So, the moment this week began, I had to unleash "Project Vlado"– Ben's amazing plan to rid me of the awful Russian intern I have, without my production company losing his Dadski's money.
Ben was really trashed when we discussed my Eastern "problem", but the solution came easily to him – somehow, it was like he'd done it before. Of course, Ben being Ben, it turned out that he had used this plan before, quite a few times, and once to a member of the current Tory Shadow Cabinet. Apparently, it never fails.
First I had to meet up with "Phil", a fellow follower of Chelsea soccer club whom Ben knows from the terraces. It seems that the answers to most of life's little problems lie on the Chelsea terraces, and "Phil" did not disappoint. We met in the car park of a gas station in Hammersmith. I took the Quattroporte and "Phil" arrived in a blacked-out Audi 4x4. Two minutes in his car and I had handed over £500 and received a little wrap of thick, gungy powder that "Phil" told me would "do the business".
The next part of the plan was a trip to my office where, sure enough, Vlado was installed, playing a racing game on his Xbox 360. He grunted as I entered but refused to give up my desk space. I, however, was as calm as somebody on a shitload of Xanax. I knew that this was to be my last day with this mutant hassling me, and I felt very good about things. I pretended to get on with some stuff before casually asking Vlado what he was up to that evening.
"I go Mayfair, drink, vuck, party..." I nodded like this was my normal Monday evening, and pretended to be a bit upset.
"That's a shame, because I've got these super hot tickets and wanted to show you the real London..." Vlado's stoned little eyes lit up for a second, but he quickly returned to unimpressed mode.
"Vot the vuck would you do that vould be hot, grandvather?"
"Oh, nothing... just some all-access tickets to a secret fashion gig... loads of hot models and free champagne all night..." I picked up the phone to start inviting other people.
"Vot???? Fashion parties rock, plenty easy woman..." The Soviet fish had bitten and I started reeling in. Ten minutes later and we had agreed that he would join me at the Groucho for a couple of drinks before we hit the pussy palace. I rang Ben to tell him that the trap was sprung and that we were green-light go.
"Leave the rest to me, Coops. The little shit has 24 hours max left in Albion." Ben makes me so calm about stuff – so calm that I took poor Felicity out for a great lunch at Scott's, where she got totally smashed and very flirty. I longed to tell her that Vlado was history, but couldn't, so I just parried her constant demands to get rid of him.
That evening, I settled down in my favourite Groucho corner and waited for Vlado. He wasn't late, and he turned up wearing some hideous Gucci black suit that was made even worse by the bright yellow sneakers and piano tie that he sported, seemingly without any irony. It actually made his normal "street" gear look quite restrained.
"So vee are up for big pussy action, huh?" I grinned in a totally fake way and hoped that Ben would hurry up and get here so we could get cracking.
After an excruciating wait, when I had to pretend to be friends with this douchebag to lots of people that I really like, Ben showed and it was time to go. Ben took Vlado to the men's room for some Pablo, and I took the opportunity to pour the contents of Phil's envelope into his beer. When Vlado returned, all chatty and wankerish, he quickly downed the beer, and a few more. Twenty minutes later, he was starting to get woozy. Half an hour later, he was barely conscious. We ushered him out of the club and into a waiting car.
After 10 minutes we were in the basement bedroom of a nearby hotel. Ben had organised two frightening-looking gentlemen in small rubber thongs and impressive moustaches to meet us there. Vlado was quickly stripped naked and we let the "gentlemen" get on with their business as Ben snapped away on a little digital Leica. Less than an hour after the drug was administered, we were gone, leaving Vlado to wake up in a strange room with a couple of curious pains for his troubles.
The next morning there was no sign of him in the office as I prepared to place a delicate call to Moscow. I spoke to his father and, after some pleasantries, informed him that we had some "problems" with Vlado. I told him that we'd received information from a friendly club owner who wanted to spare us any embarrassment, and that he might want to look at an email I'd just sent him containing some interesting photographs.
Five minutes later, The Russki was back on the phone in quite a state. I told him that it was probably a phase and that things would probably work themselves out and that we could deal with the photographs for a reasonable pay-off to the club manager.
This was Ben's genius – not only were we going to get rid of the little asswipe, but we were going to make a tidy little profit as well. It was actually hitting the Russki with a classic KGB honey-trap, but it did the business. A very shaken Vlado came in yesterday to collect his things and got the next plane out of Dodge. On top of that, we got a very nice little "donation" to the Electric/Pablo fund. The Russki thinks that we saved him a lot of trouble and can't do enough for us. Britain needs more people like Ben. Cooper Out.Reuse content