I've made a really big mistake – a serious boo-boo. I signed a deal for lots of money with this Russki billionaire dude but it came with a catch – his son "Vlado" working for me as some form of glorified intern. I said yes, presuming that this asswipe would get to London, hit the brothels and the nightclubs and leave me well alone. I guess I was judging him by my own high standards?
Day one, and I saunter into the office at a leisurely 11.30am (hey, don't judge me – that's why I'm in media and you're in a suit on your way to work) and the little fuck is already in there, sitting at my desk. I tell him to get the fuck out of my office but he totally ignores me and yaks away on the phone for about half-an-hour before he gets off. My assistant, Felicia, is going mental – he has already put the moves on her and asked whether she had fake tits.
I decide to slap this cretin down from the start – show him who's boss. I walk into my office and yank the phone out of the wall, breaking the connections as I do so. "The cost of that is coming out of your pocket, kid. Now get the fuck out of my office." I feel quite tough.
"Vuck you, my father close you down in 10 zeconds you asshole." The youth slouches on my couch and turns on the TV. I'm thinking in my head whether I could just can this whole thing now? But the money is too good.
"Listen kid, why don't you go see London. Get out there and be young. Felicia will show you around." He looks vaguely interested for a moment and gives Felicia a leery stare. She doesn't notice as she's too busy giving me a drop-dead stare. Then he pulls out a huge reefer from his baggy B-Boy Puffa jacket and sparks up. I give up and leave him with Felicia. I go to the Groucho, where I set up my meetings for the day. I actually prefer doing business in the Groucho anyway as it looks a lot cooler. I shack up in the corner of the top bar, under some ridiculous Damien Hirst splatter painting. I can't believe he gets away with this shit – Victoria took me to a house party in Chelsea last week and "Britain's Greatest Living Artist" was sitting there in a velvet armchair all evening, holding court like he was the fucking Pope or something. One of these days he's going to get found out, that's all I'm saying.
Anyways, I'm having the usual meetings – people from credit-card companies who want to pay lots of money to make movies as long as they are heavily branded throughout. I've got no problem with this kind of thing – art is art, business is business. Things are going very well and I start working out how much I need to secure before I can walk back in to my office with a baseball bat and give "Vlad" a much-needed life lesson.
Then, this guy I know through Hugh Grant comes in and starts giving me top praise for punching Trinny out the other day. I've become something of a Soho celebrity for doing this. I wonder whether I should start some sort of agency where you can come and pay to get someone you hate on television punched in the mouth? I reckon that I'd make a fortune. My personal list is long enough.
This gets me thinking about Vlado again and how his father probably already owns this sort of agency, and how I'm one teenage phone-call away from a visit from them myself. I don't know how I get myself into this shit. Well, I do. It's the relentless pursuit of the mighty dollar. Hippies back on the West Coast always used to go on about following your "heart" and how you had to make decisions because they were right, not because they paid well. I always felt the exact opposite. Money makes me happy, I follow money – simple shit.
Maybe... Jesus Christ, what's happening to me? Maybe... the hippies had a point? Imagine that – hippies with a point. That's what writing for this commie newspaper has done to me. It's started making me empathise with those fat fucks Ben and Jerry, the ice-cream bores. Over in another corner, Ricky Gervais is busy telling a large group of sycophants how modest and humble he is – REALLY LOUDLY. Money has certainly made him happy – it's just the rest of us that have had to suffer. I almost ask him whether he wants an intern. Vlad and he deserve each other.
After a good working day at The Groucho, I pop back in to the office on the way to The Electric. "Vlado" has set up an Xbox 360 in my office and is playing this racing game with some strange chick with magnificent breasts. Felicia has gone home early and she's left a note: "Either he goes, or I go..." I love Felicia, she's the first classy chick I've employed and I have long-term plans to bang her, so there's no way I'm letting her go on account of this Russian scumbag. I need a plan. There's only one person to call in these circumstances – the Revengemeister himself, Ben.
We meet up at the Electric and start tucking into the Mojitos. I explain my problem and Ben laughs like a demented hyena. I realise that it is kind of funny and relax. That's why I like Ben – he just doesn't give a shit about anything. He quickly comes up with a fabulous plan to ditch my Slavic hanger-on and keep the Russki's money. Ben should be Prime Minister, I think. He probably will be actually, both his uncle and his great-grandfather were. Tune in next week for plan implementation. Cooper Out.Reuse content