Donald Trump needs, in short, not a miracle, but a fair wind, perhaps a stumble from Clinton, and above all, to restore his recent discipline THE SCENE I am about to describe really happened. I saw it with my own eyes, on a stormy night last week, at a small airport in Melbourne, central Florida. Before a crowd of 10,000 people (with thousands more shut outside), an obvious con-man stepped from his vast blue personalised jet, and just stood there, at the top of the wheelie steps, gazing at the sea of gaping mouths, the sparkling constellation of phone cameras, listening to the excited screams, the shouts of adulation, drinking in the crazed Trump-mania echoing around the hangar. It was like a visitation from a prophet, or even a Telugu…
