Anyway, I lost my concentration back there when I mentioned old Rupert. Who's this he's married to now? Don't say. It's coming to me. Whatdoyoucallher Hall. Samantha? No. Let me think. Kimberly? Not Kimberly. This bloody memory of mine. Ayesha? Nope. Jerry? That's it. Jerry Hall, big Jerry Hall. Yes. He struck up with her after he divorced Wendi for having a little thing going with Saint Anthony Blair. But anyway, about the fourth Mrs Murdoch. Jerry, that is. From some of the trash newspapers I read in Starbucks I found out one or two things. This bird has been round the houses. Yep, round the houses is right. Antonio Lopez, Bryan Ferry, Mick Jagger (think of the height of Jerry and wee Mick not the size of two roasted spuds!) and now she's stuck in her thumb and got the biggest plum of them all, the Dirty Digger himself.

I remember reading years ago what Jerry's mother told her was the secret of keeping a man. Simple, said old Mother Hall. You gotta be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. But Jerry reckoned she'd hire the first two and take care of the third bit herself. And, by the way, I heard that she brought Rupert to St Tropez for the honeymoon so as to deliver one in the eye for Jagger Wagger because that's where the Jagger rat pack used to let their hair down in the good ol' days before they got the walking frames. But there was another reason she picked St Tropez. Oh yes. It seems the place is all hills and there's no transport to speak of. Word was, she had the poor eighty-five year-old out walking three quarters of the day. So I'd say there wasn't any digging from Rupert come bedtime. Which meant fourteen nights of undisturbed sleep for big Jerry. Most blissful honeymoon she ever had.

Still, I'd rather be Rupert than me. Even though she's a bit on the big side, Jerry would be streets better than my Henry. To tell you the truth I'd divorce her only it'd be too much hassle. And it would break her heart of course. She thrives on these little tussles with me and I get by with my reading and my Steam4Teens. Life could be worse.

And then the other time the time you did it twice in ten minutes after the first time you let me slide slowly down the front of you against your awesome manhood and I nearly wet myself that's the honest truth my kidneys nearly went next you arranged me gently on the bed and tongued me everywhere everywhere EVERYWHERE and then you came up on top of me and made love all over again O my God it was like almost too much

Let's be reasonable. Fifty-four years is a bit long to be married to the same woman, especially if she's had a Zorro moustache for near enough all that time. I've already mentioned that particular appendage I think. My memory is that it became fully fledged about two weeks after the wedding and she's never put any work into it since. The best she ever managed were a few botched efforts with Wilkinson sword edge blades that left her with dark stubble and half-open scabs above those livid yellow lips of hers. And then she's got the nerve to get onto me about my nose hairs. Nose hair I should say. Singular. You know what happened the other day? I was sitting there in the middle of my dinner and she turned round and said "You'd really need to see about those nose hairs of yours Alexis. There's one hanging down now and it's nearly in your stew. And there's something sticking to it as well."

"What?" I said back to her and I said it in such a way that I didn't want to hear another word about it.

It was far far better than the time you got me up on the bonnet of that sky blue Ford Pick-up outside the Everglades Hotel remember? when the doorman was away I remember I arched my front to tempt you and you crooked two beautiful fingers till you found where I needed them and when you found it you knew you had me and the things you did next drowned my mind I wiggled and wiggled and wriggled and wriggled and then you drew out your fingers so slow and tempting and then my whole body went all jelly when that beautiful part of you worked its way in growing rising and then OMG exploding I still have a crick in my neck to this day because I remember you kept shifting me to suit the way you wanted and my head was against one of the windscreen wipers and my neck was near broke but I didn't care my whole body was trembling that much with what you were doing to me and then suddenly you were out too short a time it was and I cried out loud when you went because I needed you there and I was still crying when the doorman chased us

But once she gets started on that particular subject it's hard to stop her. "I don't know how long I've been telling you and you never see to it. Sure I got you a nose trimmer for your seventieth. Do you never use it?"

"I do use it," I said, "but the hair grows again. That's the thing about hairs. They grow even more after you cut them. Surely you of all people should know that."

She didn't like that one. There wasn't a word out of her for the next minute or so and I knew she was huffing. I gave one quick look and couldn't see her so I knew she was away to try and think of an answer. The woman has clearly never heard of waxing. Sometimes I think the real reason I'm still here is her mince stews.

I heard her shouting from the kitchen. She'd thought of something. "You should ask the barber to do it when you're getting your haircut. He would do it for you. It's disgusting. How could you stand there talking to somebody when you're out the town and that thing dangling down right in front of them?"

"Didn't I ask him and he wouldn't do it," I shouted. "I offered to pay him extra and he still wouldn't do it. So don't be going on about that again. Do you hear?"

If only I'd known. But sure what does a seventeen year-old know about women? Damn all except that they're well capable of driving him out of his fucking skull. This might sound odd when you see what she's like now but to be completely honest with you and without being the least bit blunt about it she was the first girl that made me feel like a hundred percent man.

You know what I'm talking about. I was still putting on lingerie in the privacy of my so-called home at that particular time and trying to get Bilko Hawkins the rugby player from down the street to notice me and suddenly, just like that, I was all man. Couldn't wait to get her into bed. I suppose I should tell you here that one of the other people I had my eye on was Father Austin Mathers that I went to Confession to. He had the finest-looking arse I ever saw on a man. It had a powerful furrow in it that always put me in mind of the cleavage a mature woman has in the middle of her bosom. It's hard to know what better way there is of telling you except maybe to say that the two sides of his bum met in the middle like a Donatello and you could tell this even with the coarse black material his trousers were cut from. Terrible clothes priests have to wear. I had dreams of him leaving his job to go away with me to someplace where we could sit talking moral philosophy every evening before retiring for another violent night in bed, preferably outside of Ireland which of course was very backward at that time in all matters pertaining to the flesh and modern morality. But it wasn't to be. I think I must have given something away when I was confessing my impure thoughts to him because my stumbling compliments about his great empathy may have come across as something more than ordinary admiration. Whatever, he called me a pervert and a predator and told me never to come next or near him again.