As a columnist, one gets used to writing sometimes provocative, whimsical, controversial or just plain bizarre things. But I never thought I would type the following sentence without being a) inebriated as a newt, b) residing in a padded cell or c) both of the above.

This week sees the inauguration on Capitol Hill in Washington of Donald J Trump as president of the United States of America.

On Friday "The Donald" becomes leader of the western world and those strange, tiddly little fingers of his (his hands and gesticulations were brilliantly described recently as looking as though he were conducting a fairy orchestra) come perilously, nightmareishly close to the red button that will trigger a nuclear Armageddon.

It is no exaggeration to say that the world watched in disbelief as the events of November 8 unfolded in America and it became increasingly clear that Trump was going to swing it. And he swung it because - as with the political elite on this side of The Pond when it came to calling the EU referendum result - the Democrats and the political pundits woefully underestimated the deep-seated disenchantment of ordinary folk with their nation's establishment.

Virtually any Democratic candidate other than Hillary Clinton could and should have seen off the Trump challenge. Her years at the coal face of national and international politics stood for nothing in the end.

In fact, they arguably did for her. Hillary, wife of the scandal-prone Bill, was too mired in the Washington elite; too mired herself in numerous scandals over the years; and too surrounded by an aura of entitlement - something that the huddled masses detest, and rightly so.

Even the uber-popular Michelle Obama would not be a safe bet as the first female president of the USA (something which her husband hinted at recently) because a second Obama in the White House would smack too much of yet another political dynasty - along with the Bushes and the Clintons - stalking the corridors of power.

All of which leaves us with Donald Trump as the next president. And no amount of crystal ball-gazing will give us any idea of how the next four years will unfold.

Trump is certainly a loose cannon. While he has tempered many of his more outrageous claims of the bizarre election race, here is a man who doesn't appear to give a stuff for diplomacy or political etiquette.

His late night - and often bonkers - tweets look set to be a feature of his presidency, which alone is enough to make us all believe that the world has gone mad.

Trump is clearly someone who, while quick to give offence, is even quicker to take it. His knee-jerk reaction to Meryl Streep's Hollywood luvvie criticism of him at the Golden Globes (he fired off a tweet describing her as "overrated") illustrates his thin skin.

But it is, of course, his "bromance" with Russian president Vladimir Putin which surely gives the greatest cause for concern regarding the Trump presidency to come.

The dead-eyed and deadly-looking Putin is a worrying friend indeed for Mr Trump to be courting - not least because president-elect Trump has already dismissed Nato as "obsolete."

And because both men have embraced so wholeheartedly the concept of "fake news", which provides the perfect opportunity to deride comprehensively any uncomfortable truths about them.

The apparent good relations and mutual respect between these two men should have none of us sleeping easily in our beds at night. It would take only one row between the emotional Mr Trump and the ruthless Mr Putin to set in chain a potentially apocalyptic sequence of events.

On the BBC's Panorama this week, John McLaughlin, a former acting director of the CIA, described Putin and Trump as both having "brittle personalities".

"I would not want to see these two men got into some kind of a macho shoot-out", he said. Nor would any of us.

For if President Putin and the soon-to-be President Trump do indeed clash, the possibilities for disaster hardly bear thinking about. Let's hope for mankind's sake that any fall-out isn't preceded by the word "nuclear".

This season's University Challenge is quite simply must-watch television. Not because of silver fox Jeremy Paxman (although "the thinking woman's crumpet" is more than enough reason to tune in) but because of the Wolfson College Cambridge team, who are proving to be sensationally good.

Among them is Cumbria's very own Ben Chaudhri, a Cockermouth-based brain box who is doing his county proud.

But it is the captain sitting to his left who has got the nation agog. This young man's name is Eric (poor blighter) Monkman and he's an absolute star.

He's so clever, so stern and takes it all so adorably seriously that he has, inevitably, become an internet sensation. He ponders, he glowers and he has a brain the size of a planet. But it is his uncanny resemblance to Coronation Street's Roy Cropper that is for me the most entertaining aspect of young Mr Monkman.

It is said that we all have a doppelgänger - well, Mr Monkman's is serving up full English breakfasts in Weatherfield's Roy's Rolls cafe. If Roy and Hayley had had a son, Eric Monkman would be him. I like to think that beside Eric's chair in the University Challenge studio is a nylon shopping bag with a door key attached to it on a string.

The clickbait list crazy Daily Telegraph this week came up with "25 things to eat before you die".

It didn't feature (as one might think) rotten oysters, polar bear liver or steak and chips in the ante room of an American execution chamber, but more pleasant things such as fresh coconuts on St Lucia, Sachertorte in Vienna and bagels in Noo York City.

What, I couldn't help wondering, would be on a south Cumbria version of this culinary bucket list?

We all have our favourite taste sensations from this area, so I thought I'd pitch a few suggestions of my own - some of which, sadly, are no longer available.

Green's meat and potato pies (obvs). Deganis's ice cream wafers. Marsh's sass drunk from the bottle while astride a space hopper and wearing flared jeans circa 1974. The full sit-down works at the Chippy Bank. Pie and peas from the Theatre Bar circa 1988. Egg, cress and sand sandwiches eaten at Tridley, Roanhead, Earnse Bay or other local beach of one's choice. Roy's Ices. Birkett's bloomers circa 1994. Kia Ora at the Roxy cinema during the Saturday morning film shows of the 1970... The list, surely, is endless.