Introducing Lord Likely-Aristocratic Adventurer
Welcome, dear reader, to my incredible and, quite frankly, powerfully erotic journals.
If this is your first visit here, then where in the name of dickery have you been? You’ve missed a hell of a lot of astonishing adventures, let me tell you. But it’s alright. I forgive you. We all have to start somewhere, I suppose.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Likely, Victorian aristocrat, adventurer and full-time hedonist. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am a legend in my own life-time, and I rather fancy I shall be a legend in everyone’s lifetime henceforth. I really am cocking-well fantastic.
When I am not attending to my lordly duties, such as attending banquets and balls, or lounging about languidly in my spacious mansion here on the Likely Estate, I like nothing more than finding myself embroiled in a fresh new mystery or embarking on an unplanned expedition. It really does get my blood pumping, and my heart racing, and makes for the most invigorating distraction from my day-to-day chores.
Accompanying me on my adventures is my man-servant, the eternally foul and completely wretched oaf, Botter. Botter has been in my employ for nigh on twenty-two years now, and quite frankly it does feel like a day too much. Still, he does do his job with something approaching competence, and if he ever talks
back or demands payment or complains that I have accidentally shot him in the leg again, then he is quickly silenced with a firm beating from my cane. It does make for a jolly rigourous exercise, I can tell you.
I am also joined in my exploits by another faithful companion: Lord Palmerston, not to be confused with the current Prime Minister of Great Britain with whom he shares the name. My Lord Palmerston is in fact a nick-name I have bestowed upon my proud, mighty penis, an organ so gargantuan that I usually wind up
having to buy it a ticket should I ever find myself forced to use public transport. My Lord Palmerston and I are extremely close, almost like we are joined at the groin. Which, of course, we are.
Lord Palmerston is kept very active on my adventures, as I have an extremely healthy sexual appetite. So ravenous is my hunger for intercourse that were one to replace women with pies in this equation, I dare say I would be morbidly obese and probably heading for my fifteenth heart-attack. I cannot help it, though. I just find women so God-damned attractive. I love everything about them, especially their breasts and vaginas. God Almighty certainly got things right when he designed the female form. Good show, Heavenly Father!
When I am not pumping ladies left, right and centre (and in countless other directions besides), I do manage to aid the police force in solving all manner of mystifying mysteries and curious cases. Indeed, I think at the last count the tally of solved crimes was firmly in my favour, a fact which has not escaped London’s police force, resulting in my constant re-employment by the city’s officers whenever they find themselves stumped by a crime, which is very frequently indeed.
Among my contacts within the department is one Inspector Albert Spunkleford, a rather clueless fellow who seems to be constantly on the verge of some kind of psychological breakdown. He also always seems to be berating me for failing to follow one procedure or other, or for having sex when I should be searching for
clues. Spunkleford chastises me so often, that sometimes I think my first name is ‘Jesus Christ’, on account of the amount of times I have heard the phrase, “Jesus Christ Likely!” uttered in reference to my wondrous self.
Aside from all that, I also enjoy a drop of whisky (more than one drop is preferable, however;) I adore fencing and sword-play; I am infatuated with Her Majesty, Queen Victoria and I am also partial to kicking beggars when I am out and about in the town. Grasping little bastards.
In conclusion, then, dear reader: I am, quite simply, fucking amazing.
Enjoy the journals.