Wary of abuse from all you highbrows out there, I feel obliged to preface this blog with a warning: you'll find no analysis of historical fiction here, no chitchat about the history of the novel, no insights into poetry – but all of this is happening elsewhere on the site, so there's no need to panic. Instead, we're going to be talking about Jilly Cooper and why she's great – so stand aside, please, if you're unlucky or misguided enough not to have ventured into her world as yet.

I think I was about 13 or 14 when I was first inducted, courtesy of my mum's battered copy of Polo. Having (like Michelle Pauli) grown up on a diet of Pullein-Thompson and Walter Farley books, this was a whole different ball game. No more devoted children grooming their ponies to win the gymkhana: this was a horse-y book, yes, but (the crotch-clutching cover should have given it away) there was glamour and glitz, luscious heroines and well-muscled heroes. Of course there was lots of sex too, but those bits didn't really interest me – it was stroppy schoolgirl Perdita's quest for glory on the polo field that had me hooked. I've still never seen a polo match, but I know what a chukka is and bet I could talk you through the handicap system.

I mined the shelves for more. Riders, in which we're first introduced to Cooper's ultimate hero, the blond-haired, blue-eyed Rupert Campbell-Black (the television series absolutely failed to do him justice). Rivals, where Rupert's wild oat-sowing is brought to a halt when he falls for Taggie O'Hara, cloud of dark hair, big grey eyes and all. Her series of shorter novels, of which I much preferred feisty heroines Bella and Octavia, spurning the pathetic Imogen (it still makes me cross that she's told by her hero at the end, "I love you because you're kind and good and because you love me").

Cooper captivated me because I wanted to be her gorgeous heroines, because I fell in love with her sexy men (as I suspect she did), because she was funny. There's so much drama – Perdita riding into a posh fancy dress event naked as Lady Godiva, Angel bursting into a hospital to stop Bibi having plastic surgery, Emily giving herself a fake black eye with some paint to upset her errant husband. The characters (names and all) are so glamorously silly: Bas Baddingham, Chessie France-Lynch, Roberto Rannaldini. Barely a page goes by without a splendidly ludicrous pun. It's rare to see an author who is clearly having so much fun with her writing, refusing to take any of it too seriously. I've read other 80s blockbusters by the likes of Jackie Collins and they don't come close to touching Cooper. Brittle and harsh, with no warmth to them, they lack the affection that underlies Cooper's writing.

Ever since I finished our household's supply, I've waited eagerly for the latest Jilly to come out. The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (about the eccentrically named Lysander Hawkley, who does just that) was great fun, as was Appassionata (romance amongst the members of an orchestra). Score! – a murder mystery set during the filming of an opera – didn't quite stand up, on the other hand, and I didn't fall for the characters in Pandora (about the art world) either. Her latest, 2007's Wicked!, meanwhile, was set in two schools, and also failed to live up to her glorious 80s apex: schoolboy/girl passions lack the glamour of stable-bound romances.

But, but, but! I arrived home from holiday yesterday to glean long-awaited details about her newest book, Jump!, which is out next month and – hurrah – goes back to what Jilly has always done best: horses. It's set in the world of jump racing ("Back in the saddle..." trumpets the cover; "the rest is horse-story …" adds the press release) and follows the story of Etta Bancroft – widowed, in her 60s, but still beautiful – who rescues a badly injured racehorse and ends up entering her in the Grand National.

I know perfectly well I'll be spending a dedicated couple of days buried in it once I get my hands on a copy. The writing might sometimes be schlocky, there may be occasional overdoses of ravishing beauties, coltish legs, buckets of champagne, and – yes – puns but the fact remains that no one writes a better bonkbuster than Jilly Cooper. I still go back for a Rivals reread if I'm feeling particularly exhausted or miserable: it's comfort literature of the highest order. And you're not allowed to criticise if you haven't read her.