Forget altos, contraltos and sopranos in heat. Opera is for wimps - even if it gives you a chance to tart yourself up. A la Cooper it's about undressing too, of course, though this isn't her usual racy romp that will see you through steamy candlelight bath times without getting a page wet. It's a wordy, weighty discourse about the filming of Verdi's Don Carlos in a spooky 14th century abbey called Valhalla in the heart of her favoured Rutshire. Even if you're only semi tone-deaf, you'll want to nod off here, which is why the foreplay begins with giddy characterisation that is presumably tongue-in-cheek. It's got to be with the likes of Cheryl, the "tree and social climber" and the, er, glamorous, Pushy Galore, not to mention our resident Russian, Mikhail.
But centre stage - or page - is Roberto Rannaldini, celebrity composer and horizontal jogger extraordinaire. His treasured godson, Tristan, is making the film with a hysterical cast of wannabes wanting to bed him.
It's pro dog, kind of horsey, and the lingo is offbeat. Instead of "thanks" it's "fanks very much". It can be tough too with sexual assault, cancer and broken hearts lurking about, and all too crude - who on earth wants to be Belsen-thin? I kid you not.
But back to basics. Rannaldini is murdered and so the book canters off in the direction of a whodunnit without ever really making it. Not that it matters with multiple orgasms and acres of cliches, and puns. It's not a novel for stretching the brain cells, but it is funny in parts, and even, intermittently, absorbing. I brought it to the hairdressers. That's about its level. I don't mean to denigrate the crimpers. After all, Jilly Cooper needs highlights too. Just look at the back cover . . .