I got a parcel in the mail this week that contained a "saveloy" (a Cockney sausage, apparently) split in two. The message inside said "You're next, bald boy." According to my PA Danielle, this is a Cockney death threat. I can't think who sent it to me. Some people have suggested that I might have offended "Mr Madonna" by writing about my dinner party experiences with him and Sting in my last column. I refuse to believe it. Everyone can take a gentle ribbing from the Cooperman can't they?
For a while I was a bit suspicious as I thought it might be one of those letter bombs that are being sent round the country. Now obviously I can't condone letter bombing, but whoever is sending these things thinks a lot like the Coopster. The loony bomber hates driving authorities, congestion charging and every other stealth tax you poor bastards all put up with so meekly. If you were French, you'd be burning every sheep you could get your hands on and setting up a guillotine in every town square. Instead, you bury your heads in the sand and send stooped little exploding parcels.
Not that I care about any of this right now. I've got too many other things on my mind to worry about all your problems. We've now reached the one-month countdown to the birth of Mini-Cooper, future ruler of the world, and things are getting real crazy. Yesterday I got a rabid phone call from the father-in-law who hadn't spoken to me since the shotgun incident.
He's threatening to take me to court and have me banned from his property in the country. This crazy idiot gives his daughter and me a cottage on his estate one week and then tries to ban me from it the next. All because his own asshole son went mental and threw something through his window and let me take the rap. I hit back hard and tell him that he needs to sort his own family out before picking on new members. My problem is, until Hugo - the asshole son - turns up again, I have no way to prove my innocence. I rang the pub that we went to on the night in question and asked them to back up my story. The landlord goes all paranoid and tells me that he has to stay out of this sort of business and that he can't help me. Apparently "there are powerful forces about" that I know very little of.
I give up, ring Ben and go out on "a bender". I thought that was a word you weren't allowed to use about gays but apparently it also means a pub crawl. I'm never going to properly understand Cockney but I am getting better, someone thought I was from Wales the other day (Ben says that's something to be avoided like the plague but I was quite pleased).
Ben takes me to his stomping ground - Chelsea. With it being London Fashion Week, the place is jammed with leggy Ukrainian models and stupid looking fashion pub-crawlers in cretinous outfits. The joy of being surrounded by models is that they don't have much to pick from in the fashion world so we launched straight in. We were at the Admiral Codrington pub, where Ben says he spent most of his teens. It's such a different world down there to Notting Hill. Everyone is uber-old-money and very preppy. It's quite refreshing.
Ben tells me that a couple of the guys that we're out with were at Oxford with David Cameron. He shows me this unbelievable picture in the paper where they're all dressed up and posing for some drinking club they were in. Turns out that "Dave" was a pretty cool cat back in the day. His favourite trick was to climb on to the roof of a college called Oriel and throw "piss bombs" down on passers-by. One of the guys had a cat called Marmaduke and he provided the piss they poured into condoms. When they scored a hit, the whole gang would pull down their trousers and wiggle their asses shouting "Bums away!" I'm not sure if the guy was joking or not as he was really drunk but I can't wait to bring this up the next time I'm round at Dave's for dinner. It's so weird that anyone here gives a shit about what anyone did at college. I'd be worried if someone hadn't done anything.
Much as I don't want a frickin' Democrat in the White House: the fact that Barack Obama used to do some white lady is fantastic. We need more of that kind of politician. Imagine the parties in DC if Obama and Dave get into power? They'd be down at the Colombian embassy every night.
One serious evening is capped off when I notice Prince Harry and his floozy sitting in another corner of the bar. I nearly go over and introduce myself but Ben stops me saying it's best to play it cool. I give the Prince a nod and a wink when he looks over my way and he nods back in his silly bobble hat that he thinks makes him look anonymous!
We spent the rest of the evening with the Ukrainian chicks. The Coopster behaved himself for once. I'm in enough trouble at the moment. Ben, however, went home with three of them. Whenever I have worries about the Yoo-kay and what exactly I'm doing over here, I look at Ben and know that something has got to be right in this shithole if you produced a man like him. Cooper Out.Reuse content