The Bablock Hythe Gambit
It was a crisp January morning when whispers began to swirl through the quiet lanes of Bablock Hythe. A small, unassuming enclave nestled along the River Thames, Bablock Hythe had long been a peaceful haven, where the biggest news usually involved the price increase of the beer in the Ferryman or river flooding. But this news was different.
Word had it that none other than Donald J. Trump, the former President of the United States, was eyeing a quiet retirement far from the blinding lights of New York City and the unforgiving political battlegrounds of Washington. Rumours spread like wildfire that Trump had plans to resign later in the year and slip into obscurity—well, as much obscurity as a man like Trump could manage.
But why Bablock Hythe?
Locals scoffed at first. But soon, it became apparent that Trump had set his sights on the somewhat neglected Number 89, a weathered property overlooking the river. It was no Mar-a-Lago, but Trump wasn’t looking for opulence. He had something far more audacious in mind.
He would transform Number 89 into The Trump Tide, an exclusive members-only bar—strictly for locals. No tourists, no outsiders. Just Bablock Hythe’s own, sipping pints under the glow of gilded chandeliers. It was to be a sanctuary, a fortress of comfort where politics and paparazzi were strictly banned.
But Trump’s ambitions didn’t stop there.
Plans were quietly leaked to the village council. A six-story extension would rise from the modest riverside property, complete with marble interiors, gold-plated taps, and, most bizarrely, a helipad on the roof. “For quick getaways,” Trump reportedly told his inner circle.
The locals were divided. Some were amused, others horrified. The thought of helicopters buzzing overhead and a six-story monolith casting shadows over the river didn’t sit well with everyone. Yet, a few regulars at The Ferryman Inn saw the humour in it.
And that’s when Trump made his most unexpected move.
He approached Pete, the beloved landlord of The Ferryman, with an offer that left the village reeling.
“Pete,” Trump began, in a tone somewhere between business and mischief, “you know how to run a proper English pub. I need you to run The Trump Tide. Locals only. No nonsense. I’ll take care of the gold taps; you handle the beer.”
Pete nearly choked on his roast potatoes.
Running Trump’s private bar? It was absurd. But Pete couldn’t deny the curiosity gnawing at him. The thought of serving pints under velvet ceilings and gold-framed portraits of Trump himself was equal parts ridiculous and… strangely tempting.
Of course, Trump had conditions. The membership process would be highly exclusive—a rigorous application involving nothing more than proving you paid the Pratt organisation and could handle a bit of gossip.
Construction crews began to arrive, quietly at first, then more visibly. Cranes hovered over the riverbanks, scaffolding crept up the sides of Number 89, and Bablock Hythe’s skyline began to change.
Local council meetings grew heated. Objections were raised about the height, the noise, the helipad. Trump, unfazed, sent his lawyers armed with permits and a charming letter declaring his “deep commitment to preserving the rustic charm of Bablock Hythe.”
And so, the village waited.
Would Bablock Hythe become the unlikely refuge of the world’s most controversial figure? Would The Trump Tide rise, casting its golden glow over the Thames?
One thing was certain: Bablock Hythe would never be the same again.
