It might not feel like it, but it is a recent phenomenon that American elections are judged by the size of rallies and crowd-drawing power.
This spectacle, pioneered by Donald Trump, has become synonymous with his brand. However, ironically, by Trump’s own measure, the curtains are closing on this tired, unoriginal, boring circus, a dwindling sideshow losing its once hypnotic power—and I witnessed it firsthand.
As an advisor to senior political figures, I pride myself on keeping in touch with all sides of the argument, and I was, in a twisted way, ready for the fireworks, eager to witness firsthand why his base finds him so compelling.
My heart was racing as I approached. Whenever I locked eyes with someone, I felt they knew I was a traitor. What awaited me on the other side of the security check? The greatest show on Earth? A carnival of charisma? Or perhaps, as I soon discovered, an overhyped snoozefest.
Stepping through the gates, I was immediately confronted by a sea of red hats. I kept my head down, trying not to stand out, but the atmosphere was palpable. People were excited to experience the bombastic spectacle that characterises Trump rallies.
But, as it turns out, Trump was late—90 minutes late. The crowd grew increasingly restless but stuck it out, fidgeting, chatting and scrolling social media. A series of support acts took to the stage to fill time, echoing the same lines we’d heard a thousand times before. Democrats are destroying America. The country has never been in worse shape. We need Trump. It was like a broken record, spinning tirelessly with nothing new to say.
When Trump finally arrived, the crowd erupted—a brief surge of energy—before settling into what felt like a monotonous circus act gone wrong, a tired ringmaster trying to hold together a fraying show. He stood there, completely still, soaking in the applause. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile—just stood, staring, waiting for the adulation to peak.
It was oddly unnerving and lacked any warmth. When he finally did start speaking, I realised quickly that the wait had been for nothing, and I settled in for the long haul. The man who once commanded rooms and controlled headlines was now a tired performer going through the motions.
For over ten minutes, he talked about the thickness of the bulletproof glass surrounding him, almost like a circus strongman bragging about how thick the bars of his cage were. ‘To get me, somebody would have to shoot through the fake news, and I don’t mind that so much. I don’t mind that,’ he said, gesturing towards the press area, prompting laughter and boos from the audience. He called the ‘fake news’ bloodsuckers and threw out the usual rhetoric about enemies of the people. It’s a line we’ve heard before, but they still responded on cue.
He launched into his greatest hits: ‘Sleepy Joe’ had stolen the 2020 election, ‘Crooked Hillary’ still pulls all the strings, and personal attacks on Michelle Obama. The automatic chants of ‘lock her up’ echoed through the crowd—well-rehearsed, tired and devoid of any real conviction. The scripted shouts of a miserable, failing spectacle from an audience there simply out of habit, not for any substance.
In the crowd, I met a fellow Brit. David, from Lancaster, England, had flown across the Atlantic to see Trump in the flesh. I wanted to ask him what he thought of Trump’s speech, but he left after about an hour. Imagine that—flying halfway around the world to see your hero, only to get bored and walk out halfway through.
Afterwards, I decided to talk to some attendees. I asked them what their favourite part of the speech was so far. Overwhelmingly, I got ‘the glass bit.’ No one could articulate why—no one even seemed to remember much else or care. The rally was a mishmash of words, an incoherent jumble that became more desperate as the crowd dissipated, losing interest in the disjointed performance. By the time Trump was 90 minutes into his mammoth two-hour monologue, the spectators had halved.
It was, at its core, a tedious, drawn-out circus that promised the thrill of a high-wire act but delivered the dullness of a retired clown stumbling through a routine. Like watching a really bad sequel—all the same characters, but none of the charm or magic of the original. As the uninspired ringmaster rambled aimlessly, lacking the fire that had once made his show captivating, it became clearer that the curtains were closing on Trump’s circus, and it couldn’t come soon enough.
Pablo O’Hana is a senior political advisor who served prominent UK political figures, including the Deputy Prime Minister, Secretaries of State, Ministers and three successive leaders of the Liberal Democrats. He worked on the campaign to Remain in the EU and helped deliver a ‘Yes’ result in Ireland’s referendum on legalising abortion. He is a volunteer for the Harris campaign.
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