Had a full check-up with my Burmese quack Dr Cunnilinga today. He has assured me with all his medical expertise that I am not in fact dead. Prentis Hancock wasn’t the afterlife then, so topping oneself wouldn’t be a very effective way of rejoining my beauteous Japonica.
Had a Turkish bath followed by a damn good twigging. It takes a thrashing to clear the mind & remind myself how marvellous I am.
Got home to find my secretary Cilla in tears because the film of her book 100 Lashes of Love is no longer a ‘goer’ as we movie folk say. Couldn’t find an elderly actor who didn’t mind his Johnson being tied up, set fire to, waxed, dunked in hot marmite & having a Groucho Marx moustache glued to it.
She apparently was convinced that as writer she would get to choose the lead actor & indulge carnally with him. Someone called Clooney? I pointed out that I never had that privilege with the leading ladies in my films, not even Anne Aston – and actresses have nifty right hooks. And, besides, what film star would want to be seen on the silver screen having his arse thwacked & his trouser snake being stapled to a mantelpiece? Well, darling Dickie Wattis perhaps…?
I have very strong opinions about films of my work even though I rarely watch ‘movies.’ If a film doesn’t star Burton & Barkworth fighting Nazis up an Alp I’m just not interested. Unless it’s Wisdom sans trews up a lamppost.
Son-in-law Darren Frognall rang today; in-between attending champagne receptions & receiving awards for his left-wing claptrap, he suggested we luncheon together as he has had an idea how I can find my beauteous Japonica. I thought he didn’t believe me. He’s been ‘googling’ apparently. But it’s not the cricket season, I told him.
He thinks he’s discovered why the town isn’t on the map. It’s because Prentis Hancock is a new name, adopted a while back – well, a century or so ago… It’s original name was Carbunkle-on-ye-Arse. Can’t think why they changed it? And the Hotspur family were originally the Carbunkles!
Japonica Carbunkle?! Yes, well, once she is Lady Stirling, that won’t be a problem.
I simply must work out a way to return to the village of Prentis Hancock and rescue the beauteous Japonica from the claws of her ghastly pater. Then it popped up in the old noggin that the last visit to Prentis Hancock was the result of being invited there so I will write to Cousin Septimus asking if I may be allowed to visit again. Brainy, eh?
I hope that Mrs Mann is being satiated by Sgt Dick Green. I have no wish to fend off her gerontic advances again.
A week later
Horrors! I received something of huge ghastliness in the post today. No, not the latest novel by my son-in-law, Frognall – that was yesterday. No, I received – oh, how my fingers ache to type this – a wedding invitation. My beauteous Japonica is betrothed! I will stop this! Even if she is madly in love with her betrothed and is blissfully happy. Which she probably isn’t. But even if she were…
A day later
Well, the adventure is afoot! My drippy son-in-law Darren Frognall – self-styled Guru of Gore – is going to drive me to Prentis Hancock! We will arrive, rescue the beauteous Japonica from her sinister pa, and bugger off out of it toot bloody sweet. I can’t see a problem. Frognall asked if we should be ‘tooled up?’ I should think that’s a condition with which he has no choice.
Actual time of departure is top secret. Walls have ears and rotten ice cream so mum’s the word, eh?
Ah, beauteous Japonica, soon you will be safe in my arms. Not only will you have the rogering of your life, but as the sixth Lady Stirling, you will have my unending love, loyalty and fidelity.
NB must talk to solicitor about a pre-nup
Two Days later
Been silent and out of circulation due to a case of Sarahs the size of jacket potatoes. My late manservant Raven used to be excellent at administering soothing unctions.
Later
My idiot – yet bewilderingly successful- son-in-law, Darren Frognall, and I are plotting our trip to rescue the beauteous Japonica. He thinks that the wedding invite will allow us entry to that bizarre village.
We are going to drive there in his big flashy Johnson substitute of a car. I fully presume that a long journey in a car with Frognall will be infuriating. I will take a hip flask or two…
We’re off! The quest to rescue the beauteous Japonica from her wretched father and a forced marriage had begun…
Unconvinced by Frognall as a partner-in-crime. He’s never been to war. Claims he is ‘handy’ but I’ve seen more calloused knuckles on a baby. His car – a bright red Austin Bellend – is not very uncomfortable. Seated so low I’m almost horizontal. It’s like a coffin on wheels.
He also has this wretched talking robot gadget which tells us the route. The voice – female – is hectoring and, frankly, somewhat common. At least the ghastly creature seems to know where we are going. And she drowns out Frognall’s awful music. No Elgar, no Coates, not even Elaine Paige.
I must shut out the discomfort and focus on the ultimate goal. The beauteous Japonica! And I’ve faced worse hardships in previous battles. But hush… Official Secrets and so on… But World War II… Even the least educated of you have heard of that, surely? Frankly, I won it. There, I’ve said it. Anyway, onwards…
We plan to lunch at Newport Pagnell. In 1958 I had a splendid knee-trembler there with a Tiller Girl in a local motel. Those high kicks…
I’ll be honest… the old gander is perking up at the prospect of an adventure. Makes up for not being allowed to have a go at Ivan…
Frognall has just told me he has a large lesbian following. I’m worried she is following us now. We need to be inconspicuous in our quest.
After lunch
Damn socialists and their yen to ‘huddle with the masses. We lunched at a soemthing called a Little Chef – an eaterie for the grubbier travelling salesman. Filthy hole didn’t even have the class of a Wimpy Bar.
Later
Not the most successful journey so far… a burst tyre, a ticket for speeding (yes, I admit, I was doing my share of the driving then)… and the robot lady keeps giving us the wrong directions. Deliberately, I suspect. We are spending the night at the next inn we can find
We are resting our weary bones at a roadside tavern called The Lanced Boil. Shepherds Pie, a pint of Shattock’s Old Incorrigible and a bunk for the night. Frognall was flirting with the busty barmaid. I pointedly asked if he’d called his wife, my stepdaughter. He looked both sheepish and irked. I never cheated – not once! – with any of my five wives. (Other men’s wives don’t count). Besides I was hoping to try my luck with the barmaid myself. I suspect I wouldn’t be compromising her honour.
The landlord – a bluff cove called Derek with an untrustworthy moustache – told us that the inn is haunted. I distinctly saw Frognall gulp. I’d hoped that the ghost who haunts The Lanced Boil might be a headless nun or a fiery highwayman. Sadly it’s a disgruntled VAT inspector. He died in the tavern while assessing their VAT statments. And his tortured soul won’t move on until he files his results.
Next morning
Well, I had a marvellous and undisturbed night’s sleep. Woke feeling very refreshed. Apart from the thundering hangover, that is. But Frognall is a nervous wreck. Claims he was kept awake all night by creaks and groans and rattling chains. Knew that man had no spunk in him. Wretched son-in-law instead we leave The Lanced Boil immediately. I refused as I wanted the Black Pudding Kedgeree for breakfast. I think that boy is not going to be much cop in our forthcoming derring-do. Self-styled ‘Wizard of Entrails,’ my arse!
Later
After an interminable drive listening to Frognall’s justifying his utter wetness re the alleged spook at The Lanced Boil, night drew in… We thought we might be approaching our destination. At which point our robot directions lady started to behave very queerly.
She began insisting we turn back and go home like a particularly stern nanny. In other circumstances it would’ve got me hot under the trousers. I suggested we reverse in the direction we want to go – see if that confuses her. Either tthat or we switch the wretched female off and trust to my unerring homing instincts. They didn’t let me down at El Alamein.
I insisted we switch off the mechanical harridan, and then gave Frognall a stiff wag of my finger re being yellow. We must follow my nose…
And sure enough we’ve just seen out first road sign guiding us to Prentis Hancock! I’m coming, Japonica!
Later
A half mile to Prentis Hancock. We’re engulfed in fog. I mooted we abandon ship and proceed by foot but Frognall won’t leave his precious car. After a long half-mile crawl – with myself walking ahead holding a flag, on Frognall’s insistence – we finally reached the Rectory.
Cousin Septimus seemed almost pleased to see me. His skull-like face stretched into what could almost pass for a smile if one is charitable.
A splendid few hours catching up with all the goings-on at Prentis Hancock eg nothing much at all. Mrs Mann, Cousin Septimus’ libidinous housekeeper, took one look at Frognall and her bespectacled eyes nearly popped out of her head.
After we arrived we sat down to a splendid Toad-in-the-Hole which Mrs Mann contrived to spill into Frognall’s lap while serving. It had barely landed before she was on her knees and scrubbing his groin with a damp cloth. His face looked like mine when I read his books. Now my virtue is no longer under attack from her, I’m really rather fond of the old trout. I wouldn’t want to bet my shirt on Frognall keeping his Virgo intacta for long. She’s already suggestively loosened her dentures at him
Frognall has told me that he has no network coverage. I pretended I knew what he meant..
After supper
I asked Cousin Septimus about the forthcoming nuptials of the beauteous Japonica. He is officiating apparently. Cousin Septimus was surpised I had been invited. I suspect that The Squire just wants to rub my nose in his daughter’s conjugals
Woken in the night by a quaking Frognall. Mrs Mann had been up to her old ‘dancing nude in the next room and thumping the wall’ tricks. He wanted to spend the night with me. Not biblically, you understand, although frankly it wouldn’t surprise me. I kindly let him use the sofa. He then talked all night. He’s worried we’re stuck here again. I suggested he try to the train home tomorrow.
Next day
After breakfast Frognall set off to explore the town and railway, while I wished to stake out Gloomy Grange. We agreed to reconnoitre at The Shaven Mound later. Staked out Gloomy Grange. I think I caught a glimpse of the beauteous Japonica at her bedroom window. May’ve been a floater in my eye though. Saw the ghastly Squire Max Hotspur set off on horseback to kill either a fox or possibly one of his tenants.
I then met Frognall at The Shaven Mound for a snifter. He’d been to the station, hopped on a train – and found himself back where he started. He was very shaken by the experience , the big girl’s blouse. Honestly, writers today… None would survive 2 minutes in a real war. Blyton faced the Khmer Rouge in the wilds of Cambodia, Herriot went undercover in Korea… Even Arthur Marshall helped retake the Falklands, but Frognall can’t get a phone signal for five minutes and you’d think he was in Colditz having his orchestras electrocuted for Queen and country.
Anyway, I digress…
Bumped into Sgt Dick Green earlier. Poor man is a shadow of his former self. His bedroom shenanigans with Mrs Mann have drained him. That elderly strumpet is quite literally rogering him to death. If it were Sophia Loren or Ann Aston I’d say ‘what a way to go!’ It was pitiful. He begged Frognall to ‘give the old bag one’ so he could try recoup his essential juices. I suggested a banana-full of zinc. Frognall insisted he was faithful to his wife – my stepdaughter. A likely story. When writers aren’t banging away at a typewriter…ahem!
Mrs Mann for all her wrinkles is a real woman, not an ex-nun like my stepdaughter. She’d eat Frognall alive then spit out the bones.
I have decided that tomorrow I will reacquaint myself with Squire Max Hotspur. Confront the spider in his own web. I’ll take Frognall whom he will hopefully despise even than he does me. Maybe then I won’t seem so bad to him.
Next day
Tried to visit the Squire today. Smith, his corpulent butler, informed me that his master was out. I asked to see the beauteous Japonica. I was told she was in London, shopping for a wedding dress. I could have wept except that real men don’t. As we left Frognall got very petulant that I had dragged him all the way to the arse-end of nowhere when we could’ve stayed at home. I was contemplating punching his ludicrous and peevish face when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.
It was Japonica!
It was brief glimpse – even briefer than when I saw the Yeti in Tibet that time – but I am sure it was her, peering at me from behind a curtain. But even in that half a second, I could sense her despair, her fear, but her sense of adoration and possibly hope when she saw me.
Later
Chewing the fat in The Shaven Mound earlier – extraordinary the snack they sell these days. Frognall suddenly had a brainwave. See, I knew he’d been to public school
He suggested that he approach the Squire and say he is writing a book set in the area and could he please consult Gloomy Grange’s library? Not exactly Sun Tzu-esque as strategy goes, but it might get the foot in the door. As long as he can then keep the same foot out of mouth.
Next day
I thought about the beauteous Japonica last night while I was in bed. Then twice again this morning.
Three days later
Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Frognall for three days. Beginning to get worried. He went to Gloomy Grange in the guise of a writer who wished to use the library. Knew I shouldn’t have sent an arse to do a non-arse’s job.
Met Sgt Dick Green at The Shaven Mound at lunchtime to discuss next move re the wretched Frognall.
Later
Still here. Absolutely Brahms. He began to tell me about his amorous life with Mrs Mann. It required copious alcohol on both our parts. Plus a soothing balm on his… I’ve encountered tarts in coastal regions of Nicaragua who know fewer tricks of the boudoir than that septuagenarian strumpet. No wonder he has lost so much weight that his dentures won’t stay in. She can apparently do things with a carpet beater not even dreamed of by the lead character in Cilla’s 100 Lashes of Love. No bruises either. Yes, I’ll admit it – I’m intrigued. Perhaps if I wear a blindfold. and think of Anna Magnani…?
For God’s sake, Stirling, put it back in your trews and concentrate on the matter at hand: to whit the whereabouts of one’s halfwit son-in-law
Later
Long chat after lunch with Cousin Septimus. Cadaverous old bugger, despite three helpings of Mrs Mann ‘s dumplings. I’m a prime specimen of manhood, but even I have more fat on my eyelashes than he has on his whole body. I’m not sure of his age. I can’t even recall how we’re related. He’s a Stirling too so it’s on my paternal side. He always seemed to have been around – and always looked decrepit. Oh well, not all of us can be adonises.
(As usual, I digress – where’s my editor when I need him *guffaw* Oh, that’s right, Broadmoor…)
I asked him about the forthcoming nuptials. He shook his head sadly. He doesn’t approve of them. An ally! Cousin Septimus is officiating, but has yet to meet the groom. The scuttlebutt in the village is that the bride hasn’t met him yet either…
Later
First encounter with Squire Max Hotspur since my return to Prentis Hancock. Unfortunately I was staggering out of The Shaven Mound at the time. I bade him a civil good afternoon and asked after Japonica. Then I fell over and hit his riding boot with my chin.
Next day
Extraordinary! I received a postcard today, ostensibly from Frognall , claiming he was back in London. Don’t believe a word of it. I am convinced he is a prisoner up at Gloomy Grange. And I, Sir Desmond Stirling, will rescue the little squirt!
Easter Saturday
I’m still rather bewildered by the Good Friday ceremony I watched yesterday. Each year a chosen villager is crucified. It was a very moving ceremony, but what worries me is that 24 hours later the poor fellow is still up there.
The Gospel According to Sir Desmond Stirling 
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