First, the good news. Malik, the man who went MIA on my surprise stag in Prague, has turned up. He'd been in a police cell in a suburb of the city and had to share it with a Swiss dude who'd taken a permanently mind-altering amount of hallucinogenics on a weekend away with his grandparents. Apparently the guy spent the whole time pretending to be a chicken and was a stickler for crapping on the cell floor. Malik, understandably, was not in the best of shapes, and has probably reassessed his views on drinking on airplanes. Who said prison doesn't work?
Back in the real world, however, chaos reigns. We are now eight days and counting until the Coop becomes a married man and women around the world weep. I imagine it'll be a little like Valentino's funeral, where chicks hurled themselves in the path of the cortège and several even killed themselves.
Speaking of heart-throbs, I got a lovely letter from Dave Cameron, who can't make the big day but sent his best wishes. I'd have been happy if the lovely Samantha had come on her own, but they are off to visit someone who is sick in Scotland... I thought everyone was sick in Scotland. They certainly looked sick when I went there. I left a message with Dave's office, saying that the invite was still open should plans change and that Minnie Driver (who has agreed to sing on the day) was really keen to meet him. I think Minnie has a crush on Dave, as she always gets excited when I mention him. That would be a result – Dave cops off with Minnie Driver and I get Samantha for a weekend as a kind of wedding present. I can only dream...
The Himmlers, my future in-laws, are near boiling point. Mr Himmler is now obsessing over which wines to serve at the lunch. He has spent several days in Berry Bros trying almost everything in their extensive cellars, as it's "really important to get it just so..." With the amount he has consumed in the past week, it's doubtful he'll actually make the day itself. More ominously, Mrs Himmler has gone on the wagon, preparing herself for the festivities. This means she will totally implode on the day as she drinks her own body weight in booze. Victoria has taken the unusual step of having all the bathroom doors in the house removed and stored in the grange. She is convinced her beloved mother will do one of her hysterical locking-herself-in-the-bathroom-and-threatening-suicide showdowns.
Me personally? I'm going Pablo all day and ignoring everyone else. It's the only way to deal with stuff of this magnitude. I'll watch the DVD in a couple of years and try to appreciate it all then.
To take my mind off things I've actually been going to work quite a bit recently. Things are rosy in media – it's one of the joys of recession, everybody needs to be entertained and so the money still flows in our industry. I've taken on a couple of corporates, as they are big money-earners for very little work.
One big company wants a classy documentary-style "profile" piece on their CEO, who is a total asswipe. We're supposed to follow him around for a couple of days as he does great things and mingles with the "upper echelons of London society", as their PR idiot put it. It's like following a provincial mayor around – his contacts are so low-rent and dull. Worse still, he has the single most unattractive hairstyle since Donald Trump. He has a kind of "reverse comb-over", so that what little hair he has is swept upwards and plastered to his fat skull.
Obviously it was suggested that I speak to him about a bit of a makeover, but he thought I was just some evangelical bald guy who wants everyone else to be like me. He was in total denial – it was hilarious. I ended up telling him that I agreed with him and that he should stick to his guns. What do I care? The guy is paying me shitloads to make him a laughing stock... I guarantee that his share price will plummet when this thing is seen. As long as I'm paid, however, it's not my concern.
I took him to The Electric and filmed him sitting in there having a fake meeting with a couple of people from the PR firm, who were pretending to be big venture capitalists. It was hilarious – the CEO looked like a fish out of water in such cool surroundings, and the two PR guys were literally making up shit. I told them that the sound wouldn't be used and that it would have a music soundtrack, but I'm going to put some of it in – I can't resist.
I still think I should make Dave Cameron's election "movie" – I'd rock the house. He won't go for it, though – he's too safe nowadays. He can smell No 10, and nothing is going to get in his way. Steve Hilton (his PR adviser) and I never clicked. Now he's fucked off to Silicon Valley because his wife is more successful than him, I think I'll have more access to Dave. How cool is it, that I know the future prime minister? Little Coop is becoming a bigger and bigger fish in the UK.
Eight days to go until I become proper landed gentry – what a headfuck. Keep the cheques coming in – you've been more than generous, including the kind reader who sent £100 "so that you can fuck off home". Lovely thought... Cooper Out.Reuse content