Archive for April, 2013

The Devil Talks The Hindmost

April 29, 2013

Once, if someone had used the word Kindle in connection with my novels I would have been livid and probably asked them outside.

But I gather that a ‘Kindle’ is now a doobry on which one can read books. Apparently, it’s very handy for use on public transport – whatever that is.

And from next week all of you – well, those of you who aren’t too old to have moved with the times (unlike my good self who has always been a la mode e.g. driving sports cars, listening to ‘jazz’, having much younger girlfriends) – will be able to read my newly-published memoirs The Devil Talks The Hindmost via this infernal device.

devil talks cover

It will be available at Amazon – indeed, all major rivers, one should think – and is jolly reasonably–priced. Too reasonably, if you ask me. One doesn’t want to encourage the poor to loiter around their hovels reading (if they are capable), and besides, the lifestyles I write about will just make them dissatisfied, and next thing you know, the Oi Polloi are throwing an almighty tantrum and it’s the General Strike all over again. Still, gives Plod a chance to practice their water-cannon skills.

I digress…

Buy my book. I have a standard of living to keep up. Holidays in Cap d’Agde don’t pay for themselves.

You will learn about my family, my friends, my wives (all five of them – mad, scrubber, dead, ex-man, and lesbian), my schooldays, my fight against Satanism, my campaign for Nudism, and other adventures throughout my long and distinguished life*.

*But not my wartime experiences – they’re still covered by the Official Secrets Act

Sir Desmond Stirling’s
THE DEVIL TALKS THE HINDMOST
An eBook for the Kindle coming on May 23rd from Head Music


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Up Up and Away…

April 29, 2013

A young woman once asked me if I would like to ride in her beautiful balloon. I readily agreed only to discover it wasn’t a euphemism: she actually owned a hot air balloon. Only it wasn’t her’s, but her father’s, and she didn’t have a balloon-flying license. So began a journey of terror – and I speak as someone who took part in a night-time bombing raid over Berlin (albeit not during the war).

I should have realised that something was wrong when I drove her down to the airfield in my Triumph Spitfire and she stood up the whole way – and the roof wasn’t down.

It soon became apparent she had no control over the balloon & we soon found ourselves drifting over the Atlantic. I have nerves of steel, but even a war hero such as I was naturally unnerved by the situation, even moreso when we only narrowly missed Concorde. I could see a gaggle of nouveau-riche staring at us in bewilderment out of their portholes.

She remained unperturbed. In fact, she just giggled. I began to suspect she was a bit tiddly… particularly when she removed her bra, danced to a song only she could hear in her head, and then tried to dive headfirst into the sea. I grabbed onto her, nearly over-balancing the basket. She fell over, kneeing me in the veg. Accidentally? Who can tell..?

At this point a passing seagull pecked a bloody great hole in the balloon. We plummeted towards the inky blackness of the Atlantic. Fortunately, we landed on the deck of a passing Portugese trawler. Not so fortunate for the grizzled fisherman we flattened as he stood on the deck, peering through binoculars for passing anchovies.

We didn’t make landfall for 3 weeks. I rather enjoyed being away from the hubbub. I wrote five novels, and I always could carry off chunky knitwear. The girl married the skipper and they are now billionaire owners of an anchovy empire. I arrived home with a splendidly weather-beaten tan and became the face of St Bruno for a lucrative stint.