Archive for April, 2011

April 29, 2011

Ironically, the District Line is chock-a-block with Jerry


April 29, 2011

Livid! The wife managed to inveigle her way into the Abbey! She arrived at the steps at the same time as Her Majesty who apparently tipped a wink to the lackey on the door. Consequence – she had a prime seat inbetween the Duchess of Greenford and Mr Bean. While Yours Truly had a wretched pint in a pub in Old Queen Street surrounded by rowdy colonials


April 29, 2011

I am writing a stiff letter to Her Majesty! My invitation still hadn’t arrived this morning, so I got my man to drive me and the good lady wife to the Abbey anyway. Parking was a nightmare as the Oi Polloi were milling around in their unwashed thousands. I hopped out, while they looked for a parking space, only to find my way into the Abbey barred by a bobby! Now, usually, I yield to no-one in my admiration for Our Boys In Blue and the difficulties they have with the riff-raff – particularly of the left – with whom they have to deal. But this young constable – hair over the collar and more than a hint of a five o’clock shadow – was particularly uncouth in his conversation with me. Me! A knight of the realm, a best-selling author whose taxes pay his wages, and a close personal friend of the Late Queen Mother, God Bless Her. The upshot was I was bundled rather roughly away, despite my explanation about my gall baldder, and told that ‘I should stick with the punters, outside, Granddad!’ I have never been so insulted. To add insult to injury, I see they allowed in that fat minstrel with the wig and what he no doubt calls his ‘personal secretary.’ Not to mention that creepy oik, Clegg. All I can say is ‘harrumph!’ .

My life

April 28, 2011

I have now – as of today – written 274 book; novels, biographies, military history, political treatises, while others are just thoughts from old Stirling’s noggin transcribed directly to the page for the edification of all of a similar bent!

But why no autobiography, Sir Desmond, readers have clamoured en masse? For a start, my life isn’t over yet! An autobiography now would be like King Lear without the final act. I have no intentions of visiting that Final County yet! So much still to do; adventures to have, books to write, beautiful women to kiss (it’s alright, the trouble& strife doesn’t read this!)  – and frankly, I refuse to leave this world without making sure that my beloved Blighty is well and truly safe from the Bolshies with their unions and welfare and free health-care for all nonsense.

I have enjoyed a fascinating life which will enthrall all of my readers, but the problem is that some of it is still terribly sensitive. The war years – and my contribution to them – are still covered by the Official secrets Act. (However, my 1954 novel The Man Who Single-handedly Won World War II gives the general gist). Also, my involvement in the downfall of communism and the removal from office of a Well-Known politician are still tricky subjects for public consumption.

My love life too has been incendiary, to say the least!. I have been married for 57 years, although not always to the same woman! I was always a faithful husband – despite what the bitches claimed  – but in-between marriages I enjoyed myself the way a newly-divorced chap and world-famous writer should. I was fortunate enough to partake in l’amour with some of the most beautiful and famous women in the world (but alas, I didn’t get to marry any of them). But discretion is my middle name. I may have talked about my amorata who have since died, but have kept my silence about those of my conquests who are still in the land of the living, even if only by the magic of pills or iron lungs.

So I’ll let you into a little secret. My memoirs are written – well, up to this morning, at least – and are currently lodged in a maximum security vault at Coutts.

The results of its publication will be explosive – literally! Almost as though I had lobbed a grenade directly  from my seat next to the Good Lord Himself !

The noise you will hear will be my celestial chortling!

A humble confession

April 26, 2011

In my previous post, I wasn’t entirely profligate with l’actualité. I denied ever attending a Black Mass. I’ll no doubt get into sticky water over this from the more Bolshevik members of Fleet Street who are always gunning for my head (and the heads of others of a higher station to them), but I do feel it is my duty to posterity – and as a warning to those tempted by such unholy shenanigans – to spill the beans about a sordid event in my youth.

In my younger days, when embarking on my first novel, I now admit that I was tempted to attend one such event – for research purposes, you understand. I heard of one happening through the grapevine, and, late at night, I presented myself at a smart house in London’s fashionable Hanwell. A butler led me to an ante-room where I was requested to divest myself of my clothing which I promptly did. Once I was in the old birthday suit I was handed a glass of mediocre bubbly, and led into a large ballroom where I was shocked to behold dozens, nay hundreds, of people, all similarly bereft of trouser, indulging in all manner of  beastliness.

I sipped my champagne and urged myself to keep my cool. I won’t describe what I saw – you can buy any one of my books to get the gist – but I can honestly admit I was the never the same man again. Not just good old-fashioned leg-overs, but despicable acts involving bicycle pumps, cattle prods, life-size crucifixes, and – as I have subsequently learned they are called – baked beans.

I moved throughout the throng, politely declining the many invitations to join in the  grubby  activities. I’ll be honest – I was sorely tempted. There were many gorgeous lassies begging me to indulge them in their sordidness. But even at that young age, I was fully aware that theses poor trollops were undoubtedly riddled with who knows what, and that besides, it would be unfair to treat them to the old Stirling magic, an experience that in their inevitable descent to the gutter they would never be able to recreate.

What shocked me most of all was the voices one could hear; glottal stops, burrs, dropped haitches, even Welsh… I realised with a shudder that Satanists had an ‘open-door policy.’ Yes, on top of their heathen practices, the wretched devil-worshippers believed in the foolish creed of egalitarianism. Deluded fools! Have they never conversed with a bin-man and realised it is an impossible dream?

I perused the debauched scene, mentally willing the ‘old feller’ not to disgrace himself (at which I am ashamed to admit I wasn’t entirely successful). It is hard to remain aloof when one’s John Thomas is straining at the leash to be allowed out to play with the other boys!

What finally persuaded me to make my excuses and leave was the sight of one man grabbing a cock and hacking at it with a knife until blood spurted out, drenching all around. I was repelled! What had that poor bird done to deserve such a brutal fate?

Retching, I hurriedly retrieved my trousers and fled the house, hailing a cab, and vowing to expose such shenanigans to the public in a series of best-selling novels.

So there you have it. I hope you are not too shocked by such candid revelations. In these days when celebrities regularly expose their proclivities to all and sundry, my little tale of youthful error may seem tame, but I am willing to reveal my shame if it will stop one impressionable youngster from indulging in such nefarious conduct.

Black magic is a gateway to beastliness!

Hear a genius at work! Sir Desmond Stirling’s The Devil Take Your Stereo

I Am A Box Brownie

April 19, 2011

Another oft-posed question is about the research I do for my books. After all, I write about a world that is very far away from the mundane lives of my readers. Country houses, expensive cars, champagne, Satanic orgies and glamorous women. Do these just exist in my head? And if so, “may I live in there, Stirling old boy?” they cry! Guffaw!

Obviously, one can’t have lived to my ripe old age without seeing something of the world. And I have been privileged to have lead a jolly exciting life. My war exploits, my time in the wine trade, my journalistic adventures, and then my experiences as a world-famous author… I have seen and experienced adventures which the little people could only dream about – if their kind had been born with imagination, that is.

Yes, I do mix in what some may call exalted circles. Dukes, barons, ambassadors, kings, even queens are in my personal address book. But I am not a snob; I know how to talk to artisans, postmen and other humble folk – although, naturally, I rarely listen.

I can’t complain about my amorous adventures either! I have lapped at the bowl of many beautiful women. But I have never corrupted an innocent lass; I have only indulged in those foolish girls who have ruined themselves already. I may be many things, but I am not a bounder.

In my travels, I have also encountered our more exotic brethren. Whores, inverts, pygmies, Buddhists, transvestites, actors, Australians, estate agents, witch-doctors, vegetarians. Now I may not approve of what these people do – or indeed of their very existence – but I am a broad-minded fellow and will cheerfully mix with all sorts of scum as long as it’s in convivial surroundings.

Have I attended orgies, I hear you ask? I suppose I should reply by querying one’s definition of an orgy. There is nothing wrong with bacchanalia, provide it is restricted to the right sort of people who can appreciate -and have earned – unbridled gratifications. Those of our class have worked jolly hard and fully deserve to partake of the pleasures which are available. When conducted with taste and in sympathetic  surroundings such harmless jollity can be a delightful way of whiling away a few hours with like-minded chums. But I draw the line at anything that inflicts pain (except, of course, for the routine punishment of clumsy staff – abolish that and one is positively asking for anarchy).

But I will categorically state I heartily disapprove of Satanism. Black Masses may seem very enticing to those who are weak-willed or reckless or foreign, but they are dangerous and should be avoided at all costs. Monstrous things happen at them -so one hears – and attendance is a slippery slope from which one can rarely regain a foothold back on the upward path to righteousness.

Not that I am admitting I have ever attended any such event.

How I Do It

April 13, 2011

I have often been asked how I write my books. Do I plot the story in my head beforehand? Do I use an electric typewriter? I was rather reluctant to give away ‘trade secrets,’ but as it is highly unlikely any of you have my talents I have decided to share some of old Stirling’s working practices!

Firstly, I rarely write during the day. Daylight is for dealing with ‘fan’ mail and other correspondence (e.g. initiations to lecture, requests for articles, ). Then I luncheon, often in my club with old chums. Sometimes it is a working lunch as  I am consulted over matters of state by friends in the Government. Despite being a knight of the realm, my understanding of the common man and the way he thinks is invaluable to those who run our beloved nation, and I often hold forth over asparagus tips (if in season), shepherd’s pie and bloody good Cabernet Sauvignon.

After a blissful snooze – not an indulgence, it’s like a jolly good session in the gym for the old subconscious – I start the night’s work. My secretary Cilla has gone home to do whatever unattractive fat girls do of an evening, so I settle myself down in my favourite armchair by the fireplace with a decanter of Mr Glenlivet’s finest. I don’t put quill to parchment or even – shudder – biro to Basildon Bond; rather, I use one of these new-fangled tape recorders. I am not au fait with the technology, but I know which knobs to press. The following morning Cilla listens to the tape and transcribes the necessary.

No, I don’t plan what I am going to write. More often than not I sit down with a completely blank mind! I switch on the infernal gadget, take a large swig, and no matter how devoid of ideas I may be, off I jolly well go. The story somehow flows out of me, almost as though I am channelling it from another dimension. Who knows, maybe one of my illustrious predecessors is giving me a helping hand? Dickens, maybe, or Jules Verne, or perhaps Sven Hassel? Not to Cilla – is Hassel dead?


As the evening progresses, and the decanter diminishes, so the story flows. It’s uncanny, I have no idea where it all comes from. When I read Cilla’s transcripts it’s as though I am reading it for the first time myself. ‘Spooky’ as the youngsters say nowadays. Does it come from ‘beyond the grave?’ Or the deep dark recesses of my psyche as my critics claims (yes, I do have some!)? Not that I believe in that psychiatric mumbo-jumbo.

So there you have it – Stirling’s working methods! I wouldn’t try it yourself at home. You’ll more than likely end up with unpublishable  gibberish, and unless you have a top-notch editor, there really isn’t any point.