Oh boo-hoo, boo-hoo-boo-hooboohoo... You lost at everything again, what a surprise! I was safely ensconced in the Cooperdome with a couple of normal people and some of Colombia's finest all Saturday night, so we didn't have to put up with fat drunk "blokes" crying like big girls in pubs when "Johnny-Wonny" didn't come up to scratch.
Unfortunately, we were still going when the Grand Prix started on Sunday afternoon. Hugo came round and insisted that we all watch it. Let's face it – everyone only watches that shit to see people smash their cars up and die. Otherwise, if it's that fascinating to see cars blur by at 200 miles an hour, park a deckchair on the Westway any Friday night and enjoy the joyriders.
Anyway, Hugo puts the race on and we all sit there jabbering and wide-eyed, watching the inevitable British loss. Nobody... and I mean nobody, can do losing like you guys. I guess you've had enough practice. The race was pathetic. First, Hamilton loses his place immediately and then can't manage to change gears... I doubt he's actually old enough to have a driving licence. Hugo got very upset, God knows why. So we had to call Pablo and we all pushed on through until Monday morning, by which time he didn't give a fuck.
I had quite a crucial lunch meeting so I managed to crawl outside and head for the car, only to find that the lesbian sticker lady had struck again. I've no idea how she found the car as it was eight streets away – she must have been cruising the area. Her new stickers read: "The owner of this car is a fascist marawder (sic) and exposes himself in public."
She'd slapped about a hundred stickers on the Quattroporte, and she'd totally screwed the paintwork. I was not in the best of states, and I went mental. I got in the car and, barely able to see out, I drove to her house. I parked in the middle of the street and ran up the stairs to her front door. If she'd answered, I'd have swung and taken the rap. A tiny South American woman opened the door. "Si...?" She peered at me nervously.
"Where is your mistress? Donde esta la conchita?" It wasn't great Spanish but it was all I'd picked up from my gardener back in LA. It's a stupid language anyway, and there's no country that speaks it that I have any desire to go to.
The little lady looked confused.
"Donde estas your padrone?" She didn't have a clue what I was on about.
I pushed past her and went into the house. The Range Rover hadn't been outside so she was probably out shopping at Planet Organic, but I was hell-bent on revenge. The little Latin lady was going mental and screaming at me, but I ignored her. It was a serious pad, all minimalist, shades of cream and mirrors. What the fuck was someone this wealthy doing harassing the Coop? Surely we were on the same side? Us against the unwashed hordes...
No, there had to be something else, this was definitely a personal issue. I eventually walked back out on to the street. There was not much that I could do to the house itself – it was all so minimalist that there was hardly anything in there. The best way to vandalise it would be to order her some Ikea furniture.
The little Latin lady looked at me in confusion as I retreated to the Cock & Bottle for a "restorative tincture", as Ben sometimes calls a pre-lunch drink. Thinking of Ben, I decided that he was the man to ask. He always had an answer to this sort of thing, so I BlackBerried him.
"Hullo..." Ben was a late riser.
"Yo, Bender, it's Coop, wossup?" I quite enjoyed waking him up. And he'd be in a bad mood so his ideas might be even more devious.
"Morning Coop, old man, what can I do for you at this ungodly hour?"
It was 11.30 in the morning. So Ben. I filled him in on the new happenings with the lesbian sticker lady, and told him about my trip to her house. He was impressed, but disappointed that I hadn't taken any action there.
"You look weak now, Coopy old boy, she's seen the fear in your eyes, you should have done something..." Ben was indignant.
"What, though, Ben? Give me ideas. I'm actually a bit stuck, don't know what to do next..." I could hear Ben thinking. Wouldn't be long now.
"There's always the message written on the lawn in weedkiller. I did that to the Quad at Oriel, fucking funny it was, too. Problem is that it's only really effective from above. If we can get her phone number, then we can have some fun... I've got a mate who works at BT and gives loads of numbers away to the newspapers for money. Give me the address and I'll sort it out."
Half an hour later, my BlackBerry vibrated across the table. It was Ben and he had the number. I didn't need any more help – off to Prontaprint I went. I got the guy behind the desk to source quite a fruity photo of some Swedish-looking chick in a state of undress, and added a little note about a naughty schoolgirl wanting to be punished plus the phone number.
Three hours later and the cards were everywhere in W11 and W2, and I was back in the Cock & Bottle savouring my victory. I'd missed my meeting, but who cares? This was now starting to take over my life and I needed to win. I also needed to find out who this lesbian chick was and what her beef was. But that was for another day. I raised my glass to the empty bar. Hail to the chief. Cooper Out.