The greatest conversion since St Paul! How King of Sleaze Peter Stringfellow ended his days as a devoted family man

PETER Stringfellow, aka, Stringy, ‘King of Clubs’, lap-dancing supremo, gold lamé enthusiast and possessor of one of the worst mullets in the history of hair, has died, aged 77, leaving four children aged between three and 55, and a beautiful 35-year-old widow, Bella, who loved him with all her heart.

During an epic career he made (and lost and made again) tens of millions of pounds, and welcomed rock stars, film stars, politicians and sportsmen at his chain of ‘Gentlemen’s’ clubs in the UK and U.S.

He partied with everyone from Jack Nicholson to Andy Warhol and Princess Diana to Stephen Hawking (yes, really).

And, of course, he was obsessed with sex. By his own estimate he slept with more than 2,000 women. Sometimes, he would have sex with just one woman, perhaps in his lavish apartment which had a copy of Botticelli’s Venus on the ceiling, or they’d splish-splash about in his vast, gold Jacuzzi.

More often he ‘entertained’ them in groups of two and three.

Goodness knows where he got the energy. But on a diet of vodka with just a splash of tonic, ever-flowing Krug champagne and a regular bedtime of 5.30am, he managed to keep up the pace.

He didn’t smoke or take drugs, and he was never ashamed of showing off his teeny white buttocks in his favourite lime green G-string as he strolled hand in hand along Barbados beaches with a parade of nubile young girls barely out of school.

No wonder then, that in 2000 when Stringfellow started ‘dating’ Bella — then a 19-year-old professional ballet dancer whose real name was Elaine — her father blew his top. He wouldn’t speak to his daughter’s new ‘boyfriend’ for at least a year.

The romance started when Bella — Peter called her that because she is half Italian — popped into Stringfellows with some friends after a performance.

She was lovely, talented and, most of all, in his eyes she was ‘pure’. From his vast gold and leopard-skin throne in the Covent Garden club, Peter spotted her in an instant, sent over vintage champagne and spent the next three months trying — and eventually succeeding — to woo her into his bed.

A 41-year age gap was never going to worry a man like Stringfellow — he’d been dating progressively younger women as the years wore on, deaf to those who dismissed him as a sleazy old man.

BUT everyone else wondered what the beautiful teenager saw in an ageing playboy with a terrible fashion sense and a reputation that would scare off even Miss Whiplash.

‘It was his charm,’ she once said. ‘He was so charming, so gentle, and loving. He’s a really special man.

‘He’s kind to everyone he meets. He’s not what you read in the Press. He’s very gentlemanly and hates crudeness and swearing.’

Indeed, for all his lewd public image and autocratic management style, in the surprisingly well-toned flesh, Stringfellow could be an absolute delight.

Charming, twinkly and youthful (thanks to an extremely good facelift, a penchant for £150-per-pot La Prairie moisturiser and manicures), he was also rather prone to inconsistencies.

For starters, as well as his distaste for crudity and swearing, particularly by women, he loathed porn (‘quite disgusting’), the institution of Page 3 and excessive ladette behaviour. ‘All this drinking and sleeping around. Girls don’t want to do that, do they?’ he once said.

Despite the millions he made from women sharing their naked bodies with onlookers, and the thousands of naked bodies he enjoyed himself, he remained surprisingly prudish, claiming to have a ‘Cliff Richard mentality’ (though presumably without the religion).

‘The world has gone sex mad!’ he once complained. ‘I don’t want to open my paper and see girls with their boobs out! I am shocked by it!’ Hypocrisy? Taking the mick? Quite possibly.

But his senior staff, the dancers he employed and his wide group of friends loved him and raved about his loyalty, kindness and generosity.

As a staunch Tory, that group included the late Baroness Thatcher, David Cameron, George Osborne and Jeffrey and Mary Archer who lived in the flat above him in Westminster.

He was on good terms with his two ex-wives and remained pals with his endless girlfriends, all of whom he had met in the club and most of whom returned to their jobs as dancers when their ‘special time’ with him was up.

Peter Stringfellow was clever, too — with a pile of highbrow books by his bed that he actually read — and cultured. He loved the ballet, was fascinated by ancient civilisations, obsessed with politics and adored science.

When the late Stephen Hawking visited his club, Stringfellow famously tried to engage him in an intellectual discussion about cosmic string theory (of course), only to be batted away by Hawking’s: ‘No, I’m here for the girls! The girls!’

But most of all, Stringfellow was driven.

‘He was like a man possessed,’ says Roger Howe, one of his managers who had known him for 50 years. ‘Very focused, very motivated, very meticulous and very driven by getting more, getting away from his very poor background.’

Peter Stringfellow was born in Sheffield on October 17, 1940, the eldest of four brothers. His father was a steelworker, but money was tight and they didn’t have a proper bathroom — something Peter admitted he later compensated for by filling every bathroom he owned with goldplated baths, TVs and champagne on ice.

His parents were deeply prudish. He never saw his father naked and sex was never discussed. Even when his