18 March 2007
The Astonishing Adventures of Lady Likely
Mothering Sunday, 1856.
I do not know much about my own mother. I have never met her, or if I did, I certainly do not recall the encounter.
My mother, unlike my father, was not a member of the British aristocracy. She was, in fact, a one-eyed prostitute from the Far East, whom my father banged rotten when he went over there on one of his frequent holidays.
When she fell pregnant, my father was naturally aggrieved, as fathering a child out of wedlock is terribly frowned upon in society. On the scale of impropriety, it rests somewhere between befriending a Frenchman, and kicking a horse in the gonads.
Nevertheless, my father made preparations to bring my mother to England so that she could give birth on British soil. However, there was a terrible incident on the boat bringing the pair to England, that almost resulted in the world being deprived of my wondrous self.
Some no-good Russian sailors had taken a liking to my mother, despite her swollen, pregnant state, and made unseemly advances towards her person. My father objected to this, but was silenced by a swift blow to the head from one of the Russians.
My mother, however, was apparently quite a tough woman, used to fending off lecherous men in her line of work, and so set about dispatching the two scoundrels.
Reports vary, as my father was currently unconscious, but the overwhelming consensus is that my mother became a frenzied blur of action, setting about the sailors like “some kind of crazed beast, albeit a crazed beast with fine tits”, according to one eyewitness.
She apparently kicked one of the men in the jaw, then sprang on the other and actually sank her teeth into his groin, ripped off his ball-sack, and then shoved them down his throat. But that was just the beginning.
When my father recovered, he described a scene of “utter devestation”, with my mother standing amongst it all, “covered in blood, like some kind of demented surgeon, albeit a demented surgeon with fine tits”.
It took a clean-up crew several hours to locate all the pieces of the unfortunate sailors, during which time my father used his connections to ensure my mother was not to face legal action for dismembering the Russians.
Needless to say, we made it to port without further ado, and I was born on the Likely Estate, where I remain to this day.
What became of my mother is unknown, at least it is unknown to me. Some say she fled, unable to handle the pressure of living among the upper-class of Great Britain. Some say she was sent back home, to save my father further embarrassment and bloodshed. Some say she turned into a giant, golden eagle, and now lives at the top of a mountain, guarding a sacred treasure. But those people are generally of a retarded persuasion and cannot dress themselves.
Whatever became of my mother, and wherever she may be, I raise a glass of whisky to her, and commend her on her fine work in giving birth to my incalculably astonishing self.
Cheers!
– by Lord Likely.
