She won't be long!!!!!!!!!!!!

The beads of sweat glisten on Xavier’s forehead, his steely glare fixes on the eyes of his opponents. For a moment, he drifts away to an earlier time. A time when his sport was played for fun, in the backstreets of his youth. He played for joy, for love. And for fun. And love. Back then he played for nothing. Back then…

Jean-Michel jumped into his gleaming red Maserati, flicked the ignition, and was gone.

Another date, another top model. Her name was Almanac Pesticide, the latest in a long line of North African models working for The Heller Agency.

He mustn’t be late. 8pm was the pick up, his agent the legendary Alain Scirocco arranged the date. What a coup, the world’s number one model and the highest paid racing driver in the world out together. The paparazzi will be out in force.

Jean-Michel takes the lift to her apartment, Floor 135, Studio B. He reaches the door and presses the buzzer, his iron like finger presses long and hard. The buzzer buzzes….buuuuuuzzzzzzz.

Suddenly, the solid oak door opens. The photos didn’t lie, she is as beautiful as he thought she would be, if a little shorter. And fatter.

She smiles, her teeth gleaming like a freshly polished milk bottle. He smiles back, his smile not as gleaming as hers, but gleaming abit. They look at one another and smile abit harder, more desperate. The awkward silence is broken by the sound of Roy Walker in the background. She’s got Sky+ on, a Catchphrase repeat.

‘I love Catchphrase me’, she says, in broken English.

‘Yeah, I do an’ all’ replies Jean-Michel. ‘It’s good innit’.

‘Yeah’ she replies.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks.

‘What?’ comes the reply.

‘Tch. I said ‘Can I come in?’’

‘Yes, come in’ replies Almanac.

Jean-Michel strides confidently into her apartment, his muscles rippling beneath his tight fitting chinos.

‘Can I use your toilet please?’ he asks as he grimaces and clutches his winkle. ‘I need a wee-wee”.

‘Sure, no problem’ replies Almanac. ‘It’s through the hall”. She then points to the hall.

Jean-Michel follows her fingers with his eyes.

‘Thanks’ he says. ‘I’m bursting. I think I need a plop as well, I’ve got diarush’.

‘Oh. Well open the window when you’ve done’ purrs Almanac exotically.

Jean-Michel strides confidently to the toilet, turns quickly. His long flowing blonde hair shines like a blonde car in the artificial light of her apartment. He runs his fingers through his hair.

‘I’ll not be long’. He says. He locks the door and turns quickly, effortlessly. His every movement like a cobra. With blurring speed he pulls down his trousers and pants and sits on the toilet. With one violent thrust he lets rip.

Meanwhile, Almanac Pesticide sits on her sofa. Her long African legs stretching out before her. She oozes confidence. 6 feet 7 inches of pure beauty. The desire of every man, beyond the grasp of all but one.

She reaches down to itch her leg. ‘Ouch’ she cries, as she knocks the head off a scab. ‘Fucking ‘ell’. A trickle of blood runs down her leg. Then a steady flow. Then loads. It’s pissing out. Then it stops.

Suddenly the toilet flushes. It’s Jean-Michel. He’s finished. The door opens. Like a vision he appears. A little bit red and flushed of face.

‘Thank Christ for that’ he says. ‘I nearly shit mesen’.

‘Have you flushed?’ purrs Almanac. ‘Am not ‘avin’ that int house’.

‘Of course baby’ replies Jean-Michel, ‘…of course’.

Almanac stands up. 6 feet plus of perfection. She moves effortlessly towards the door. ‘Shall we go?’ she asks. ‘I’m getting hungry’.

‘Of course baby, of course’ replies Jean-Michel. Then he looks at her funny. She doesn’t notice.

They stride confidently towards Jean-Michel’s car. In silence. She seems impressed. But a little worried. Is she too tall and leggy for the car? He presses the automatic door release. The door opens.

‘Jump in’ he says.

Ms Pesticide climbs into the car. Her worst fears are confirmed. She’s too tall for the supercar; her head is touching the roof, causing her to lean sideways.

‘Christ’ she purrs. ‘Stupid fucking car’.

‘You what?’ enquires Jean-Michel.

‘Nowt. I dint say owt!’, replies Almanac.

‘Tha did! It’s not car that’s stupid, it’s thee. You stupid lanky get!’.

‘Or fuck off you queer’ replies Almanac, seductively.

They look at one another and smile sarcastically. They head towards the restaurant in silence. Jean-Michel turns towards Almanac.

‘Almanac’ he says. ‘Have you got monk on?’.

‘Have I chuff!’ came the reply.

‘Or….reight’.

The restaurant is crowded. Jean-Michel and Almanac stride confidently through, past the star-struck diners. A hush settles on the room. The diners can hardly believe their eyes. The worlds most famous couple in the world, dining together...hmmmm.