the Bible, have children? A trick missed there, I think.

Pitch Riot a wake-up call on Russia

Nobody wants to encourage pitch invasions. It makes it very difficult for footballers to do their important work if you have random hooligans thundering up and down. But if the World Cup final did have to be interrupted, let’s at least be pleased it was by the Russian protest group Pussy Riot rather than a beered-up Brit singing Vindaloo.

These spunky ladies were a welcome reminder to millions of viewers worldwide that Russia, for whom the football has been a propaganda triumph, is not really a very agreeable regime at all.