'I'm not scared of the Sapphic sticker lady, I just that I can't be bothered to start a full-on war'
I'm having a hell of a week. First, the lesbian sticker lady who covered my Quattroporte in stickers has gone mental about my revenge on her Range Rover. She was waiting for me when I got to it the day after the incident. She must have been waiting for some time as I had a very late start following a particularly fine evening out with Ben.
We'd ended up in The Electric with a motley collection of some of West London's most hedonistic personalities. Victoria came out and someone slipped something pretty exciting into her drink because she behaved like a greyhound on heat most of the evening, and I eventually had to take her back to the Cooperdome as she'd taken quite a shine to a young Uruguayan bond dealer. I was forced to assert my territorial rights pretty quickly before this smooth operator moved in completely.
Where the hell is Uruguay anyway? All I know about it is: don't fly with any of them as they will eat you in a crash situation (I saw that movie Alive where a rugby team crashes and they all end up eating each other while managing to keep shiny, white teeth and manly, curly hair). Anyway, following a rare, rampant, married night I arrived at the car to be attacked by the sticker lady.
"Who the hell do you think you are? I'm going to go to the police and have you thrown out of the country." She was almost foaming at the mouth, clearly a vegetarian.
"Go right ahead, I'm sure they'd be equally interested in your persistent targeting of my car, you vegan maniac." I still wanted to know what her beef was with me and how she knew who I was. I tried to get in and do a smart getaway but she sat on the hood and started banging her bag on the windscreen.
I started the engine up but a passer-by then started to get involved and immediately took the woman's side. I was already two hours late for a meeting and wasn't in the mood for all this shit. I told her to get off and we could discuss her "issues" in the coffee shop. The passer-by helped her to agree and she got off. I immediately gunned the motor and burnt off; this one is going to run and run but it wasn't the time to sort it.
I got into Marylebone and rushed up to the office but the two backers I was meeting had long gone. This was a major pisser as they were very keen on the "Amy Winehouse Story." There was little that I could do about it, however, so I headed off to the Groucho for a contemplative lunch and a couple of stiff drinks. As usual Ricky Gervais was in there, but, to my great joy, he looked rather depressed. I bought him a drink but he barely even noticed. He was just staring blankly into space.
I finally got him chatting a bit and it turned out that he was really pissed off, as he had tried to get Nigella Lawson into the last episode of his " meet lots of famous people" show, Extras, but she'd said no, and Ricky doesn't like hearing that word. I told him not to worry and that she was putting on weight and wasn't what she used to be. He nodded and then started thinking aloud about getting Prince on in some way. I told him that I knew Prince and would put a word in for him. I don't really know him, but regular readers will know that I met him at a party a couple of weeks back so I was just riffing. Ricky cheered up and bought me a drink but you could see that the weight of being the king of comedy was troubling him. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown," that's your Will Shakespeare. And they said the Cooperman was thick.
Right at this moment, when we had sort of bonded, Gervais's tall, geeky partner, Stephen, walked in, recognised me and started telling Ricky about how I "slag him off all the time" in this column. It all got a bit nasty and Cooperman beat a tactical retreat before I had to defend myself physically. The Groucho is becoming more and more like a Wild-West saloon. They need to reassess their membership policy and sort stuff out, otherwise it will fast become a "wanker zone", as Ben puts it.
I parked in a different street when I got home. It's not that I'm scared of the Sapphic sticker lady, it's just that I can't be bothered to start a full-on war. I got home, turned on the plasma and flopped out on the Heals couch. Victoria wasn't in as usual but she'd left her Blackberry and it started vibrating on the tan leather coffee table. I picked it up - it was the fucking Uruguayan bond dealer from the night before and he was coming on all strong in a text asking her out to dinner. This guy was a cheeky bastard but, fortunately, I've become quite a revenge specialist recently.
I texted him back on Victoria's Blackberry, coming on all soft and sweet and telling him that she'd love to but it needed to be out of town as "my fiance tends to be very jealous." Too damn right I am. I told him that there was an intimate table booked for two at the Fat Duck in Bray that very evening. I'd see him there at eight. He texted back immediately, horny as hell and telling "her" that he couldn't wait. I wish I could have been there when he turned up after a long drive to find no table and no " pooosy", as he put it. "Revenge is a dish best served cold" - Shakespeare again, I must think about doing a PhD.... Cooper Out.