Archive for August, 2012

Wife No 5 Part 3

August 6, 2012

So that was that. I was going to marry Tubby’s youngest daughter Abigail, and as a dowry I would receive a knighthood followed swiftly by a peerage. Splendid!

Of course, it didn’t occur to either of us that the young lady in question may not be willing to go along with our Machiavellian plans.

The following morning, as we woke on the beach, our crevices full of sand and our brains full of the most excruciating pain one can imagine, the events and strategies of previous night were foggy and indistinct. We staggered back to Tubby’s hotel, and while imbibing a breakfast of the blackest coffee possible, the reality of the engagement returned to both of us.

‘She’ll never agree to it,’ he groaned, his breath more rancid than that of the Komodo dragon I had once bagged on a shooting holiday to Indonesia.

I ruefully kissed goodbye to my knighthood, although it did occur to me to consult my solicitor about suing darling Tubby for breach of promise.

Tubby flew back to Blighty that night, and I enjoyed the rest of my holiday; wining, dining, even occasionally supping at the buffet-table of ladykind. After all, they’re starkers, I’m starkers… it’s not as though I was robbing fair maidens of their innocence.

Sated, relaxed, skin glowing with a healthy tan, (and, I later discovered, incubating a mild dose) I returned to London.

To my surprise I found a note waiting for me from Tubby. It simply read, ‘Abigail’s up for it!’ It took a while for the penny to drop who Abigail might be, but when it did, I emitted  a whoop of triumph.

An intimate supper was arranged for just Abigail and myself, plus Tubby and our respective solicitors. While the legal wallahs thrashed out the details, my intended and I became acquainted. She seemed a fairly pleasant thing, no great beauty, an unabrasive personality, reassuringly dull. She’d read my books (more than one, or even a whole one, is always a good sign). Frankly, she seemed disinterested in the whole thing, only perking up when children were discussed.

So the deal was signed and sealed. We shook hands and, lo, the happy – or at least, not entirely indifferent couple, were engaged.

The wedding was a quiet affair in a small church in the village of Dean Hollingsworth where Tubby’s huge pile was situated. The ceremony  went smoothly. Abigail looked very nice, my sons were my best men ( I think my step-daughter was sectioned at the time) and as long I didn’t think about my previous wedding to Simone too much, it was a reasonably entertaining day.

Tubby was true to his word, and that new year it was announced that old Stirling was now a knight of the realm and about bloody time too!

Sadly, Tubby died shortly afterwards from an infected buttock wound which turned flesh-eating, so the promised peerage never materialised. I kicked up a stink, but to no avail. There was a missing clause in the contract although whether by design or cock-up, I had no way of knowing (the former on his lawyer’s part, I suspect, the latter on mine. Hefty bollockings were hurled towards my solicitor on a daily basis).

A male heir – or spawn of either gender – was not forthcoming (I had already demonstrated my fruitfulness so it must have been her fault), and the estate and title went to some obscure nephew in the wilds of New Zealand.

And so the marriage persevered. It was alright, I suppose. We got on quite well for the most apart. The lack of children didn’t bother me, but seemed to irk her for some reason. I continued with my work in all its facets, she kept house, darned my socks, was involved with various charities and ladies’ societies (Suspicious, with hindsight) and life went on…

… until recently – and the manifestation of the wretched Pam! And we all know how that ended up!

So will I marry again? Seems unlikely. After five marriages- sectioned, buggered off, died, ex-man and lesbian – I am beginning to suspect that I am not cut out for matrimony. I will while away my remaining days in my Club, enjoying my fellow male members, laughing as we sit joyfully in our own Mess each evening, and leave marriage to younger men who don’t know any better.

Wife No 5 part 2

August 1, 2012

So there were Tubby and I – starkers in a Frog supermarket – greeting each other like long-lost school-friends – which of course we were. As there were strict rules about physical contact we were soon asked to leave… then asked to go back as Tubby had forgotten to pay for his croquettes de poisson. The impertinent staff assumedhe was shop-lifting, but he soon showed them his credentials and they seemed satisfied. Besides, how does one shoplift when in the nude?

Tubby didn’t want his fish fingers dripping down his leg as they melted so we agreed to meet for a Martini later that day.

And indeed, as the sun set we enjoyed a wonderful evening reminiscing about the old days as we knocked back more than a few cocktails. He’d read all my books and was a big fan, and I’d followed his life in Debretts.

Tubby had had a fairly uneventful life; married, three daughters, ran the family stately home. A few sex scandals here and there, but frankly, who hasn’t? Turned out Tubby had a penchant for the La Vice Anglais. In fact, he blamed his regular spankings at my hand for his proclivities. He claimed that in his long life no-one had had been as proficient with the slipper as I! Anyway, his quest for the perfect thrashing had often got him into hot water – and not just to clean the welts.

But the main problem on his mind was his youngest daughter, Abigail. Try as he might, he just couldn’t find a husband for her. She was rather plain, shy, a bit horsey, and seemingly disinterested in pursuing chaps. Her two older sisters, both top notch crumpet by all accounts, had married well, but only squirted out baby girls, so a male heir was still required.

I sympathised, then poured out my own grievances about the lack of a gong for yours truly, despite all my hard work over the years.

Suddenly, I saw the lightbulb pop up over Tubby’s head. ‘I say,’ he exclaimed, with that endearing lisp which had so often earned him a thrashing (speech defects were strictly verboten in the school rules).  ‘Why don’t you marry Abigail? Once you’re a member of the family, a knighthood would be a doddle.’

I looked doubtful. It wasn’t that long since my marriage to Simone had collapsed and I was wary of entering into another one, particularly with an ugly girl I had yet to meet.

‘Of course,’ he continued, slyly, ‘A knighthood is just the start. If a male heir was produced, then the House of Lords would be a shoo-in.’

Now he was talking! And hadn’t I already produced two sons? Nothing doubtful about the old Stirling fecundity.

So that night beneath the French moon, serenaded by the laps of Mediterranean, and pissed out of our skulls on Moet and brandy, we sealed the deal. It was positively Medieval!

Tubby then wanted me to beat the arse off him for old time’s sake. I declined. One couldn’t thrash one’s future father-in-law like that! I did recommend a lass in Frith Street who I gather was well-known for it; a bicep like a gorilla and an unerring aim. Many a Cabinet member had atoned for their sins at the end of her ferule.

And that was it. I was engaged. Now all I had to do was meet my future wife. Once she’d been told of her good fortune, of course…

To be continued…