Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Donald Dinna Ken the Scots
In hindsight, Donald Trump might have been wiser not to have flown into Scotland in his own private Boeing 727 with the word "Trump" painted on its side in gold.
For, as The Donald is beginning to realize, it's not his plans for a world-class golf course near Aberdeen that have incensed so many Scots -- it's him. They despise his comb-over hair, his billion-dollar lifestyle and his New York braggadocio. But there is also a sense that what irks Mr. Trump's detractors the most is the prospect of one of Scotland's flashiest sons buying his way back into the heart of his homeland.
How different it all must have seemed two years ago for The Donald, 61, when he first unveiled his plans for the Menie Estate, 11 miles north of Aberdeen.
Mr. Trump was feted throughout the land as he announced he wanted to build the "world's greatest golf course" on this breathtaking three-mile stretch of North Sea coastline. The two championship courses would be in honor, he said, of his doughty Scottish mother, Mary MacLeod. Mary -- who died in 2000 at age 88 -- was born on the Isle of Lewis in 1912, but moved to the U.S. in 1930, where she met Donald's father, Fred C. Trump, in New York.
And as Mr. Trump aped for the photographers and hacked his way around the local sand dunes, Scotland was quite charmed by this great bear of a man and his brash American chutzpah. He'd be pumping more than $2 billion into the Aberdeen area; creating jobs for more than 6,000 people; and bringing some much needed New York pizzazz to an area of Scotland that had long been in the doldrums.
True, Mr. Trump had a few other plans besides the 1,400-acre Trump International Golf Links, including 950 vacation apartments, 36 luxury golf villas, 500 private residences and a 450-room hotel plus elite golf academy and driving range. But local businesses were cock-a-hoop at the prospect of the gaudy Trump juggernaut coming into town -- even though the hotel was more than likely going to be named "Trump Castle."
What has occurred subsequently, however, has been one of the most polarizing debates in years, with passions running far higher than over such seemingly weighty issues as Scottish independence.
For Mr. Trump, the tide started to turn about a year ago, after a local fisherman, Mike Forbes, claimed that The Donald had been "bullying" him. Mr. Forbes's farm inconveniently lies smack in the middle of the proposed golf course.
Mr. Trump's team -- unused to the mulish ways of Scottish crofters -- at first tried to buy Mr. Forbes off, offering a fabulous sum for his 23 acres. When that failed, Mr. Trump himself went on the attack, branding Mr. Forbes's home "disgusting" and "a disgrace"; The Donald particularly took exception to the rusting tractors and burned-out oil cans that are strewn all over the Forbes farm.
It's easy to understand Mr. Trump's irritation, as it would be difficult indeed to stake a claim to the "world's greatest golf course" if your players were perpetually being confronted by Mr. Forbes's eyesore of a farm. But as any Scot could have predicted, Mr. Forbes has now said he won't be selling at any price. "I've dug my heels in now, so that's it," he said. "I'll never sell to Donald Trump. Never ever."
A year on, this battle with Mr. Forbes must now seem like a minor skirmish for Mr. Trump, as local opinion has crystallized about the man who would bring his American dream to Scotland.
What's noticeable is that the many talents that have served Mr. Trump so well in America are nothing but a liability in Scotland. His skill for self-publicity as well as his irrepressible bullishness are perceived in Scotland as the most shameless posturing. As for his private jet, his limos and his mountain of personalized luggage, they are the complete antithesis of the sober Scottish way.
Last year, Mr. Trump's plans were turned down in a knife-edge vote, and since then the matter has become such a hot political potato that Scotland's First Minister Alex Salmond had no option but to call an inquiry. That inquiry opened this week, and Mr. Trump flew over to be cross-examined in person -- though he might have been better advised to stay home in New York. For although the objectors have based their case on the deleterious effects to the sand dunes and wildlife, the heart of the problem is undeniably Donald J. Trump. Just the mention of his name now provokes a knee-jerk reaction in many Scots, and his performance at the inquiry was unlikely to win many fans.
One of Mr. Trump's choicer lines came when he issued what sounded like a blunt ultimatum: "I'm going to do the greatest golf course or I'm not. If you want what we're doing, let's do it properly. Let's not do it -- we've an expression in the United States -- half-assed." And in Aberdeen, the home of dour self-deprecation, it somehow came across as brazen grandstanding for Mr. Trump to boast that he'd already built the "greatest courses" in California and Florida.
Later, after three hours of evidence -- and despite telling a journalist, "I think I'm slaying them" -- Mr. Trump may have had the first inklings of self-realization. "I think if someone else had applied they would have gotten it a lot easier than me," he admitted with startling clarity. "I think the celebrity and all of this media and press and craziness is probably a liability for me."
The inquiry is expected to last three weeks -- and the result depends not so much on the pros and cons of the golf-course plan as on whether the Scots' desire for Mr. Trump's dollars can ever outweigh their loathing of the man himself.
Mr. Coles is a journalist based in Edinburgh. His first novel, "The Well-Tempered Clavier," is published by Legend Press, London.
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