Joanna Blythman on Doanald Trump

HAVE you noticed how Donald Trump has suddenly come over all Scottish? En route to Aberdeen to convince a planning inquiry to OK his precious housing development and golf course on a rare and fragile site of special scientific Interest, he means to remind us of his frankly rather weak Scottish credentials, by visiting the Lewis home of his dear old mum - may she rest in peace - who left the island in her teens to pursue the American dream.

While he's on Lewis, Trump has conveniently agreed to "discuss" the restoration of Lewis Castle, near Stornoway, a baronial pile built in 1847 that Western Isles Council wants to revamp as a hotel and museum. The inference to be drawn is that Trump just might - though no guarantee is given - consider digging into his deep pockets to help the restoration effort.

Trump likes inferences. He more or less flounced off in a huff when Aberdeenshire Council's planning committee turned down his development on environmental grounds, letting it be known that he was speaking to Ian Paisley (now there's an unpleasant thought) with a view to taking his development to Northern Ireland. That's classic Trump: exit stage left like a Shakespearean character, muttering dark threats, then trying to persuade local bigwigs to clinch the deal behind closed doors.

And surely there's a further inference we are meant to draw from Trump's PR tactics? If we humour him by granting permission for his hopelessly inappropriate Menie Estate development, then he might feel more inclined to support Lewis Castle's restoration. Who knows, keep him sweet enough, and Trump might turn into a latter-day Andrew Carnegie, endowing the length and breadth of Scotland with concert halls and libraries.

Western Isles Council may well be delighted to entertain him. It is trying to drum up £7.5 million for the project, so any publicity and all notes of interest, however speculative, are to be welcomed. Doubtless council representatives will smile their way through Trump's cheesy press conference, designed to cast him in a favourable light. Trump, the Scottish emigré, returned home as a billionaire. Trump, doughty defender of our romantic but crumbling heritage. He'll be instantly added to the ranks of great Scots in the diaspora, along with the likes of Sean Connery and Gordon Ramsay, people who do not live in Scotland but nevertheless make it part of their brand.

But hang on a minute, have we got the right guy here? Trump is not to be confused with HRH the Prince of Wales, environmentalist and tireless defender of antique buildings from Beijing to Basingstoke. True, they both have hair issues. Charles's mop is somewhat lacking on top. Trump's forward-combed, Liberace-esque coiffure may look like a bad wig, but if internet trichologists are to be believed, it is a different matter entirely, a grizzly case of inappropriate, outmoded hair replacement techniques.

No, hair apart, Trump and HRH are very different kettles of fish. I can't see Trump going for long improving walks admiring dry-stone dykes, unless he's measuring out the perimeter of his latest development. Nor making cultural visits to National Trust properties and nature reserves. No, romping around in the penthouse suite of some 42-storey luxury gated skyscraper apartment block with a Botoxed blonde former 1970s Playmate of the Month is more his style.

This tartan crusader wouldn't happen to be Donald Trump, he of skyscraper, airline, condominium and casino fame, owner of the Miss Universe Organisation, author of books including Think Big And Kick Ass In Business And Life, How To Get Rich, The Art Of The Comeback and The Art Of The Deal? This wouldn't be the man who devised the US prototype for Mean TV's bullying and nasty programme The Apprentice, would it? The guy so puffed up with his stratospheric wealth and importance - between bouts of bankruptcy, that is - that he tried to patent the phrase "You're fired"?

It looks like Trump is already working on his next book title - How To Get Away With Building Whatever You Like. Step one: pick a small, impressionable country for your development, one with a slight inferiority complex that's keen to strut its stuff on the world stage. Step two: play it off against another small, impressionable country with a slight inferiority complex that's keen to strut its stuff on the world stage. Step three: threaten it with the stick of losing potential revenue and world renown for a glittering top-drawer development. Step four: dangle lots of carrots, or sweeteners, that cast you in a suitably philanthropic light. Step five: sit back and let local worthies fight your corner for you.

Somehow, I just can't take Donald Trump any more seriously as a Scot or a benevolent, visionary developer than I can believe Shell is really a company with family roots in the Niger Delta, wholeheartedly committed to the environment and championing the rights of indigenous peoples.

What are we in Scotland? A dignified people with respect for our natural environment and heritage, or a bunch of gullible chumps who will sell it down the river whenever the first Flash Harry shows up in town?