"The Man, The Warning: Power, populism and the fragility of democracy with Donald Trump in 2025

He was the loud, brash businessman with his name plastered on skyscrapers, a man who seemed to embody the excesses of capitalism itself. Then, on January 20th, 2017, it happened, and suddenly, “The Man” wasn’t just a billionaire real estate mogul and reality TV personality. He was “The Man”—one of the most powerful leaders in the world.

And I must admit, at first, I found it… entertaining. His bravado was unmatched, his humour shockingly blunt. He was a jolt of electricity in a world of political power. As a Brit, I pride myself on wit, but this man’s brazen one-liners almost made him a caricature of himself. Quotes like, “The beauty of me is that I’m very rich,” managed to be both cringeworthy and oddly fascinating. There was no veneer of humility, no pretence of being “of the people.” Instead, he flaunted his wealth and arrogance like trophies, daring anyone to challenge him.

As a working-class Labour supporter, his antics felt alien and appalling, utterly at odds with values of solidarity and fairness. Yet, despite my disapproval, I couldn’t look away. His magnetic, chaotic personality was almost comedic at first—a spectacle rather than serious politics. “Can you believe I’m a politician?” he quipped. Honestly? Neither could I.

At first, his unfiltered Twitter (now X) style provided a strange sense of accessibility, even here in the UK. Leaders usually communicate through carefully curated press releases and speeches, but this man? He aired his thoughts live, raw, and utterly unpolished. For a moment, it felt like a bizarrely refreshing approach, a new way to engage with politics. But that moment passed quickly. His impulsive tweets became not just fodder for late-night comedians but the harbinger of something much darker.

Take, for example, his infamous tweet: “It’s freezing and snowing in New York – we need global warming!” On the surface, it seemed laughable in its ignorance. But the more I thought about it, the more infuriating it became. Some nights, I would scroll endlessly, my heart rate increasing, temperature rising, and anxiety creeping in like an unwelcome guest, bringing sleepless nights and worries for an entire continent that, twice over, had chosen him.

Here was a man whose every word carried weight—not just in America but across the globe—and he was dismissing an existential crisis with the flippancy of schoolyard jokes.

As a Brit, I could have easily dismissed this man as "their problem," a uniquely American anomaly. However, the troubling truth was that his influence didn’t stop at the Atlantic. His voice encouraged a wave of right-wing populism that echoed far beyond U.S. borders. It felt eerily similar to the rise of figures like Nigel Farage and the divisive rhetoric surrounding Brexit. Suddenly, nationalism and isolationism were no longer fringe ideologies but mainstream talking points.

During this time, it felt like an uphill battle against a growing tide of misinformation and fear-mongering. His disdain for accountability and truth seeped into public discourse everywhere. Politicians here began adopting his playbook—deflecting criticism, doubling down on falsehoods, and treating public service as a platform for personal gain. It was no longer about policies or the common good but about spectacle and power.

The scariest part was how quickly this rhetoric spread. I remember the protests in London during his visit, the blimp flying high above the city with his name on the side, calling him a baby for protest, as thousands took to the streets. It was a powerful moment, a collective rejection of what he stood for.But even as we marched, there was a lingering unease. His influence was already here, insidious and growing.

Even after leaving office in 2021, his shadow never truly faded. The culture of misinformation he championed didn’t disappear; it evolved. His base remained fiercely loyal, his presence in politics unwavering. And now, in 2025, “The Man” has returned to the presidency. The cycle begins again.

The power he holds in his position makes me question the very fabric of democracy. How has it come to this—again? How can a democracy this powerful be so fundamentally self-serving, lacking the very qualities we expect from authentic leadership? The answer, I realise, isn’t just about him - it’s about us. “The Man” isn’t the disease; he is the symptom of a system riddled with inequality, disillusionment, and despair.

I know Britain has its problems, but I had no idea how bad parts of America were. In 2008, I visited Chicago and saw the worst poverty I had ever seen—worse than what I witnessed in the Philippines. The streets of Chicago were full of homeless people begging. A few times, I would give money, and I would speak to them. I remember one conversation with a homeless man. He told me he used to be a businessman and homeowner with a wife and a stable life. When I asked him what had happened, he said, “You are only two problems away from homelessness.”

His words confused me. He explained how he had fallen ill, and since America has no NHS, his health insurance didn’t cover the treatment. That left him struggling to pay his medical bills, which led to him defaulting on his mortgage and business loans. Within a short time, he lost everything. When his wife left him just a month later, he found himself living on the streets. I had never thought of life that way.

This man stood before me in one of the most powerful countries in the world, reduced to homelessness in such a short time period blew my mind.On January 6th, 2021, an enduring symbol of democracy crumbled under “The Man.” The Capitol riot felt like the final blow. Watching those scenes unfold from my living room, I experienced a visceral sense of dread. This wasn’t just an American crisis—it was a global warning. If democracy could falter there, what hope was there for the rest of us?

And it wasn’t just about politics. His position of power changed the way we talked to each other, the way we debated, and even the way we thought. His casual cruelty—the mocking of a disabled journalist, the degrading comments about women—seeped into everyday conversations. It became easier to dismiss, to ridicule, to dehumanise. And here in Britain, we weren’t immune.

On a personal level, I found myself grappling with a growing sense of frustration and helplessness. As someone who values compassion and fairness, I struggled to reconcile how such blatant disregard for decency could be so widely accepted. Being part of the Labour movement, I’d always believed in the power of collective action, in the idea that people, when united, could create a fairer world. But “The Man” felt like the antithesis of that belief—a reminder of how easily fear and division could trump hope and unity.

Now, he is in power once more, and the stakes feel higher than ever. The question is no longer about whether democracy can survive his influence—it’s about whether it can recover from it.

Looking back, I no longer see “The Man” as a mere curiosity or even a cautionary tale. He is a mirror, reflecting the cracks in our systems, our values, and ourselves. While it’s tempting to dismiss him as a uniquely American phenomenon, the truth is far more uncomfortable: He is a product of the world we’ve built—a world where entertainment outweighs substance and where power is too quickly divorced from responsibility.

For me, the fight feels more urgent than ever—not just to oppose figures like him but to address the deeper issues that allow them to rise in the first place. It’s not enough to resist; we have to rebuild. In the end, he is not just in power—he is a warning, a challenge, and perhaps, once again, a call to action. The real question now is: Will we rise to meet it?