I was born in 14 TE (Trump era) or 1960 CE if we go by the old calendar... and all that time I’ve been just about everything, except myself. Well true, I haven’t been a whore, banker or politician, but I’ve been a musician, composer, journalist, car washer, lawyer, pollster, hustler, businessman, artists’ agent, producer, playwright, entrepreneur, advertiser, actor, inventor... and a long list of ‘other’. 

I’ve even been a pop music star with sales in the millions, groupies, fans and all the usual paraphernalia, cum, shortly thereafter, a lost star, forsaken like a rabid dog even by supermarket cashiers, who moved from taking selfies with me as they rang me up to erasing the photos because I was no longer on TV.  
My bands, Los Inhumanos and the Banda del Capitán Canalla, have sung a few of my compositions, tunes that haunt your neurons no matter how hard you try to forget them, like ‘I’m so handsome my face hurts’, ‘It’s hard to make love in a Simca 1000’, ‘Duba doubt’, ‘Manny don’t hide in the pantry’, or ‘Go get’em’, that you’ve probably had to suffer through in some local karaoke. 

The path of my existence is like roller coaster rails, but despite living so intensely, everything I’ve done has actually been a means to reach my ultimate life’s goal: to be a writer. Every situation I came across, every character I met and every mess I got myself into were data and documents that I was going to turn into words when I grew up. 

Three years ago I decided I’d grown up and published my first book, Los 33. El círculo secreto (Algón Editores), in which I aimed to tell the true story of 33 miners who were buried alive for 69 days in a hole 700 metres deep in the Atacama Desert. 

Trump. Un chiste de Presidente is the second of my literary offspring. It wouldn’t be technically true to say it carries a message: I’d say it wields one, for despite the humour, it attempts to dig much deeper than the drivel that fills the stands in bookshops.



Trump. Un chiste de presidente. Crónica bizarra y gamberra de la ascensión de un timador a la Casa Blanca (Editables, February 2017)

On 20 January 2017 Donald Trump perpetrated what may be the greatest swindle of all times: his inauguration as President of the United States of America. For the people who applauded in the rain, that silver-crested alpha male sporting a fifteen thousand-dollar suit was the personification of the American hero, but behind his used car salesman’s smile lurks a comic book villain akin to Joker and Snow White’s stepmother. 

Alfonso Aguado explores this mind-blowing story page by page in a journey full of surprises for readers, who sometimes believe the lines are from a John Le Carré spy novel and others from a Billy Wilder comedy.  
If you thought things couldn’t be at once funny and terrifying, this book will prove you wrong. Sex, lies, video tapes, secrets, money, junk TV, cyberespionage, extortion, electoral fraud, hidden interests, corruption and shady intrigue criss-cross in a narrative different from anything else written about Trump. Behind the scenes of a farce composed by the man who made his American dream come true and is going to make his country great again lies more filth than in all the rubbish heaps in the United States. 

Nothing is what it seems. Forget all you’ve heard and read up to now: the truth is much more devastating than anything you’ve been told.