So much stuff has happened to me in the last month that it feels like all the reborn crap that Victoria's yoga teacher keeps ranting on about. The shit-storm at Victoria's parents last weekend was pretty intense, but I do think the worst might well be over on that front. Now they know the facts and that the Cooperman is here to stay, I think they'll just slip into that weird, British, don't-show-your-emotions mask and hopefully we can just roll on with the rest of our lives ignoring the problems.
I frickin' hope so. I need all the stability I can get on the home front right now because the verdict in my court case with the Tory lord comes in this week. If it goes his way then I'm going to be in all kinds of crap. My barrister thinks that it's 50-50 but he also thinks that the Japanese are still at war with Britain, so God only knows. The one certainty is that now I'm to be a father to a half-English baby you can't kick me out. Hooray!!
I'm also getting quite a lot of pressure on the work front. Some worm that I knew way back when in LA wrote a letter to this newspaper last week, claiming that I'd been fired from Paramount in the States for "financial fraud". This is total bullshit. The reason that this low-life wrote the letter was that I once (twice actually) boned his girlfriend on a studio weekend in Carmel. The financial incident he talked about in the letter related to a location fee that I'd paid to use Dennis Hopper's bunker-like house on Venice Beach for a pilot we'd commissioned.
This guy is still clearly fuming that I humped his girl and wanted to cause me hassle over here. He'll be getting a letter from my lawyers when they've finished with Lord Haw-Haw.
Another problem is that my big boss over here was shown the letter and has now clearly started reading my column. Apparently, he's unhappy with the whole image that it gives off. Well you know what? Screw you. This is me, The Cooperman. I don't need any goddam job that wants me to pretend to be something else than what I am. If you're reading this, Tim: show some frickin' cojones, get out of your penthouse office and come down and talk to me about any problems you have rather than filtering them through e-mail or your gay assistant.
I've got so much stuff happening right now, the court case, babies, marriage, work, columns, my neighbours (who are trying to get me evicted because I happen to have a social life - listen, if you want to go to bed at 8pm, fine. Just don't expect everyone else to run their lives by your timetable, OK?).
Anyway, I feel like I'm burning the candle at both ends right now and everything's a little fraught. Fortunately for me, when a man is in a tight spot, he needs a good friend. I have the best, Ben. He came round last night with a little bit of what I needed and we partied like it was 1999. Totally loaded, we took the Quattroporte out for a spin on the deserted Westway. Admittedly this wasn't a smart thing to do but it was frickin' awesome. It reminded me of one of my heroes, PJ O'Rourke, driving a Ferrari across the States with a kilo of coke on the dash. It's what I need right now, some adventure, some reckless, mindless hedonism. I need to get out of Britain and do something totally different for a week or so, get my mind off things.
A while back, I met Pete Doherty, the singer and his crew. They're off to Morocco for a 10-day session (musical or otherwise) and Ben and I are going to join them. Ben's uncle has got this huge palace thing in Marrakech, so we'll base ourselves there and dip in and out of the party. (If we stayed with the rest of them, I'd be dead by Tuesday.) Ben says that it's totally safe out there. This is cool as, although I want an adventure, I'm not that keen on placing myself in full suicide bomb territory. I don't want to end up splattered all over some market square by some crazed exploding street urchin. Apparently you can drink and other stuff over there without any hassle.
Victoria is pissed off that I'm going as she knows that Ben is trouble. I told her that all the chicks out there cover themselves in potato sacks. But this is supposedly not the case. I assured her that the new, improved, Cooperman Dad character is not into that sort of thing. Ben says it's irrelevant as most English who go out there go for the boys. It's all very lenient as far that type of thing goes. The bummer is that I was down to go to the Tory Conference which is supposed to be party heaven. I was going to host a fringe meeting but that will have to wait for a year. Ben says that there'll be more Tories in Marrakech than at the conference. He says that's what they're all into. Who knows - it might all turn out to be a smart political move.
I always knew I was popular with the ladies but, hey, even I'm impressed by these English chicks clamouring to slip Cooper over their hot bods. But there's always space for one more! To get your T-shirt, drop me a line at Cooper Brown, T-Shirt Offer, PO Box 55705, London E14 1AQ. Then send me a pic and, if you pass the Coop test, you could be next!