'Sex with Boris Johnson must be exciting for a chick because of the Leslie Ash factor: the risk involved'
I'm getting praise from every quarter over my incident with Trinny. Who would have thought that punching her in the face would make me a hero? I must do this more often from now on.
I have vowed that all negotiations with the lesbian sticker woman will cease henceforth. From now on, it's a couple of jabs to her ample body before a swift upper-cut. She's started leaving bigger stickers on the Quattroporte recently, almost A4-size, like the ones you get when Comrade Ken Livingstone has clamped you and is going to remove your vehicle and not give it back until you empty your bank account. I can't wait until that bastard is gone and Boris is king of the castle.
Boris went to Oxford with Ben, and the stories Ben tells me are amazing. There's one quite telling one about all of them on some frozen lake hacking champagne-bottle corks off with swords, and Boris is right into all of this but David Cameron is on the shore and won't come on the ice. Quite disappointing, really, but I suppose you need to be a bit more cautious when you're leader. Personally, I'd have thought it would be Boris worrying about wandering around on thin ice with all the excess weight he carries, but there you go...
Anyway, the lesbian sticker woman has a new big sticker that says: " This man is scum and a plague on society." I actually took one to the local framers and got them to do it up and it sits proudly in my washroom. I was going to launch another attack on her house, but I am now going to keep my powder dry and just wait until I see her, and then punch her lights out. I'm getting so excited about the thought that I think I'm going to go and set up a stakeout the moment I finish writing this. I can hole up in the coffee shop and pretty much live there until she turns up.
There's everything a man needs in that shop: coffee, sweet stuff and loads of dumb Eastern European baristas who are gagging for a way out of their depressing lives. There's one girl in there called Ruby (clearly not her real name, doesn't sound too Polish to me...) who is always very chatty, and has a hot bod, even in the silly uniform. I saw her see me get into the Quattroporte one day, and she went spastic, so she's mine if I want her...
Here I go again, chasing Eastern Europeans after all the trouble I got visiting exotic parts of the Ukraine (our old nanny). I just can't resist...
Ben has just rung and asked me to come out for lunch. I told him that I'd just written about the Oxford ice story and he told me another one that I'm not even going to bother to write as the lawyer will put a big, fat red line through it. It involves a current shadow cabinet member, two prostitutes and a cross-dressing Colombian.
What is it about politicians? I know the old saying is that it's showbusiness for ugly people, but honestly, they're worse than the Coopster. Look at Boris, for example: the guy is a fat slob who has clearly never visited a hairdresser in his whole life, and yet every chick I know lusts after him. Victoria goes all gooey when I mention his name and yet, if I start putting on 2lb after Christmas, she's all over me like a rash to lose it. How come it's all right for Boris but nobody else? Having sex with him must be exciting for a chick because of the Leslie Ash factor: the risk involved. You never know whether he'll keel over with a huge coronary and you'll have to explain everything to the cops. It must add a certain frisson to the whole experience.
I bet Boris will have the time of his life once he's king of the castle in London. Nobody really cares about a mayor; they're just there for entertainment value, and Boris is going to give us that, big stylee. I was in the Groucho Club the other night and this guy was slagging Boris off, and about five hot, hot chicks all started going on about how dreamy he was and how they had weird dreams involving him. I got bored of all this attention being lavished on someone apart from me, so went into important discussions with Pablo and ended up totally wired and having a very weird evening with Jeff Beck.
Beck was in there before some gig he was playing in Soho and looked like he is the bassist for Billy Idol. The guy must be about 60 but still dresses like Axl Rose. I love that, but then, what's he going to suddenly do? Go all Eric Clapton and start wearing chinos and smart shirts? Fuck no, he's raaawk and that's why he's cool. Clapton looks like his whole face has collapsed and I never liked his stuff much anyway.
Maybe I should form a band? Me and Jeff Beck with Boris Johnson on the drums? We'd be huge, huger than Boris. We could tour the world and rake in the cash and Beck will die soon so we wouldn't have to share it all with him...
Dreams, they're a weird thing aren't they? I had this dream that I'd punched Trinny from the telly hard in the face. Oh, yeah, right, it wasn't a dream, hooray for reality. Cooper Out.