So, the year eighteen fifty-six is finally coming to its inevitable, thrusting climax; and soon I shall find myself gently entering the year eighteen fifty-seven, in which I shall no doubt be faced with a slew of new astonishing adventures, and more than my fair share of buxom wenches to pump wildly. I await the next twelve months with excitement and more than a little moistness.

Eighteen fifty-six has been an extraordinary year for me, what with me tracking down murderous prostitutes, defeating a crazed, Russian megalomaniac, getting drunk, traveling to the United States, building a cock-shaped extension to my fabulous mansion, getting drunk, fighting the undead, and even momentarily misplacing my marvelous moustache. And getting drunk.

To commemorate the past twelve months, I thought it only proper that I commission another portrait of my excellent self, to be displayed at the entrance of the village in which I reside, to remind the villagers and anyone passing through that Lord Likely dwells here, and that I am incredible.

I also decided that this particular portrait should feature me wearing nothing more than my top-hat and a broad, contented smile. The idea of people beholding my behemoth-like penis, Lord Palmerston, as they passed into the village made me erect with excitement, so I immediately set about hiring an artist to do my massive member justice.

I did try and re-hire the artist John Cuntstubble, who had done such a marvelous job of capturing me in all my noble glory earlier in the year, when I commissioned him to paint me for my centenary, but I was informed that Mr. Cuntstubble had not been able to sit in front of a canvas again after working for me, without picturing my glistening todger spurting forth sticky arcs of love-batter across the room. Since that day, he has been incarcerated in a special home for disturbed individuals, where he sits alone in his room painting the walls with his cock-end.

Luckily, I managed to locate another promising young artist called Henri Le Piss, who had been amazing London folk with his extraordinary exhibition, ‘Les Chiens dans L’Amour‘, which featured dozens of paintings featuring nothing more than dogs rutting like crazy.

I also supposed that as a Frenchman, he would not shy away from the naked human form, and would indeed embrace it. Quite possibly in a literal sense as well, the red-blooded beggar.

Upon meeting Le Piss, I noticed that he was a rather stern-faced fellow, who’s features looked like they had been carved out of some particularly ferocious rocks. He smoked like some kind of demented French chimney, and strode around my living-room sneering at my various luxurious furnitures and fittings. I disliked him immediately.

“I weel paint you,” he finally said, drawing upon an ever-present cigarette. “I weel paint you as you ask, completely nay-ked, but eet will cost you. I shall be charging by ze inch.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “By the inch? That’ll cost me an arm and a leg! Not to mention a considerably humongous penis!”

“Take eet or leave it, monsieur,” Le Piss gasped. “Zat ees my final offer!”

I contemplated stabbing the French fiend with his own paint-brush there and then, but upon realising I had little other choice, I agreed to his demands.

Le Piss set up his easel and paints in my living-room, while I disrobed and assumed a powerful, erotic stance by the wall. Le Piss looked me up and down, then excused himself whilst he went and fetched more paint.

Forty-seven minutes later he returned, sat back down at his easel, and finally began to paint.

The process seemed to take forever, with Le Piss continually getting up off of his chair and pacing up and down like a caged animal, puffing away like a steam-train. When he was not doing that, he was sat down, arm stretched out in front of him, using his thumb to take my measurements. I made a crack about him needing more than one thumb, but Le Piss did not even crack a smile, the miserable twat-bag.

Finally, after three and a half hours of such mind-numbing tedium, Le Piss jumped to his feet, and yelled, “C’EST FINIS!” The noise was quite enough to rouse me from my nap, I can tell you.

“About ruddy time,” I snapped, forcing my stiffened limbs back into action. “It had better be bloody good, is all I can say.”

“Eet ees a truimph, Monsieur Likely,” cooed Le Piss. “Eet is beautiful, and most profound.”

I strolled over to view the painting, and to my horror found that it contained neither beauty or profoundity, nor did it contain my prized penis.

Le Piss had cocked it all up.

Needless to say, not only did I refuse to pay the inept artist, but I also sent him packing with his paintbrushes firmly lodged in his anus.

Bloody artists.

- Lord Likely.

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to wish each and every one of his readers a very, very Happy New Year.

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