Precious Williams: A Berlin encounter

A man enters a Berlin bar; he espies a beautiful woman called Precious Williams ... and decides to try his luck, for Queen and Madame Arcati ...

(The author of this piece - Kishan - has now left a comment)

Thought you might be interested to know that I bumped into none other than Precious Williams at the weekend, in a charming little vodka bar [in Berlin] where they claim to serve 42 flavous of vodka.

Of course I grilled her about Jon Snow and her newfound infamy.

Did you make it up? I asked. Did the Mail on Sunday make it all up? Is Jon Snow making stuff up?

Precious rolled her eyes at me and said: "Are you sure you don't have anything a little more interesting to talk about?"

I said: "I'm just curious, that's all. Can I buy you a drink?"

She said: No.

Later she actually bought me a drink. Some sort of Cosmo made with freshly blended imported Russian berries that she raved about.

I talked to her for about three-quarters of an hour. My motivation in hanging around was two-fold: I wanted to find out what really happened (if anything) between her and Snow and to be frank I also wanted to see if I could pull her.

I found her quite hot in real life and quite fancied her: a lot prettier than the pictures of her in the paper. Perhaps most importantly, she was wearing a skirt (or dress) so short that at one point I briefly saw her knickers (they were purple). Two very long caramel brown legs were displayed to their full advantage. I don't know about Jon Snow, but I wouldn't kick that out of bed.

All I could get out of her on the Jon Snow business was the following:

"I fucking despair of the fucking state of British newspapers. Don't they have anything meaningful to write about?"

We talked about all the non-important stories the papers print these days.

She said, "I spent nearly ten years poking my nose in other people's private lives and writing about it. Even when a PR banned me from asking an interviewee questions about his sex life, I'd still ask, because my editors made me. I was involved in a tabloid interview once with Max Beesley where we promised him copy approval and then totally reneged on our contract. What goes around comes around for sure. I'm seeing that."

I asked her if she'd ever had an affair with an A-list celebrity as opposed to the rather C-list Snow.

"Yes," she said. "But my mouth is zipped about it."

I asked: Was it with somebody you interviewed?

"It was. I used to have his poster on my wall when I was a teenager. He's a rapper. That's all you're getting from me."

I asked: Is it true you have a book deal for a memoir about you and Snow?

She quipped, "Were you sent to talk to me by the Mail on Sunday or something?"

I asked: Are you familiar with Madame Arcati?

"Oh my God!" she screamed. "You're not Madame Arcati are you? Prove you're not her!"

She looked genuinely afraid.

"If you are Arcati," she said (she pronounced it Arr-Catty. Is that correct pronunciation?), "please, please stop writing about me. I'm just an ordinary person trying to mind my own business."

Sadly despite our fairly lengthy and at times flirty chat, I couldn't get Precious to fuck me or even give me her phone number. Possibly because she was in the company of a handsome but menacing-looking Russian chap who said very little but made it clear with his facial expressions that he'd break my legs if I didn't back off.

However, Precious did buy me the aforementioned fancy drink which cost 9 euros.

"Even if you are Madame Arcati", she said as she left the bar, "I hope you have a really nice time in Berlin."

Arcati is pronounced "Ah-car-tee