Archive for June, 2012

A review

June 8, 2012

By the way, my little recording has been granted a new review. Here it is. Not sure about being called ‘unmanly.’ A chap inadvertently marries an ex-man and all sorts of aspersions get cast. Frightfully unfair.

State of Play

June 8, 2012

I have been frightfully amiss in keeping you up to date what what’s been going on. To be brief… After the debacle with Pam the hairdresser and the Wicker man, I inadvertently upset my wife by likening her, facially, to Rasputin. She took umbrage! Women, eh! She left the house in a feminine strop and, frankly, I haven’t clapped eyes on her since. I became worried after a few days ( I was enjoying the silence at first and the ability to smoke a cigar in the smallest room without inevitable tut-tutting), but then felt duty-bound to look for her, contact the police etc etc.

It turned out she has been having an affair with – wait for it – Pam the hairdresser. Yes, the one who tried to kill me. (I don’t think there’s a connection). Yes, my wife has gone Sapphic! If she’d told me, it might have sparked up our vie de boudoir. I’m a broad-minded chap (except when it comes to communists, Australians and Satanists) and we could have indulged in some… well, it’s all water under the bridge now.

Divorce paper have been issued – she slapped them on me! The cuckolded husband! I am unfussed by this. She wants no alimony (over my dead body frankly  etc etc) but she has demanded exclusive rights of the Old Rectory which has been our home for many years. I suppose her new amour wishes to be near both her wretched coven and her salon. Well, they can have the Rectory. It’s too big for an old bachelor (lovely word!) with its unnecessary rooms like kitchens and laundries.

(Oddly, my wife was always unnerved by the old 17th century graveyard at the end of the garden. Still, if she can bear to rummage around in the sack with the loathsome Pam, not a lot else could daunt her, I suppose.)

So I am not contesting the divorce. In truth, I only married her for my title (and that’s another story which I will relate here anon), so I am upping sticks and moving, for the moment at least, into my Club in London’s fashionable West End. I am rather enjoying it so far. I get my meals cooked, I’m surrounded by delightful male company (no women allowed, except for housemaids and pre-approved whores), and I can drink when and how much I wish. It’s like being back at school, only without the permanent weals on one’s backside from that’s week’s thrashing from Mudrock Major!

It’s all extraordinary when one thinks about it what with events happening so fast. My wife had always seemed rather a sexless cove. She’d performed her wifely duties adequately, if unimaginatively,in the early days, but when sprogs were unforthcoming she’d lost interest despite my own undisputed prowess in the bedroom. When the Stirling magic is on permanent tap for her (well, while she was still passable, later blue pills & closed eyes were required), it’s bizarre she would turn to the homely charms (and I am being generous here) of a provincial hairdresser and part-time witch, a woman who, surely, even her best friends would describe as a frumpy battleship.

Ho hum, never did understand women! Is it any wonder my most successful marriage was with a ex-man?

So here’s to the next stage of my life, returning to my rightful status of playboy about town! Look out, ladies, Stirling’s back on the prowl!