My beloved Quattroporte is a write-off. The stupid insurance system that you have here informs me that it's not worth repairing her. I've got another one on order but they are things of beauty and it's going to take a long time until the Coop's back in the driving seat. Sadly, that is the least of my problems. Hugo, Victoria's dumbass brother, has totally disappeared off the face of the Earth and I've completely taken the rap for this asshole.
Even Victoria thinks I'm lying. She's pretty over-emotional as it is, what with the kid so imminent. She spent the whole day crying and throwing things and telling me that I was subconsciously trying to sabotage our "relationship." I was tempted to mention that, if this was the case, it wasn't that subconscious but, for once, The Coop kept his mouth shut. See, all you hairy feminists who keep sending me emails, itis possible for the Coop to be sensitive.
Back in London, I scored big-time socially this week. Sitting on top of the mail in the Cooperdome was a cool embossed invitation to a dinner party with none other than Sting, the guy from The Police. Technically, I shouldn't really like Sting as he's a full-blown hippie. Fortunately, when you meet him this is quite well disguised, so it never becomes an issue. His wife, Trudie, is really into producing movies and is trying to get a project off the ground, so she organised a schmooze event with some of the players from the UK movie world.
I go alone and leave my wallet at home as I fully expect to be hit for some cash to help some primeval tribe buy television, or whatever. To my great joy, nothing of the kind happens, but the real surprise of the evening is when the guest of honour turns out to be Madonna and her uber-dull husband, Guy. I sit opposite him, and one down from her, during the meal. He immediately starts going through a list of people we might mutually know in LA. I close him down as quickly as possible and edge my way into a conversation with Madonna. We get on real well and I tell her the whole in-law saga and she starts totally laughing. I get the feeling that there isn't that much difference between my story and hers. Some producer then kills me by telling me that, despite Guy pretending to be a gangster type, his mother is a Conservative lady. Typical Brit, reverse social shit.
One thing leads to another and I get pretty wasted. Ben dropped off some supplies at the Cooperdome and after a quick trip to the bathroom I get real talkative. Big mistake. For a while I've got the whole table's attention as I tell them about some of my exploits. I'm just starting the killer dog story when I see Guy looking at me like he's going to explode. Turns out that, despite his hard-man image, he loves animals - as does Sting's wife. The whole atmosphere changes, I just don't get you Brits and pets. I like animals, but you can't take any joke about them. I backtrack a bit and make another joke about how Guy could get his movie career back on track by doing a remake of this movie I saw when I was a kid about a gang of Dobermans that rob a bank. He takes total offence and almost starts squaring up to me over the table.
I then have the surreal experience of being saved by Madonna, who tells him to chill out, and the whole thing calms down a bit. At (fair-trade) coffee time, everyone swaps seats and I get to talk to Sting. I wade in straight away telling him that I hear that the Police are going to reform this year, which is great because I never really dug his solo stuff. I always figure, the more famous someone is, the more honest you should be with them. They are mostly surrounded by sycophants and tend to actually like someone who levels with them. I don't think that this was the case with Sting who didn't say much. I tried to backtrack a bit by telling him that I just hate jazz-type stuff full stop, so his solo stuff never really had a chance with me anyway. I think it would be fair to say that I probably won't be asked back. Who cares, though? I got cheeky when I was leaving and asked Madonna for her phone number. She laughed, I think we'd actually really get on if Bluto wasn't hanging around. As it was, he gave me a big gay look from one of his gangster movies.
It wasn't too late so I got a cab down to the Electric where most of the gang were just finishing off. Despite the law being changed recently so that bars and places can open whenever they want, hardly any do. As usual, it's pretty impossible to find anywhere after two in the morning. What's with this? Anywhere else in the world there are places open 24/7. Not in the Yookay, though. It might help to loosen you all up a bit if you went through the night occasionally. Take it from the Coop. We end up in someone's apartment in Bayswater, who claims that he's the next big thing in music. I keep quiet for a bit and let the guy bullshit on and then drop where I've been that evening. He was dead in the water. I'm not one to name-drop for the sake of it, but this was a killer blow. If someone had told me I'd be living this life 10 years ago, I'd have made them see a shrink. It's good to be the king. Cooper Out.Reuse content