Belfast Telegraph

Thursday 31 July 2014

'The BBC guy said he'd like to develop a sitcom around my life. Dollar signs flashed in my mind'

I'm lying naked in a pool of my own barf on the floor of the main Cooperdome bathroom when the phone rings. I must have fallen unconscious and been there all night. The last thing that I remember was some kind of drinking competition with two guys and a chick I'd met at the Electric. They all came back with me and started on my extensive collection of fine tequilas.

One of the guys was something quite high up in the BBC and kept telling me that he was a huge fan of this column and that he wanted to develop some kind of sit-com round my life. Dollar signs flashed through my mind and I was already half-writing the first season. It pretty much revolved around a charismatic man about town who was irresistible to women and kept getting into all kinds of scrapes. Suddenly, there I was at the Emmys - up against Ricky Gervais for best sit-com and I wiped the floor with the fat bastard. He comes up to me with his big fake cockney grin and tries to shake my hand and congratulate me. I turn on my heel and grab my date's hand, it's Pamela Anderson and she's in a rush to get me back to her Malibu beach-house and film herself fellating me...

The phone is still ringing and I'm still lying in a pool of my own barf - God, how I hate reality. I try to stand up and slip and crack my head on the bidet. What the fuck is a bidet anyway? Victoria told me that it was what French chicks use to wash their bits. Firstly, I thought the French never washed? Secondly, I'm not French and we're not in France so why the hell is there one in the Cooperdome? I make a mental note to have it ripped out by Hugh, the posh plumber who is also the only non-Pole still in the plumbing business. Maybe I'll have a special Pablo mirror put in? It could be attached to the wall and glide out when needed. It could look really classy if done well. The phone is still ringing and I realise that there are bits of sweetcorn and carrot stuck to my naked body. What is that about? The last time I ate sweetcorn must have been when I was about 10 years old. Carrots, I must have last had about a month ago. Somehow they are always present in vomit. Surely this is conclusive proof that vegetarians are morons? The body is clearly not designed to digest these things and just stores them until the appropriate moment. The phone is still ringing. I pick it up. It's Victoria.

"Coopy... it's Tory."

"Hey, babe. How's things?" I try to sound casual, but my heart is racing.

"Coopy, we miss you baby. Humboldt-Fog misses you and cries all the time for his daddy. Can we just... forget everything and start again, honey-pie?" She's really calm in that English detached kind of way that allows you guys to deal with emotional situations without drugs. I try to pull myself together mentally and forget that I'm kneeling, naked in a pool of semi-digested food and liquor.

"Oh... wow, sure honey. That would be great. I've really missed you guys."

"Coopy, we're going to come over right now - I'm at Harriet's." She's at her dumb sister's place and that's only 10 minutes away. If she comes over now she'll see all the barf and the remains of a debauched Pablo/tequila evening and might not be so keen on a Xmas family reunion.

"Uuuuhhmm, why don't I come and see you guys. I could say hi to Harriet..."

"You hate Harriet, why would you want to say hi to her? Have you got someone there with you now? Cooper you fucking wanker, have you got some whore there now?" She goes from sweet to mental in a nano-second.

"NO, NO baby, I just thought that... look... come round now. It's just I'm not feeling too good and I'm sick to my stomach and I think that I might be contagious. I've been up all night barfing." It's a classy move.

"Oh, Coopy, I'm so sorry, I had no idea, you must think I'm terrible baby. We'll be round straight away. Hold on baby." The phone goes dead and I know that I have 10 minutes to clean surfaces and ditch the glasses and bottles. I run naked into the lounge only to find the BBC guy out for the count on the couch. I haven't got time to think. I kick him hard in the back and he wakes up to see a barf-covered, naked me telling him to get the fuck out of the Cooperdome right now. He looks terrified. He staggers up and I open the door and he's gone. We don't say a word to each other. I'm guessing that the sitcom is dead in the water but at least he's out.

I gather the bottles and my beloved crystal tumblers and put them all in a garbage bag and take them out into the corridor - there's a utility closet by the elevator and I stuff it all in there. As I open the closet I hear a sickening "click" from behind me and I realise that my front door has closed and I'm locked out of the Cooperdome, naked, covered in barf with my ex-future fiancee and son just four minutes away. I do what any normal man would do. I fall to the floor and lie as though unconscious outside my door and wait for them to arrive so I can pretend to have been overcome by sickness. The problem is my neighbour comes out and spots me and tries to help. I have to tell her to fuck off - that I'm playing a joke on somebody. This never happened on Friends... maybe there is a sitcom in me...Cooper Out.

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