Gavin McInnes won Australians’ hearts and minds when he called Waleed Aly an ‘East Indian retard virgin micro-penis’, and I knew there was no one I’d rather spend Election Day with. So, on November 8th, I boarded a 6am train in Boston that carried me through picturesque scenes of autumnal New England to New York City.

McInnes’s shindig in the trendy Meatpacking District also served as a launch party for his new online magazine, ProudBoys. A ‘Proud Boy’, for those who aren’t up on the latest in internet culture, is like a hipster Republican. They wear Hawaiian shirts, probably ironically. Their philosophy is Western chauvinism. They venerate the entrepreneur and the housewife. Masturbation is verboten. (#nofap) Their initiation ritual entails having the snot kicked out of you until you name five breakfast cereals. They’re the Trump supporters the media warned you about.

And they throw a hell of a party. The army of Proud Boys couldn’t all fit in the bar at once so they spilled out onto the street, smoked cigarettes, and put on a good show for the Japanese journalists who descended on the scene. Whenever a state was called for Trump, they erupted in deafening cheers. There was a man in leather underwear and a Hannibal Lectre mask whose business I never quite worked out. A girl at the bar started flirting with me, so I told her I was with the Guardian to scare her off. It didn’t work, but when word got around that the guy with the martini and the pinstripe suit was with the Guardian, I was surrounded by would-be assassins faster than you could say, ‘I have information that will lead to the arrest of Hillary Clinton.’

Three times a Proud Boy was assaulted by passers-by who took issue with their MAGA hats; one was carted off in a hospital after taking a glass bottle to the face. It was good to finally see the tolerant Left in action, up close and personal.

And what a sharp contrast to the scene inside. When the election was called for Trump you could hear their ululations from three blocks away. Their pure, unadulterated elation was infectious. Because this wasn’t just about the next President: it was about them, too. Trump’s victory was a personal validation – proof that the world doesn’t belong to pussy-whipped white guys forever bewailing the sins of their race and gender. Trump’s America won’t make anyone feel ashamed for having been born with white skin and male genitalia. How sweet it will be.

After Trump gave his victory speech, my companion got a text from his friend – the son of a major NYC Republican donor – inviting us to another party. ‘Where?’ I asked. ‘The Hilton.’ We piled into a cab and peeled off to the Trump campaign’s official watch party, arriving just in time to see all the big-wigs leave. Sure enough we caught a glimpse of Milo Yiannopoulos, unmistakable with his platinum-blonde hair, sporting dark sunglasses at 4am. A few familiar faces from Fox News were still milling about outside, grinning from ear to ear. Everyone’s eyes were moist. We hugged. TV cameras still rolled, though most of their operators sat on the sidewalk, sulking. A few of us ruffians took the opportunity to wave Trump signs in the world’s faces.

Around 5pm the next day, as I was on the express train back to Boston, I got an email from a friend in Sydney. ‘Google “Trump” and “Usyd” and file it under “things that didn’t happen”,’ he wrote. I did, and saw the reports of Trumpists at the university’s own election-watch party chanting ‘Grab her by the p—y’. Of course, they did no such thing. I had a small hand in putting together the pro-Trump presence, having mailed half a dozen MAGA hats to mates in Australia. We spent weeks discussing this exact scenario: how Lefties on campus would claim the conservative revellers were making racist or sexist comments, and the mainstream media would take them at their word. Sure enough, they did.

The next day saw videos emerge of those selfsame Lefties dumping jugs of water on Trump supporters before being hauled off by campus security. No surprise there. Already the Clintonistas are doing exactly what they blamed Trump for doing: questioning the legitimacy of the election. (#notmypresident, #imstillwithher) One promised ‘casualties on both sides’, saying ‘people have to die’ if Trump’s fascist agenda is to be stopped. Finally, the anti-democratic Left’s true colours are shining through. While most of them – notably Mrs Clinton – accepted defeat graciously, there’s an alarming contingent who are only too willing to use violence to push their agenda. With their worst scenario come true, progressives have nothing to lose. But we can be certain the revolution won’t be televised. The events in Sydney show how desperate the mainstream media is push the narrative of vile Trump supporters lashing out against defenceless liberals.

Anyway, this is going to be a good four years. I foresee the death of Isis, sovereign borders, industrial renewal, and a restoration of America’s prestige on the world stage. At the very least, we’ll get some 1,500 days of sweet, sweet Lefty tears. And that alone will make it all worthwhile. The Age of Trump is upon us, ladies and gentlemen, and try not to get too sick of all this winning.

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