Victoria called me yesterday for the first time since the incident in Italy when I punched out a Tory lord. She was totally looped, as she's been out on the town with her friend Peanut. Every posh friend of Victoria has a weird name they got in boarding school. I've met Maggot, Womble, Melons, Pig - it's like no one can keep their real name (which is pretty fortunate as they're all actually called things like Arabella and Araminta). It's the weirdest thing.
Anyway, Victoria is on the phone and smashed after an evening slapping back pints of Cosmopolitans. This always happens when she goes out with Peanut, who appears to be under the illusion that she's some kind of sophisticated character from Sex and the City who just happens to be a nymphomaniac. She spends her whole time propping up cocktail bars in Fulham and getting into trouble. Ben boffed her after Victoria's 30th and had no complaints.
So, Victoria is crying and says that she misses the Coop and could I come and pick her up? She's stuck in Sloane Street because Peanut has gone off to do some guy who owns Yorkshire and someone has stolen her purse (from my experience, probably the same guy). I make her beg for a bit and then zoom down in the Quattroporte, take her back to the Cooperdome and give her some special care and attention. We are now officially back together, but she won't let her folks know, as they would go mental. (Luckily, they're not the kind of people who'd read this newspaper as they think it's the official mouthpiece of al-Qa'ida.)
That's the good news. The bad news is that I got another letter from the Tory lord's lawyers and he is suing me for damages and trying to get my work visa cancelled. Ben says that I should try and settle out of court and pay up because this guy could get me kicked out of the country. I refuse. There's no way this asshole is going to get one over me. So, we've got a court date in a month's time where we'll go head-to-head, Boston Legal style.
I'm going to do my own defence but I'm getting a friend of Ben's, who's a barrister, to advise me. He says that I should start a petition from Independent readers to help keep me in the UK. I'd really appreciate as many letters of support as possible and I'll pile them up on my desk in front of the judge. It shouldn't take too many before the guy can't even see me! I really appreciate the support because this old guy has powerful friends and little Coop's all on his own over here.
Something that might help me in the long run: following my dinner party with the Tory leader David Cameron last week, I got a call from some woman in his office asking me whether I'd be interested in being part of some media and culture think-tank for the party. I was totally knocked out by the request and accepted immediately. I'm now an official opinion-former, and on my way to joining your Establishment (as well as punching out some of the older members). If my class at Berkeley could only see me now! Who knows - if I do well, maybe I'll become a lord! Imagine that. Lord Cooper Brown. Victoria says that when you become a lord you normally call yourself after somewhere you're from. I'm from a little hippie town in Northern California called Eureka. How about Lord Eureka! Got a kind of cool ring to it, hasn't it?
I hereby promise that if I become a lord, I will bring back fox-hunting, as I definitely want to do some of that stuff. The chicks in jodhpurs thing, it's right up Cooper's alley, and there's a lot of testosterone flying about. I don't really get the deal with it being illegal, because the two times I've been down to Victoria's parents in Wiltshire, they're all doing it. Last time I was allowed down, when I was still socially acceptable, there were about 200 people on horseback and about 600 following the pack. It was great when they eventually got the fox after a slight misunderstanding with a couple of local cats - the dog pack ripped the fucker apart. It was like feeding time in Baghdad. Ben says that it's actually made the whole thing much more popular. It's kind of underground now. Whatever, it's such a cool way to give Tony Blair the bird.
As part of my new think-tank project, I'm going to think of things that are really lame and make them illegal so that they can have a resurgence. First off - and I know I'm going to make a lot of enemies here - I'd make cricket illegal. Come on guys, the joke is over. A game that can last five days, everyone wears the same team shirt, and still be a draw? This thing needs a real kick up the ass.
I'd also ban alcohol so that your city streets are safe from all the drunken "chavs", as Ben calls them, who hurl abuse at the Cooperman as he's coming out of the Groucho Club late at night. I would make it legal to drink in private clubs, speakeasy-type places etc. That way, the people who can appreciate and handle drinking wouldn't be affected and it would develop a type of cachet. Meanwhile, the "chavs" (what is that word?) would have to stop drinking bottles of alcoholic pop and get back to work.
Cooper for Prime Minister! Only joking, I don't think I'm allowed to be, although your greatest-ever Englishman, Winston Churchill, was half-American! I've been told by the powers that be at the paper to mix up my column a little bit and inject a little more serious stuff, so I hope it didn't bore you, but let them know and the Cooperman will respond. Cooper out.