Archive for July, 2012

My Wife No 5 part 1

July 31, 2012

I have often been asked about my until-recently current wife. I had previously declined to talk about her much as I did not wish to impinge on her privacy. But now the cow has run off with that ghastly hairdresser and embraced the Sapphic lifestyle, I have no qualms.

As I am sure you know, her name was Abigail, and she was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Acton.

I had been a single fellow since the collapse of my marriage to Simone (blog passim) and had been once again enjoying the bachelor life-style, but was aware I was no longer as young as I used to be. Fit I may have been, with the physique of a man half my age, but being seen leaving the most fashionable night-clubs with a pretty young filly (half my age, occasionally) was perhaps not the most dignified way to behave. Maybe I should have been more discreet, but half the joy of having youthful totty clinging to one’s arm is to show off!

Anyway, after one somewhat embarrassing – and very public – incident at Bonkers, the a la mode nightclub in Willesden owned by top TV comics Hope and Keen, when I was confronted by my latest date’s grandfather armed with a sawn-off shotgun, I retreated to lick my wounds. Being more used to having my wounds licked for me, I flew alone to Cap d’Agde to take stock of my life so far (I find it easier to think about myself when sans trews). Yes, I was a handsome, charming successful man; a best-selling author, much-loved public personality, and shrewd commentator on these troubled times. But, dammit, I was lonely, I wanted a wife to come home to – a soul-mate, a lover, a confidante, someone who knew how to operate a washing machine.

But what I wanted most of all was a knighthood.

Frankly, I should have had one already. If not for the vast revenue from my books, then at the very least for my war-work (still hush-hush, I’m afraid). We would allhave been eating bratwurst and driving Volkswagens if it hadn’t been for Yours Truly! Surely that deserves some sort of royal recognition. I’d had a quiet word with her Majesty the Queen Mother – God bless her! – on one of our Gin Rummy nights (she on the Gin, I on the rum) and she’d promised to nudge something along.

So I was enjoying my contemplative solitary trip to Cap d’Agde, wandering around, unfettered Johnson al fresco, when I espy a vaguely familiar sight. There in the Cap d’Agde equivalent of Budgens, leaning into the freezer cabinet to retrieve some fish fingers, was a very familiar arse!

Now, it was strictly ‘pants down’ for a spanking at our school Scarhelldeath Hall (no chance of stuffing Gibbons’ Decline & Fall down one’s trousers to soften the blows *guffaw), so I knew those chubby buttocks anywhere, even after all these years.

It was ‘Tubby’ Acton, a year below me at school, whom I had frequently beaten for all sorts of shenanigans. A cheeky lad, it had often seemed that he deliberately flaunted school rules on a daily basis, almost as though he wanted to be beaten. I have long blamed him for the arthritis in my wrist.

‘Tubby!’ I cried, and he removed his head from the cabinet to see who had called his name. I could see he was pleased to see me, and we greeted each other enthusiastically.

What may have seemed simply like two naked middle-aged school-chums bumping into each other after many years in a nudist supermarket was to prove to be a very eventful encounter indeed…

To be continued…

My Weekend with the Poltergeist

July 27, 2012

As my millions of followers on Twitter will recall, a few weekends ago I had a truly bizarre experience. My ex-wife and her new lover, Pam (the local witch & hairdresser) went off for a dirty weekend somewhere. nIstead of inviting me along and allowing me to watch, they asked me to house-sit. My own house! Paid for by the proceeds from my books, titbit column and numerous TV appearances… What ensued will entertain and enthral you. Rather than write about it, I have simply transcribed my ‘tweets’ so you can experience that weekend as it happened

Back at the Rectory for the weekend. Ex-wife & her pet witch have buggered off for a dirty weekend somewhere. Narnia, probably.

So I’m here with the dogs & our deluxe 26 inch TV (for the tennis) & my secret whisky cellar & my old – thankfully uncontaminated –bed

Much as I enjoy an exclusively male environment, it’ll be a relief to be able to fart without a chorus of ribald comments

And there’s nothing like being under a 17th century roof to get the old ghost story-telling juices flowing again

Took Aspinall, Lucan & Rommel for a bracing walk, picked up a splendid piece of plaice from the Chippy Chippy Shake (warm welcome back)…

Now feet up on the sofa for some well-earned R&R; My old chum Eddie Elgar on the gramophone, a fat Cuban & a decanter of 38 yr old ambrosia

Large bang from upstairs. Dogs went wild. Investigated. Portrait of my great-grandfather Sterling Stirling on the landing was on the floor

Perhaps the ex-ball-&-chain was right & there is a poltergeist

Not having the relaxing evening I’d hoped for. Doors slamming, windows rattling, burglar alarm going off, & the dogs in a right state.

Normal consequences of an old house? Poltergeist? Or has that bloody with cursed the place?

Harrumph! I’m a Stirling & I don’t spook easily! Nothing can happen that I haven’t already written -& far more scarily!

Actually, I’m quite scared now. Off to bed. The dogs can sleep in the bedroom. Found a crucifix, eaten garlic & blessed a bottle of Evian

What a night! Noises, crashes, barking dogs. Undecided if the house is collapsing, I’m going barmy or the bloody place is haunted after all

Phoned Bunty, old school-chum & now Bishop, to see if he could give the Rectory a quick exorcism. On hols in Thailand apparently.

Just espied something very odd. The suit of armour -not genuine, a prop from a film of 1of my books – is now at the other end of the hall

It was definitely in its usual place last night as I hung my umbrella on its arm. I didn’t move it, the dogs didn’t move it, so…?!

A mystery to solve! Excellent! Just what the Stirling noggin needs.

It’s quite a big suit of armour as the actor inside was quite a hefty lump. It’s also made of tin – no good against a swirling mace

Anyway, taking the boys for their constitutional & bowel-clearance. Excellent chance for a jolly good think

Hmm, noises & crashes have started again. Dogs in a terrible state. Heavy footsteps outside the room. Think I’ll have another whisky

Unearthly screams now. I tried to send the dogs out to root out the cause but they cowered behind the sofa, whimpering. Pathetic!

Phoned the local priest but he is still sulking because he broke his hip when I pushed him over. He was trying to kill me at the time

I refuse to be cowed. I am Desmond Stirling, Knight of the Realm, war hero & subject of Her Majesty. The paranormal can fuck right off

I will drink myself insensible. Let’s see a poltergeist cope with a drunk. We’ll see who can smash more plates

Woken from a stupor by a dreadful racket outside. It sounds like clanking metal footsteps. I will fearlessly investigate.

If you don’t hear from me soon, call the Pope! *nervous guffaw*

Just looked out of the room to see the suit of armour stomping down the corridor towards me, sword raised!

The dogs have fled upstairs, whimpering like bitches. I am alone & that thing is getting closer. I am going to do something dreadful…

I picked up my antique crystal decanter filled with 37-year old whisky & flung it at the apparition. It smashed into the visor.

The decanter cracked into several pieces & all that lovely whisky splashed onto the floor. But it made the suit of armour crash to the floor.

An “oof” came from inside the suit. I quickly sat on the suit as it lay prone, & ripped the helmet off the face to reveal…

Pam! Yes, my ex-wife’s lover & the witch who tried to burn in Wicker Nan all those week’s ago. What a cow!

‘You!’ I exclaimed. ‘It was you all along!’ She snarled at me, ‘And I would’ve got way with if it hadn’t for you meddling pensioner!’

Pensioner indeed! I was about to retort when I heard a screech behind me. I saw my wife, hair akimbo, coming towards me, axe held aloft.

There was nothing I could do to protect myself. I was a goner. Suddenly Raven, my aged manservant whom I’d completely forgotten about…

… appeared out of nowhere & started dry-humping my wife’s leg. She sank to the floor under the old bugger’s -frankly tepid -knee-trembling

While both the rancid tarts were pinned to the ground, I hurriedly called the police. I need a drink. Shudder to think of the spilled whisky

I will tell more after Plod have been & bunged these two harridans in chokey. Ah, Raven’s finished. He probably ejaculates dust.

Plod arrived, irked being summoned in the middle of a wet night, but was rather flabbergasted to find 2 barmy women, one encased in armour

Although he carted them down to the nick, Plod pointed out that there is very little he can actually charge them with. It’s their house!

They could claim they were having a fancy dress party. Or even – gulp! – a sex game. They could claim I was the intruder

Be interested to find out what they were up to. Just having a lark? Trying to do a gaslight on me? Ha! Fat chance!

Angry they frightened the dogs though. Even angrier that the dogs were frightened

The dogs are in the doghouse, literally & metaphorically. I need to consult Barbara Woodhouse about how to man them up

At nick to see the guilty women. Ex-wife looks suitably sheepish. Pam the Witch defiant, well as much as one can with a purple swollen nose

Asked Pam why she hated me so much. It’s because I ‘spoilt’ my ex-wife’s ‘Garden of Eden’ with my ‘Satanic Serpent.’ Not for ages, I replied

They expected me to press charges, but I’ve told them to stop playing silly buggers & leave alone. Oh & to feed Raven properly.

Well, what a night! Not as hungover as I should be. One presumes the adrenaline pummelled the booze into submission.

Chap on a hot London roof

July 24, 2012

It’s on sunny days like this that I miss my old garden at The Rectory. I still enjoy divesting oneself of the trews & exposing the parts.

Yesterday Georgie Buster-Giggle & I decided to see if we cou get onto the Club roof for some very welcome sun-worship.

Not my best idea!

It was embarrassing & I speak as chap who is a stranger to the blush. I ad to be rescued from the roof of my Club, starkers, by a fireman.

We found a disused skylight, prised it open, shed the clobber & climbed through. Georgie then got cold feet and returned downstairs. Personally I think nothing warms up cold feet like some sun-drenched roof-tile! I discovered a reasonably flat bit of roof and lay on my towel. I enjoyed a couple of hours of tanning, only to discover the skylight firmly closed. It was wedged tiht and I couldn’t shift it, despite my gym-honed muscles.

I tried to attract the attention of passers-by by waving my towel, but they thought I was threatening to jump so dialled 999.

Next thing, a fireman appears at the top of a ladder, picks me up, hauls me over his muscular shoulder & carries me to the ground. As we descended a crowd had gather in the hope of seeing a best-selling & much-loved author splattered over the pavement. What they actually got was a vivid glimpse of Stirling arse hanging down the back of a burly fireman.

A further indignity was being ticked off by a Plod in front of the crowd, his helmet in front of mine.

I will no doubt feel the rough edge of the Club Chairman’s tongue later today.

Oh well, a red face is a worthy price for a jolly good tan.

But I say… Aren’t firemen strong? He had quite a grip on my thigh. I’m quite bruised. I will show the chaps tomorrow at the gym.

Ah, but the skin is tingling today. Is there anything healthier than a sun tan?

Aha, gym lad!

July 24, 2012

The one failing of my otherwise fine Club in which I now reside is the absence of a gymnasium. Some of my fellow members may be less flaccid if they ‘pumped iron’ regularly!

I used to attend the YMCA, but I have joined a new place in nearby Old Compton Street. My superb physique is due partly to top-notch genes, but also to damn hard work on my part. I still cause gasps among the boys of all classes with whom I ‘work out’ alongside.
This new gymnasium is very smart with a great deal of equipment, although I am mainly interested in weights, a punch bag & a trampoline. At the old Y we were encouraged to exercise in the nude as in the days of Ancient Greece. I quickly learned this was not the case today. This was despite the gym being pleasingly devoid of women. If God had meant women to exercise, He wouldn’t have given them sweat glands.

The chaps in the gym were all in fine condition & the camaraderie reminded me of the Navy. They all seemed very keen to help each other. One young man asked me if I had any ‘roids’ but I was able to say hand on heart that I have never been troubled with the ‘Farmers’No idea why he should ask that of a stranger? Perhaps he was a proctologist?

Afterwards, I availed myself of the steam room. Very humid and the steam so thick that men kept bumping into each other judgning from the moans I heard. Indeed, several chaps ended up with their heads in my lap as they tried to negotiate the impenetrable terrain.

As a new member I was presented with what I assume was an initiation test! A lad, very fit (but with an earring I noted with disapproval) was thrust towards me & I was told he had misbehaved. What punishment could I suggest? ‘6 of the best!’ I replied, joining in the joke. It was then urged I apply the sentence which I did. The boy took it like a man and the mood become very solemn in the steam room. There was silence except for the wheezing of the more asthmatic present (for whom steam is a boon). When I’d finished the boy urged for more. I so admire self-discipline in the young. Frankly I’d thought it non-existent nowadays.
I administered more discipline to roars of approval. The noise grew louder then trailed off. The punishee stood, said ‘thank you, sir’ – excellent manners!- and I found myself alone in the steam. My fellow members know I am one of them now and I will be fully welcome! I’ll keep an eye on that lad too. A promising young spunk indeed!

At breakfast I told old ‘Buggery’ Greenford about the gym I attended yesterday. He seems keen to join. Never struck me as a fitness addict.

I’m still tingling all over from my exercise – especially my right palm!

My Bonus Appendage

July 23, 2012

Had a lovely afternoon sunbathing in Hyde Park yesterday. Even in my dotage, the removal of my shirt causes gasps among onlookers. Of course, it may be the third nipple.

I am now rather proud of this mastoid accessory, but in my earlier days I was frightfully self-conscious. It’s situated about a third of the way between the left and right, slightly higher, and would be more prominent than it is if not obscured by my rather noble forest of dazzlingly-white chest hair.

Some have recommended I have the third nipple whipped off.  Jolly glad I didn’t. My nipples have become increasingly erogenous as I’ve aged; the merest brush with a finger-tip and I am anyone’s. I was worried that this was a tad pansy-ish at first, but my old chum ‘Lobster’ Crimson-King, one-time gynaecologist to the HRH the Duchess of Rustington, assures me it’s all quite normal, and even pointed me to  a shop in Berwick Street where I could purchase some accoutrements which would enhance the experience even more.

Frankly, what I need is a paramour with three hands!

Anyway, in Hyde park, I attracted some sideways glances, the odd gasp, a mild scream, but no more than I do when I am fully clothed.

A passing parson and his young friend stopped to stare at my bonus breast. The Man of God made the symbol of the Evil Eye with his right hand in my direction. Judging by his bandy-legged limp, I pointed out that the parson had been up to far more nefarious acts than I this weekend!  He hobbled off in a huff, while his young friend mouthed something at me – an apology maybe, although it could have been a phone number.

Impertinent types have suggested my extra nipple is fake; a bogus appendage to make myself seem more devilish in order to promote my books! As if I, the greatest writer of Satanic chillers in the world (& an Englishman, albeit with a certain amount of Scot in me), needed to do that?! The nerve!

The Devil’s Crack

July 17, 2012


A Treatment for a Satanic Chiller Film
Chisel Films

By Sir Desmond Stirling

The Time: Today

The Location: The Wiltshire village of Hollingsworth Morse.

The Manor House just outside the village of Hollingsworth Morse (an area designated by the National Trust as an area of Outstanding Ugliness) has long been owned by the distinguished Quade-Dimmer family. But now they have fallen on hard times, poor darlings, and money is tight; staff have been laid off (as they point blank refused to work for free so serve them right) & unpayable taxes are imminent.

The last descendant is Lady Deirdre, a handsome woman, in her early 30s, but unmarried and childless, despite it being drilled into her from birth how frightfully important it was she should find a fertile husband. She is reluctantly selling the family home.

To her horror the house is sold to a foreigner! The highest bidder is Baron Postilliona, a good-looking if oily man with shifty eyes and thick lips, the sort of man who mentally undresses one as he talks to you. Even other chaps.

Lady Deirdre moves into a small cottage in the village where she can keep an eye on the estate and the local people.

One part of the Quade-Dimmer estate, now sold to Baron Postilliona, is The Devil’s Crack, a large damp split in a local mound, long believed in local superstition to lead to the very portal of Hell itself!

Baron Postilliona seems at first to be good squire, holding social events for the locals, offering employment opportunities, benevolently funding local activities etc. He even seems to be interested in courting Lady Deirdre. Initially repulsed, she realise that an opportune marriage would get the house & estate back into the family.

The locals, being easily bought the way peasants are, are very taken with Baron Postilliona; the Reverend Jerome Murphy, a weedy 80 year old, is particularly enamoured with the Baron and becomes rather insolent to Lady Deirdre which he would never have dared when her family were in control of his stipend.

But one night Baron Postilliona has a party to which no locals are invited. A parade of dark cars arrive, discharging their occupants into the house.

But one guest, a young man with a curious hair-cut, pops into the local pub – at which Lady Deirdre is enjoying a gin and tonic. A nervous man, he ask for directions and is sent on his way.

Lady Deirdre on her walk home decides to investigate. The manor house is in darkness; it doesn’t look like a party is in full swing. Suddenly there is a freak hurricane. Lady Deirdre is knocked to the ground. She then sees that a thunderstorm (with lightning) is taking place in the distance – over The Devil’s Crack! A branch falls from an overhead tree and knockers her bally well out.

Lady Deirdre wakes shortly afterwards and sees the Baron and all his guests, wrapped in strange robes, trooping silently back into the house, all of them carrying flaming torches. Shortly afterwards, they drive off in their dark cars.

As Lady Deirdre staggers back to the village she stumbles over the corpse of the young man with the curious haircut who asked for directions earlier! He looks as though he has died of fright! That or the slit on his throat.

When Lady Deirdre reaches the village , she learns that the hurricane didn’t happen there. She tells them about what she saw, but they think it’s due to the bump on the head she received from the branch, that and being a dizzy female. The local Plod investigates the corpse, but it has gone.

Lady Deirdre realises all this is too much for her feminine mind, so she phones her cousin, Charles, Viscount de Bourbon a Bisquit. His adventures with the occult are world-renowned, he will know what this is all about.

Charles arrives… and this is when the adventure really begins…

Now if you want to know the rest, pester Chisel Films – the soi-disant Creepy Cottage of Chisel – until they agree to make the wretched film