The cost of repairing the flood at the Cooperdome is quite crippling but you don’t see international aid agencies coming to my rescue. Cooperman is having to deal with this crisis on his own as Victoria has decamped to the country with H-F. I hopped into the Quattroporte and zoomed down to try and get some sympathy sex.
The moment she metmeat the door of the cottage however, I realised it had been a wasted trip. She was in a foul mood and any action was definitely not going to happen. She was in a grump because Mulligan had come round and spent three hours in the kitchen talking about “the world” despite there being no evidence he had ever left the county. Mulligan feels that we are on the wrong track with getting rid of Gaddafi.
He thinks that when he’s gone we’re going to be left with a country full of “religious nutters, troublemakers, suicide bombers. You need a hard man like Gaddafi to keep them lot in hand – otherwise the pot boils over, and everyone spills out onto the sand”. Needless to say – Mulligan still misses the iron rule of Maggie Thatcher. Personally, I’m with him on both points but it would be suicidal for potential sex to mention this to Victoria who is going through some liberal phase after attending three lectures on world affairs by some idiot above a pub in Portobello.
She brought this pub version of Noam Chomsky back to the Cooperdome for dinner once. He made it to the first course where I announced that he would either be leaving by the front door or the first-floor window. Being a proper liberal he scuttled out of the door, leaving his anorak on the couch. I burnt it. Cooper Out.
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