I very rarely felt nervous presenting a live radio show where anything could, and often did go wrong. I interviewed prime ministers, monosyllabic councillors, defensive police chiefs and the most conceited of slippery politicians. However, what really got my palms sweating, heart racing and hands shaking were the occasions when Jilly was live on the show. Why? Because I knew she would say something outrageous that would land me in hot water with BBC management and there was nothing I could do, or wanted to do, to stop it. I had a pact with my team that I would take the entire blame but it would be worth it for the sheer entertainment value.
We bonded over our shared passion for rescued greyhounds, she loved her gorgeous Bluebell as much as I adored my two scruffy pups. The first thing she would say to me was “Darling Mark, how are Stella and Tyler?” I’ll never forget interviewing her after she caused a storm over a “fictional” location in her novel The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous. She based the antics of her randy tennis coach in a dreamy Cotswold village called Paradise not realising there is a hamlet called Paradise not too far from Bisley where she lived! The Daily Mirror sent a journalist to try and match up the characters from the book with local residents. After she recovered from the embarrassment she found it rather funny.
Book launches at “The Chantry”, her beloved Cotswold stone home, were hilarious. We would gather on her perfect striped lawn as the sound of popping champagne corks and uncontrolled laughter wafted through the valley below. She would always give a welcome speech teeming with innuendos and un-PC observations that none of us would broadcast as the mutual trust was rock solid. She once told me how much she fancied Dale Vince the owner of Forest Green Rovers and how she had a particular soft spot for the dashing left winger they had just signed. She based her novel Tackle on her local club even travelling to Wembley to cheer them on when they won a vital play-off match. She quietly supported many local causes, was a huge supporter of the Gloucestershire Wildlife Trust, and a staunch ally for local broadcasters and print journalists.
When she was inventing a name for a character in one of her novels she would occasionally use a place name. We made up a long list of local ones for her to judge and these were her favourites: Arthur Winchcombe, the grumpy landlord; Dixie Dumbleton, the village flirt; Hester Sway, the glamorous health food shop owner; Cordelia Wyck-Rissington, the efficient secretary of the local WI; and the one she loved the most, Bartholomew Cockadilly, the crusty former local newspaper editor. When you say the words “Jilly Cooper” you smile, and always will. This used to infuriate my BBC bosses who when reading me the riot act after her latest indiscretion couldn’t understand why I was sitting there with a dopey grin on my face. Jilly, you naughty, bonk busting, warm, kind soul, thanks for the smiles.