Posts Tagged ‘writer’

Wife No 4

April 19, 2012

My fourth wife is an era I sometimes wish I could forget, but thanks to the News of the World it is a story which is out in the public domain so there is no point in denying it.

After  my third wife died, I was rather busy. I wrote seventeen book in 2 years, and there were extra-curricular activities. I presented a documentary series for the BBC about historical villains – Rasputin, Vlad the Impaler, Harold Wilson; I lived in Italy for a while writing horror screenplays for Buitoni – all unproduced, as no-one told me they were being financed by the Vatican, hence my villainous priests and libidinous nuns being rather frowned upon. My weekly column for TitBits was also a long-standing obligation. All this plus the usual public duties of a best-selling author – book tours, chat shows, restaurant reviews etc.

I also dabbled in politics which I probably shouldn’t discuss until everyone else involved is dead.

I also felt I had to spend a bit of time with the children – when they weren’t at boarding school – which was very distracting from the important things.

The old sex life took a back seat somewhat, although I wasn’t completely chaste. I had a very well-reported affair with a Miss Borneo, a court case with an actress from a TV soap set in a motel over an illegitimate child (not guilty – phew! The actual father was a member of the Johnny Pearson Orchestra), plus the occasional brief and anonymous dalliance (when I say anonymous, it’s quite possible they did actually tell me their name at some point in the proceedings).

Then one fateful February evening I was recording an episode of Call My Bluff for the British Bolshevik Corporation. Darling Paddy Campbell always had an entourage with him – bodyguard, manager, reflexologist, and he insisted on using his own make-up artist. And that’s how I met Simone.

Well, that was it, poor old Stirling was nabbed, hook, line and sinker.

Was it love or lust? Is there a difference? She had me by both the heart and the orchestras.

She was beautiful, 23 years old and the most exquisite thing I had ever seen. Tall, long luscious legs, gorgeous flowing blonde locks, a sexy husky voice…

 The last should have been a giveaway. Because, in fact, my delicious Simone had been, only two years previously, a panel-beater from Solihull called Kevin.

To be continued…


Wife No 3

April 13, 2012

After the divorce from my second wife, Marjorie – only slightly less acrimonious than the second world war (and my solicitor was no Churchill) – I swore I wouldn’t marry again. No, the life of a bachelor gay – in the old-fashioned sense of the word – was my role in life, I decided, and that’s how I would remain. It was the swinging sixties, dolly birds were wearing hot pants and on the pill, so the world was my frankly aphrodisiac oyster.

This went on very nicely for a while. I added ‘playboy’ to my list of accomplishments, and life was ticking along very nicely. My books were selling by the truckload, film rights were being optioned left, right and centre, and I was never off the box, holding forth on all manner of topics. I drove an Aston Martin, wore suits from Monsieur Neddy in South Molton Street, ate regularly at sailor beware (the frightfully ‘in’ restaurant owned by Moonquake actor Rupert Houghton’s other half) and drank cocktails at Wynegarde’s in Frith Street.

Then I met Sarah. She was kind, gentle, tolerant of my idiosyncrasies – even seemed to find them endearing – and laughed at my jokes. She wasn’t beautiful, but her smile lit up life. She was a widow with a young daughter, but that didn’t seem to matter. Aleister, all of 6 yrs old, approved of her, so she and I got married. I wanted a big society wedding, she didn’t so we had a small ceremony in a small Wiltshire village called Thayer David. Aleister was my best man. A year later we had a son, Oswald – who so resembles his mother it’s almost unbearable to look at him – and lived very happily for about three years until she became ill and died within a few short weeks.

It was all jolly sad. I was rather upset at the time, I seem to recall, but I threw myself into a book or two. The children were very unhappy, but I was very busy with my writing so I employed a nanny – well, several as the children were not easy to deal with – until it was time for boarding school, and we just got on with things.

I still think about Sarah. Nice woman.


Wife No 2…

April 12, 2012

Wife No 2

My second wife Marjorie has just contacted me to say that if I write anything about her on the internet then she will – and I quote – ‘sue the effing arse off me!’

I will take heed. My annual alimony to her is already the equivalent of Ireland’s deficit.

And, poor darling, she needs the money. Such vital cosmetic surgery doesn’t come cheap.



Wife No 1

April 12, 2012

I have not been lucky in love. That is an understatement, to say the least! Married 5 times and none of them turned out well. Obviously the current marriage is still extant and seems satisfactory to both parties. It’s not the great romance of the century, but I get the house kept quite competently – and she gets a title.

My first wife was called Debbie (can you check that please, Cilla?) and she was a great beauty in her day. We met, as one did in those days at a debs ball, had a whirlwind romance and married within a couple of weeks. Her parents – minor aristocracy, nothing impressive – disapproved. I wasn’t quite the huge literary success I was destined to be, and they didn’t think I would be able to keep their darling daughter in the manner to which she was accustomed. As they lived in the servants’ quarters of a rather dilapidated manor house in Bucks and couldn’t cough up a decent dowry, I don’t think they were in any position to complain. To cut a long story short, we had a glorious honeymoon, carefree, blissfully in love and, frankly, at it like rabbits. She got in the club, gave birth to my darling son Aleister, then went potty. Literally. Off her trolley, round the bend, doo-lally oddsocks. Later research showed there had been a quite a bit of it in her family history. You would have thought her parents would have told me – that would’ve been a damn sight more effective at stopping the wedding than moaning about my lack of prospects.

Some blamed my philandering for her mental state, but, to give me my due, she went barmy first. And when one has the prospect of going home to Mrs Rochester and a screaming child, who can blame me for seeking succour in the arms of another. Well, quite a few anothers. My career was taking off and I was being feted around London – I tell you, totty was flinging itself at me. I rarely even had to buy dinner.

Things got rather heated when she found a pair of lady’s knickers in my suit pocket that weren’t hers, and she went atomic – as we said in those days. She leapt at me, claws outstretched, screeching like a banshee. Once I was on the ground – I didn’t like to fight back as she was a woman – she then attacked me with the lawnmower. Yes, she tried to mow me! Ruined my suit, and very nearly did me a very great mischief to the old meat-&-two-veg. Luckily, as I had discovered in the war, at life-threatening moments anything extraneous retracts inside the body so, with the exception of very evenly trimmed pubic hair, I was personally unblighted.

I was rescued by my chauffeur, Raven, who grabbed the lawnmower off her and flung it into the ornamental pond. She leaped into the water to retrieve it, and he helped me up. We then locked ourselves indoors, called the police, and hid in the cellar while she tried to get in the house by eating the front door.

(Incidentally, Raven is still with me as my chauffeur. He’s 92 and registered blind so I actually drive him, but he’s company in the car.)

Anyway, Plod arrived, sirens a-blazing, and into the nuthatch she went, and there she remains. I don’t visit. It upsets her, and doesn’t do a lot for me. She looks well, funnily enough. They dope her up to the eyebrows which obviously suits her. She crochets, does Sudokus (I have no idea if she inserts the correct numbers), and occasionally visiting drama students sing old-tyme music-hall numbers to her and her fellow crackpots. Our son visits her when he’s in the country, but sometimes she thinks he is me, and tries to murder him.

We divorced on grounds of insanity – hers, obviously – and I contribute to her upkeep which, surprisingly, is cheaper than alimony.

My adventures sans trousers (continued)

March 3, 2012

Further to my ponderings re my possible popping-up in a nudist film back in the day, I’ve had an anonymous message re an alleged sighting. According to the nameless claimant – gender unknown – I am quite prominent in said film & I have nothing to be ashamed of.
In fact, this person claims that I played an important part in their adolescent amatory fantasies. I am consulting my lawyer. I’m curious to watch it for old time’s sake. It’ll be fascinating to see how little I’ve changed in the intervening years. Greyer of pube, mayhap? Harder of toenail? Nipples less horizontal? But still firm where I need to be.

PS: Been contacted by the British Film Institute. If my nudist film is found they want to ‘digitally restore’ it & show it in an Acclaimed Authors in the Nude’ season.


Nude With Pencil

March 3, 2012

I wish to categorically deny that I have ever starred in a pornographic film.

I am however a proud nudist and always have been. I may – and it’s never been proved – have had a small part in a nudist film in the 1950s. By ‘small part’ I am referring to my status in the billing. If I had been in such a film. Which I may have been. Or not.

Look… It was a lovely summer & I was spending a lot of time at ‘Sans Pantaloons’ a nudist colony just outside Rustington. I would write my latest novel ‘Hell Sailor’ during the night, then join some lovely ladies with unfettered knockers for a round of badminton.

One lunch the Pimms had been flowing rather freely. We’d been joined that day by a – with hindsight – frankly seedy chap with a film camera. He claimed he was making a serious documentary about nudism & how it would benefit mankind if we all doffed clobber & frolicked au naturel. I was young, naive, idealistic, & rather liked the idea of ubiquitous naked lassies. Well, except for hideous ones of course.

So, full to the brim of Pimms – all right, pissed out of my head – I agreed to partaking in some scenes for his meisterwerk. Trouserless!

There my yarn rather stumbles to a halt. Foolishly I continued to glug back the booze & the rest of the ‘shoot’ is absent from the brain. So what happened? Did I partake? What was my contribution? More badminton? Al fresco Calisthenics? Beachball? Or worse…?

And who was that sordid auteur & his wretched Bolex?  Michael Winner? No, he’s too much of a gent to exploit a pissed novelist in the altogether. And what became of the wretched footage? For years I have watched every nudist film I could get my hands on to see if my red-cheeked shame was on display. I’ve even imported nudist films from abroad eg Sweden, Denmark, Finland to see if the filthy sods had got their hands on my youthful folly,

And, yes, I am still a proud nudist. Although I’m not as proud as I used to be. After all, the summers aren’t as warm as they used to be. These days I find I prefer to get starkers with my fellow chaps. Young women of today can be so cruel. And there is something deeply spiritual about swimming nude with one’s fellow men, our unrestrained testes bobbing with the current. Towelling each other down afterwards, the wet sheen on our masculine skins reflecting the afternoon sun. Yes, that makes me very proud.


Bloody agents

February 27, 2012

The agent’s just phoned in a great state of excitement – pissed, not priapic, thank God. Claimed to have a marvellous idea for my next book. And his great idea? That my next novel should be in 3D. Fellow’s mad. I always knew he was a drunk & a deviant, but insane is quite new. He’s always been repulsive, but a tip-top agent. The two go together, I suspect. I don’t mind how vile he is as long as the cash flows in and the contracts are water-tight and entirely in my favour. So the last thing I want is for my usually proficient agent going doolally odd-socks

Pokers and Gerbils

February 27, 2012

I am now being followed on ‘The Twitter’ by a US Poker website. I’m jolly interested in fireside implements. They often feature in my books in murder or orgy scenes. I recall a scene in one book where Charles the hero impales an imp on it’s own toasting fork. Fans consider it an iconic death. There was an unfortunate incident with my son’s pet gerbil while I was writing that scene. I often use props to help me block a sequence. The tongs were sharper than I expected. And gerbils contain more tripes than I had previously realised. Quite ruined the hearth rug which had been cross-stitched by my then wife’s late grandmother. I got it in the neck from both wife & son. At least one of them I could slap & send to bed without any supper. But my son was harder to placate

Ladies’ fashions

February 27, 2012

Earlier this evening I was pleasingly reminded of when ladies would wear a dead animal around their neck. Gave them a delightfully gamey aroma. And if a chap was shy, he could direct his conversation towards the decorative carrion’s glassy eyes. Made it easier to ask how far she went. Annoyingly, I caught ringworm off a dead fox which was draped around a rather tasty young Milanese Contessa. Although, in truth, it was the lesser of the infestations with which she presented me.

Ladies knew how to dress themselves back in the day. I particularly liked their use of gravy browning for tights during WWII.

Sunday lunch still gives me the horn.

Like a hole in the head…?

February 23, 2012

Had lunch today with Sir Adrian ‘Nobby’ Thrippleton. Old school chum. Noted neurosurgeon & author of the seminal ‘Brain Salad Surgery’ which is the famous ‘self-help’ guide to Trepanning oneself. Banned in 17 countries, a feat even I couldn’t achieve. Rather envious. He once offered to trepan me, but England is so damp, I was worried that rain would get in the skull and I’d get rheumatism of the brain.

Anyway, I took him to lunch at my club to pick his brains -no pun *guffaw* – about trepanning for a sequence on my new book. My hero Charles will trepan himself to release a demon trapped in his brain. Jolly gruesome, this Trepanning lark. You’d need a screw loose to want to inflict it on oneself. But it’ll make a thrilling chapter. My editor is worried it might encourage a stupid person to have a go. But if so, so
what? If they’re that daft, who’ll notice any difference?

‘Nobby’ told me in confidence that he’d trepanned The Duke of Edinburgh. They’d both been frightfully drunk at the time. He was bunged the knighthood to stop him blabbing about the hole in the royal bonce! And a title has done wonders for his Harley St practice.

Between you & me & the gatepost Nobby is a bit of a quack. I wouldn’t trust him to remove an ingrowing toenail. Particularly not when sober.