Hah! I caught the lesbian who keeps slapping stickers on my Quattroporte. There's a coffee shop right opposite where I normally park, so I set up a stakeout and, seven Americanos (what else, right?) later, she turned up. She wasn't quite what I expected – she looked pretty preppy and was younger than I'd thought. I watched her walk up the road, look around and then walk back again.
She had one of those really annoying "This is not a bag, this is a piece of straw, I'm saving the world, aren't I brilliant!!!" type bags. She stuck her hand in it and pulled out some bits of paper. She pulled the back off some of them and stuck them right in the middle of my windscreen before scuttling away like the rat she clearly is.
I leapt off my stool and ran over to the car. The stickers said: "Go home, pollute your own evil country you roadhog." This carpet-muncher must have actually gone and got these made up somewhere and paid money for it. Unbelievable. How did she know that I was American?
I moved quickly on down the street after her, keeping a bit of a distance so that she wouldn't know I was following. This wasn't a case for the police – it was a case for SUPERCOOP. The car vandal turned down Chepstow Road and I was hot on her tail. She turned left and went past the Cock & Bottle pub. A hundred yards later, she turned into a road and entered a huge house. Not only was this asswipe a vandal, but she was loaded to boot. I relaxed, because now I knew where she lived, I could really think about my plan of action. Revenge was obviously the first thing on my mind, but how?
I wandered around the back to see more of the house. It was seriously huge and had a big garden. I couldn't understand why this freak, who lives three streets away from me, was targeting my Quattroporte for such particular abuse. I needed to know whether it was an attack on me or just on any nice cars in the neighbourhood. The thing was, she knew I was American, so it had to be personal. I was pretty sure that I didn't know her – maybe she was an Indy reader? Having read some of the abuse launched at me in letters and emails recently, I wouldn't put anything past you bastards. You just can't accept that I'm a successful American coming over here and telling you all about it. Well, guess what? Hard cheese, as Ben always says. I'm here to stay.
Anyway, back to the story. I waited for about half an hour and was about to head home when she comes out of her house again. Before I can do anything, she gets into a really expensive Range Rover Vogue parked in the street. I was fuming – those things EAT gas, and she dares to hassle me for stuff...
My plan was formed, though. I waited until she went and then hailed a cab up to Notting Hill. I went into the photocopying place and asked them whether they could make REALLY sticky stickers for me. They looked a touch puzzled but said that, yes, they could. I ordered 100 stickers in bright red with black writing and went to Kensington Place for a celebration lunch while they printed them up.
Michael Winner was in there and I had to wait 20 minutes for a table because he'd commandeered one for four all to himself. I nearly went over and let him have it, but I had other things on my plate and decided to behave. After a great lunch of roast partridge and bread sauce (your only really decent contribution to global cuisine), I returned to the photocopy place. The long-haired student behind the desk handed me a bag and asked me what I was going to do with them. I told him to mind his own business and get a haircut, and I was gone.
I was feeling really good, actually. There's nothing like a good plan when it comes together. I sat on a bench and inspected my stickers. "Vote Bush for a third term – make the world a safer place." I actually chuckled to myself out loud and realised that I must look like a loon-ball. I hailed another cab and headed back down to the Grove. I got out at the Cock & Bottle and peered round the corner. The Range Rover was back and parked in the same place. I looked around, nobody, I got to work. By the time I was finished, the machine looked like a Republican Party golf cart. One woman walked past me as I was working, but she just tut-tutted in that "don't want to get involved but you're a monster" type of Brit way. I took a few steps back to admire my handiwork and then hotfooted it into the Cock & Bottle for a celebratory drink or six.
I sat by the window and waited for my quarry. It didn't take long. A neighbour walked past and then rang her doorbell to inform her of the situation. She came out and went totally ballistic. I couldn't hear anything, but it was like watching a great silent movie. I don't think I'll be getting any more hassle from this particular protagonist. Oh, and just in case she is an Indy reader: don't mess with the Coop – you'll always end up in second place. Cooper out.
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