Constant catch up with Quilla: Me, my mystery footballer, the truth.

Putting the ‘art’ into pop tart.

“My pre-emptive strike against the Morloch empire and Mrs [bleep]”…. a Quilla Constance exclusive to la bouche. 

pics: Below by Simon Richardson, all others by Andrew Crowe

Bonjour Bouchers! I have been spending a lot of time holed up in my country home recovering from my breast operation. Until, last week, that is…

Part 1 Meeting the man, handled by God.

LB: Tell us how it’s all got goin QC

QC: I was taking tea, scones and cocktails at my usual table in Fortnum and Mason last week feeling slightly sore following my breast reduction surgery.

Oh, did I say slightly sore?…. ****ing agony more like. So I was F+M-ing to get relief, and plenty of it.

numnumnum..aaaahhhh…numnumnum……comfort eating Quilla style …numnumbelch…that was the way I was goin’ ….

…so I gorged on mountainous, ice-cream filled jammy scones, slurped buckets of lapsang souchong tea and quaffed a bunch of idiotically monickered cocktails.

‘Sex with a leech’… ‘Bloody fairy’….. ‘Savoy corpse’….. ‘Singapore Bling’… and so on until staggering toward my favourite drink-athon finale, ‘Moanhatton’

In a haze, I mused on the success of the operation as the tearoom threatened to spin out of control.

Then the ship settled…. all became clear….

The surgeon had accidentally made a significant, magnificent contribution to the costume design [see photos]…. check the outfit featuring two white lacy chest titfers.

The next step was obvious and I needed to explore it.

Down and in… not up and out….that’s the way!

Get ’em off! …these words, of course, having a particular resonance with my former misdemeanors.

Breast concavity surgery? Could this be the antichrist of the implant? From incubus to sucubus so to speak?

The procedure would involve cutting 2 beautiful symmetrical depressions either side of the sternum and into my chest.

Thinking on though, I realised that it might not catch on. For one thing it would make you a little short of breath.

Not good when you’ve got something to say, arguments to have, protests to stage, mud to sling etc…

The prospect of a life twittering and trolling in cyberland hammering the keypad as my only outlet did not appeal.

Toooooo dull for me my hearties.

A way around this would be to investigate an alternative lung ventilatory system, perhaps a bit like a bird’s?

I dunno.

Sounds a bit fiddly and far fetched. Y’ get me?!!!

A GM chest? No way baby…no thanks!! Must be joking…..

The idea was already waning when he walked in….

 

Napoli and Argentinian legend, drug fuelled maestro, portly dribbling messiah….just a few of the superlatives cascading through my cerebral cortices.

“Como eres tu?” croaked the squat moustachio’d figure in front of me.

The short legs, light blue+white shirt, the manic stare and the cry of “¡Avante!…. Gooaaalll !!!” had been immediate give-aways of course, as he frolicked through the diners and swerved past the maitre de toward me.

Just who was this footballing genius-madman whose handling in the penalty area was all the talk in women’s washrooms from Buenos Aires to Shoreditch? 

Well, I can not reveal of course, as I am gagged at present by a super injunction. 

But anyway, here my mystery man was, let’s call him ‘D’ in the flesh at Fortnum’s and in front of me….staring!….intently!!….. Yikes!!!

 

LB: Tell us more, tell us more….

QC: He murmured, “Yo hablo D ¿tienes un espejo”

“Sí señor” I said and passed him the mirror I’d been bursting my spots onto not 2 hours earlier.

They’d since dried out to form small, seemingly decorative, crustules on the surface of the glass.

“su crujiente…porque?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

He looked so cute so I took it back, scraped off the encrusting supurations and passed it back gingerly.

I was astonished to see what happened next.

D, right there in broad daylight, chopped out 2 lines of charlie drake onto my spot mirror.

Then he grabbed the straw from my Moanhattan, inserted it brain-wards, bent forward and took in a great swooping nostrilful of Columbian self-raising sherbert.

“scccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhlooooooop ckckckckckckkkkkkkkk….aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh !!!” snorted his sinuses.

The resultant sound reverberated around the room from coaster to doily, cake to cupcake, trinket to champagne flute and causing a minor Tsunami in my cocktail on its way.

I couldn’t believe it.

The entire room went still.

After a few startled moments, one by one, slowly, but as surely as a pack of lemmings jumping off a cliff, all of the diners turned to look disapprovingly toward table 8.

Accompanied by a cry of “quieres venir conmigo?” he invited me to join him, oblivious to the outrage of Fortnum’s affronted rich, famous, powerful and their attendant slaves.

I responded: “Yo no hago las drogas D.”

I glanced at the window, only to see the paparazzi peering in from outside. Were they beginning to sniff a sensational story in the making??? Who could possibly have tipped them off??

“No, estoy machacado ya, de seguir adelante y llenar su boca arriba.” I whispered into his furry left ear, suspecting that the table was bugged.

This roughly translates as: “No, I’m mashed already, you go ahead and fill your face up.”

He promptly vacuumed up the powder, and asked for my number.

Somehow I found his cheeky, bad-boy, “I don’t care what you think, I’m ‘muy rico’ you slags so f*** you” demeanor strangely compelling. I was hooked!!

So, seduced by a tried and trusted ‘girl meets bad boy’ scenario, I promptly gave him my number, landline, address, twitter account, FB page, vital statistics, favourite gemstone, a small instruction booklet entitled: ‘Top 100 gowns I’d like to own’ by QC, a Quilla Constance limited edition bottle of Parfum Fiquelle and my bank details.

He grinned, packed his man bag and with an “adiós….hasta luego hermosa”, and pole vaulted out of the room leaving me shaken and stirred. What a mover!

LB: So, did he phone or text?

QC: The opening text was quite innocuous: “¿cómo estás”. Not being fluent in Spanish, I clicked on my Google translator app ..”muy bien, gracias” I tweeted innocently into cyberland..

His next messsage was the more racy, slightly less formal: “¿Cómo es su bebé culo?” [which translates as: how is your ass baby?]

I told him that it was much further from the floor than his and that he could “mear fuera” [p*** off] with his testosterone-driven salacious chat.

Undeterred, D pressed on…. and on….. tapping furiously, sauce upon sauce, filth upon filth through the ether until I was swooning and moist with desire.

My mobile had never bleeped and vibrated so much. It had become a regular fire hazard. So I removed all combustibles and stroked my keypad crazy…. I just had to meet this horny little critter again!!

A few days later, UPS delivered a package to my mayfair apartment.

The concierge brought the parcel to my room.

WTF was this? I tore the paper off.

The mahogany, rectilinear cuboid measuring precisely 23cm tall by 50cm square gleaming in front of me seemed such a strange gift.

Strange, that is, until D appeared at my door dressed in full Barcelona strip, regular number ten, randy legs a-twitching and raring to go…….

“mi trampolín, mi trampolín de amor”

With his unmistakeable husky croak and that trademark world cup stare, the dirty D would have to be kept on a tight leash for sure – otherwise he might sprain his ankle falling off the block during our lovemaking.

Over the next 3 weeks we were inseparable….thanks to the leash and his stash of viagra.

Eventually, we were released by my butler on his return from holiday. “Tea, m’lady?” enquired Snuffington……discretion being the better part of my valet as ever.

After taking tea together, D decided it would be best to lay low for a while and then left amidst a flurry of pappysnapping. We spoke on the ‘phone everyday for hours on end about this, that and the other.

The notorious pap-snap outside Fortnums had done it for our relationship though. All over the tabloids. Daily.

It occurred to D that our ‘phones must have been hacked by Morloch’s number one news feeder himself, Glenn Mulch-Hair.

There seemed to be so much intimate detail out there in tabloid land. Redtop headlines screamed: “D steps up!”, “Hand of God in the penalty area!” and “Gotcha!”

The block, his tackle, the leash, the texts, the tweets, entire telephone conversations, the live video feeds….all seemed to indicate that we must have been under surveillance. D was upset.

A single episode in Fortnums, 3 days of ‘bouncy castles’ and endless mobile ‘phone calls…..just the 2 of us…..there was no way details could have leaked out to the gutter press?

Or was there….?……I didn’t have the heart to tell D about my team of hackers, spies, rackateers and vagabonds nor about my DPhil in Security, Hacking and Information Technology.

He was just grist to my mill..”grano para mi molino”… so to speak.

I wanted his cash, his body, his abilty to feint, dribble, shuffle and shiffle…

….but I got more than I bargained for.

LB: Sounds like the end of part one QC?

QC: Cue ad break then: “Looking for something cool, cutting edge and in your face? Popalong to ‘Maison Twenty @ Harvey Nicks’ and spoil yourself with one of my tees. You deserve it. Being spoilt that is.”

Next time in LB: Hand of God made my baby! Quilla’s family planning dilemma.

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3 Comments

Filed under Art, Constant Catch up, Music, Uncategorized

3 responses to “Constant catch up with Quilla: Me, my mystery footballer, the truth.

  1. Brilliant. Freakin hilarious!

  2. Kush

    Nice ‘titfers’

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