The short answer is: you cannot, for I am quite the one-off, and the chances of another such fine specimen of humanity e’er being forged is as remote as the chances of women ever getting the chance to vote. Pure fantastical folly.

However, if you are truly determined, then you may be able to fool others that you are at least a little bit trim by sporting one of the corsets illustrated above, which brings in your unsightly, bulging stomach while simultaneously denying the bearer the facility to breathe, which in turn could prove useful as eating whilst passed out is very difficult indeed. However, extreme caution is advised, as I have witnessed people tying these damned things so tightly that they have literally forced their skeletons out through their mouths as a result. Grim viewing indeed, though one cannot deny the weight-loss that ensues.

Aside from that, my personal fitness regime is threefold:

1. Adventuring. Whether I be leaping across train carriages in pursuit of some bounder or other, of fleeing for my life from irate husbands who have found me in bed with their wives (see point 3), I am constantly on the move and burning up calories like nobody’s business.  Not recommended for those with weak hearts, or weak bladders, mind.

2. Twatting beggars. Thrashing the filthy, wretched paupers that litter the streets of our fair capital keeps me remarkably trim, and has helped me to develop some rather formidable biceps. If you were to have tickets to come and see my personal gun show, you would not be disappointed (and if you were, I’d possibly shoot you with a real gun to stop the negative reviews from spreading).

3. Intercourse. My favourite part of my exercise plan. Leaping in and out of bed with a multitude of women has done wonders for my muscles (especially my love-muscle), and has given me the stamina of twenty men, which is why women often tell me that making love to me is a lot like making love with a one-man orgy.

So there you have it, my three-pronged guide to success! You shall never look as good as me, of course, but at least you might look rather less repulsive than you undoubtedly do at this moment.

Now drop down and give me twenty (guineas, this advice is not free, you know).

- Lord Likely. 

AS THE fifth anniversary of my Astonishing Adventures continues unabated, I thought I would adhere to the ‘five’ theme, and present to you a list of ‘Top Fives’, detailing some of my favourite (and not-so-favourite) things. That way, not only will you gain to learn more about your noble narrator, but you shall also be able to use this knowledge when deciding which glorious gifts to purchase me for my Wooden Jubilee. Everybody wins, especially me. As it should be.

Anyhow, let us proceed without further ado!

Top Five Beverages.

5. Gin.
4. Wine.
3. Beer.
2. Whisky.
1. All of the above in a glass (without ice, thank you).

Top Five Sexual Positions.

5. ‘The Right Honourable Member’.
4. ‘The Spitting Cobra’.
3. ‘The Whirling Dervish’.
2. ‘An Altercation in the Balkans’.
1. ‘Inside A Lady’.

Top Five Uses For A Servant.

5. Servant.
4. Punching-bag.
3. Draught excluder.
2. Stunt-double.
1. Patsy willing to take the blame when large contributions are found to be missing from his master’s tax returns.

Top Five Things With Which To Beat A Beggar.

5. Fists (inadvisable, could get grubby).
4. Boots (see above).
3 . Convincing beggars that their existence is so futile and pointless that they should turn their own fists upon themselves, and beat themselves to a pulp.
2. A servant.
1. A trusty cane (with a nail in it).

Top Five Insults.

5. ‘You have all the wit and grace of a baboon’s colon’.
4. ‘If I was half as stupid as you are, I would still be ten times more intelligent.’
3. ‘You look like you fell out of the ugly tree, and were beaten with the entire ugly forest’.
2. ‘I am rubber, you are glue, what bounces off me, sticks to you.’
1. ‘You have my pity, but alas that is the only thing of mine you can ever hope to attain’.

Top Five Prostitutes.

5. ‘Dirty Gertie’.
4. ‘Easy Susie’.
3. ‘Queen Whore’.
2. ‘Randy Mandy’.
1. Your Mater.

Top Five Outdoor Sports.

5. Croquet.
4. Hunting.
3. Cricket.
2. Chasing a beggar.
1. Rutting with a slattern on the village green.

Top Five Hounds.

5. Sir Barksalot (above).
4. Jack Russell the Ripper.
3. Admiral Woofs.
2. The Growler.
1. Cerberus, The Hellhound.

Top Five Lines With Which To Attract A Lady.

5. ‘Did you fall from heaven? If so, shall we rut before you pass out or expire?’
4. ‘I’m a nobleman, don’t you know. Do you have any nob in you? Would you like some?’
3. ‘Get your coat, m’dear – we can lay it down here and hump on it.’
2. ‘If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me and then let me disrobe it, spread the legs and thrust myself deep inside it until I issued forth?’
1. ‘I am Lord Likely’.

Top Five Technological Wonders of the Modern Age.

5. The telephonic device.
4. The Daguerreotype.
3. The Automated Arse-Punter.
2. The Incredible Personal Orchestration Device (IPOD for short).
1. The Steam-Powered Novel.

Top Five People With Whom I Would Like To Have Intercourse.

5. You.
4. You.
3 You.
2. You.
1. Her Majesty The Queen.

Top Five Expletives.

5. ‘Arse-Biscuits!’
4. ‘You blithering cock-pipe!’
3. ‘Baste my balls!’
2. ‘By Satan’s Scarlet Scrotal Sack!’
1. ‘Commoner!’

Top Five Pornographic Pamphlets.

5. Maiden Heaven.
4. Reader’s Wives’ Fannies.
3. Playlord.
2. Ankles Ahoy!
1. Strumpets With Trumpets.

Top Five Racehorse.

5. Brunel’s Steam-Powered Stallion.
4. Filthy Slattern.
3. Indiscreet Faux-Pas.
2. The Futility of Existence and the Endless March Toward Death.
1. Mr. Cloppy.

Top Five Astonishing Adventures.

5. Lord Likely and the Lost Cat.
4. Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances.
3. Lord Likely’s General Twattery.
2. Lord Likely’s Extra-Ordinary Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama.
1. The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park.

Top Five Way To Sign Off.

5. ‘Cock off!’
4. ‘Cheerio, chums!’
3. ‘Get off my property or I shall release the hounds.’
2. ‘Begone!’
1. ‘Toodle-pip!’

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

March, 1857.

Having been left a homeless wretch, caked in vomit and piss and with my natural sense of style and grace rent asunder, I was naturally more than a little displeased with those vagrant swines who had placed me in such a position.

In fact, it would not be a terrible understatement to say that I was fucking livid, and dearly wished to crack open some skulls with the nearest blunt instrument.

Talking of blunt instruments, my man-servant Botter met me at the scrap-yard residence of the blasted beggars, as I stormed in later that afternoon. My first inclination was to smash him right in his awful mouth for deserting me in my hour of need, but as he shuffled up to me I noticed he was holding my precious cane, long thought missing by my good self.

“Oh, be still my beating heart! ‘Tis truly glorious to behold you once more! I had feared I had lost you forever, old friend!” I cried out joyously.

“It’s good to see you too, milord,” Botter answered.

“I am not referring to you, you bumbling cock-shaft,” I snapped. “I am referring to my wondrous cane! Give it here at once!”

Botter meekly handed over my prized possession. “There y’are, milord. It got dropped in the tussle, earlier.”

I stroked the top of my cane lovingly (and for once, I am not referring to my penis at this point), and then thwacked Botter across the back of his head with it. Botter yelped in pain.

“Ah, good. It still thwacks properly,” I smiled. “That was for abandoning me earlier, and not coming to my immediate and prompt rescue, you tiny bastard.”

“I-I’m sorry, milord! It just happened so fast and I was trying to hide and – “

Another thwack, another yelp.

“Just be thankful that I have a score to settle with these homeless scoundrels, Botter, else you’d be receiving a full thrashing for your woeful incompetence. As it is, I am saving my full rage for these rough-sleeping rapscallions.”

“Thank you, milord. You are much too kind.”

“I know, I know. Now, where are these wretches hiding? We must go forth and…oh!” I stopped, espying an unopened bottle of beer on the floor beside me. “Hmm, there can be no harm in having a quick drink before I embark upon a vigourous bout of fisticuffs…”

I cracked open the bottle, and raised it to my lips, but before I could sample the golden goodness encased within, Botter leapt at me and knocked the bottle from my hand, sending it crashing down onto the ground, where upon it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Naturally, I punched my man-servant squarely in the face for his troubles.

“What in the name of Captain Fellatio Hornblower do you think you are doing, man?” I roared.

“The beer, milord!” Botter replied, nursing his bloodied nose. “The beer is contaminated with tramp’s piss, don’t forget!“

The stinking oaf was right, of course, but I refused to let him know as much, and simply punched him in the face again.

“That is for using the word ‘piss’ in my presence, when you could have said ‘urine’. I am a very sensitive fellow, you know.”

Botter mumbled an apology from his resting place upon the ground.

“Don’t be too hard on the poor fellow,” came a voice behind me. “There is plenty more beer where that came from, your lordship.”

I spun around to face that filthy cur, Kenneth the Hat, the erstwhile leader of the vile vagabonds. He was joined by a good thirty or so other skanks, all of whom seemed to be cradling a makeshift weapon of some sort – broken sticks, disused mops, discarded bicycle spokes and so on and so forth.

“Oh fuck, fuck and double fucking fuckity-fuck,” I whispered.

“I think the beggars are revolting,” Botter observed.

“Revolting?” I answered. “They are positively vomit-inducing.”

“Go on, your lordship,” Kenneth said, smiling a horrid, broken smile whilst offering me another beer. “Just one more for the road, eh?”

“NEVER!” I roared defiantly. “Your beer is nothing more than an errant fraud, concocted from piss and stink.”

“Heh. You’re very observant, my lord,” Kenneth chuckled. “I should imagine that at this point, you’re wondering exactly why we are making beer out of our own piss, Lord Likely. Well allow me to explain my brilliant plan to you…”

“Do not bother yourself,” I sniffed. “I think I have figured it out. You are brewing a beer so potent it renders a chap completely insensible, and with no recollection of his former life. You no doubt plan to flog this beer to everyone in the land, thus bringing the entire population of Great Britain down to your own awful, shit-stained level, blah blah blah, etcetera, etcetera. I have heard this sort of thing a thousand times over, so if you do not mind can we simply move on to the climactic skirmish, as I am an awfully busy man and I have a party still to organise..”

“Uh, milord,” Botter interjected. “About the party…you went missing for a few days, you see, and the scheduled date for your planned ball has since elapsed quite considerably, so…”

A red mist began to form before my eyes.

“Are you telling me, Botter, that these reprobates have made me MISS my own PARTY?”

“I…I’m afraid so, milord,” Botter confirmed.

I do not know precisely what happened next, as I was suddenly consumed with a rage so powerful that it controlled my every action. From what I have been able to determine from Botter’s eyewitness account, I let out a deafening roar and, cane in hand, ploughed into the amassed vagrants with considerable gusto. It would seem I became something of a blur, swiftly working my way through the rabble, sending bodies flying left and right as I battered them viciously with my cane. Skulls were indeed cracked, noses broken, limbs shattered and organs pulped as I tore through the swine like an ‘Oriental warrior’, in Botter’s own words.

Once that was over, I apparently dragged Kenneth the Hat to the warehouse-come-brewery, wherein I drowned the maleficent miscreant in a vat of his own piss.

“Rest In Piss,” I quipped, as Kenneth The Hat’s body floated lifelessly atop the urinary waters. “Well, Botter, I think I am all done now.” I said, as I returned to my usual, well-composed self. “A jolly fine day’s work, too. I say, this calls for a celebration, don’t you think? We must throw a massive party to-night, and invite all the very classiest people I know. Of course, we shall need some booze…”

I turned to Botter, only to find him running out of the warehouse at top speed, screaming at the top of his filthy lungs.

What a peculiar fellow.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something completely different.

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There are few things more horrifying, more terrible, more downright cataclysmic than running out of alcohol.

The awfulness of this situation is multiplied by a factor of a million when one is supposed to be holding a magnificent ball to celebrate the one-year anniversary of one’s journals, as I had proposed. Immediate action was required to alleviate this deepening crisis.

“Botter,” I said softly. “Prepare the Likely Mobile!”

“The what, milord?”

“You know. The horse and carriage. We must go into town, and try and procure more booze if we are to throw the mother of all parties here tonight. The fate of hundreds of party-goers and revellers rests in our very hands.” I paused and looked out of the window, striking my best troubled look. “God help us all.”

We arrived at Mr. Timothy Tipsy’s Emporium of Alcoholic Beverages an hour later, but as soon as I set my lordly foot inside the shop, I could sense something was rather amiss.

All the shelves in the shop were as bare as a nudist’s arse.

“Good day, gents,” smiled Mr. Tipsy, as he emerged from the back-room of his store. “And how may I help you fine fellows on this fine February afternoon?”

“Wh-wh-where’s all the damned booze, confound it?” I replied.

“Ah, yes. You noticed that, did you? Well, you see, sir, we no longer sell alcohol here.”

“What in the name of buttocks are you warbling about? This is, is it not, Mr. Timothy Tipsy’s Emporium of Alcoholic Beverages?”

“Oh, it was, sir. It was. But now we specialise in shelves. Take a look around you, sir! A fine array of shelves as you will ever see, I am sure.”

“But…why, man? Why?“

“Well, they are very fine shelves, sir, crafted from the finest Norwegian wood. Many of my customers have commented on the excellence of my shelving, and with business being a bit slow of late, I realised that my best asset in this shop was not the booze, but that which was holding the booze up – to whit, the shelves. I simply put two and two together and came up with shelves, sir.”

“Please, for the love of ev’ry God under the sun, tell me that you have stored the booze away safely somewhere…” I pleaded.

“Oh, heavens no, sir!” the foolish fellow chirped. “We threw all the alcohol out into the garden, and lit a massive fire. It was most spectacular, I can tell you. We nearly set the whole street aflame, and sadly three cats perished in the blaze. But still, it was quite an incredible sight to behold.”

I rubbed the top of my nose despairingly.

“You, sir, are possibly the biggest idiot I have ever clapped eyes upon, and I live with Botter here.”

“I beg to differ, sir! People will always need things to be held up a certain distance from the ground, you see. Shelves are the future! Why, I believe even Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, has a shelf in her palace, so it is rumoured.”

“My good man,” I sighed deeply. “Have you ever been hit upon the head with a shelf?”

“No, sir! I can’t say that I have.”

“Would you like to be?” I smirked.

*****

Botter and I emerged from the shop, my self brandishing a large shelf.

“It is funny, Botter, I had no desire to purchase a shelf to-day but after clobbering that fellow about the head with one, and seeing how the shelf remained strong and unscathed after such a brutal attack, I was quite swayed, I can tell you. First-rate craftsmanship, I must say.”

“Plus Mr. Tipsy can use those pound notes you gave him to mop up his blood,” Botter added.

“Exactly! Everybody wins!” I beamed, but then my face fell again as I remembered the original purpose of my visit to the shop. “However, we are still no nearer to getting hold of more alcohol for the party, Botter. This is getting rather serious.”

“Maybe we could try that pub outside the town, milord?” Botter suggested. “I’ll bet they’ve got loads of booze to spare.”

“Botter!” I cried. “Who could have imagined that you would have a good idea rolling around in that vast, empty void you call a brain? Capital idea, man! Let us get back to the carriage and – “

“Can you spare any change, guv?” came a voice at my elbow. I looked down to see a hitherto unnoticed vagrant sat on the pavement beside me, his grimy hand reaching outwards me.

“If you do not leave me alone this instant,” I replied, “then the only change you shall experience is the change in you being dead, rather than alive.”

The beggar mumbled something under his breath, and took a swig from a bottle of cider he was holding in his other hand.

“Wait a blasted, disease-ridden minute! How is it that some filthy, pus-filled wretch has alcohol, yet I – Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action – have none? Has the world gone completely arse-about tit?” I stooped over the pauper, and grabbed him roughly by his lapels, an action I instantly regretted as his lapels were caked in grime. “Where on Earth did you get that booze? Tell me man! Tell me at once!”

“I can’t!” cried out the foul creature, as I shook him violently. “I can’t tell ya, guv!”

I stopped shaking the vagrant (too many flakes of dandruff and/or skin were flying off of the vile abomination), and then I decided to try a different approach.

“There shall be a shiny penny in it for you,” I said. The beggar smiled a disgusting, decaying smile at me.

“Deal,” he said.

And so the stage was set for one of my most unusual adventures thus far…

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Lord Likelys descends into the murky underworld of Victorian London, and faces previously unimagined horrors, all just so that he might get some alcohol and get utterly pissed off of his lordly face.

*****

Notes, Notices and Notifications.

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

Mr. Diesel, long time supporter of his lordship and the chap behind Mattress Police and humor-blogs.com (click the latter link to help his lordship rocket up the rankings, by the way), has launched a new offensive upon the world of comedy, called The Clay Pigeon, chock-full of amusing articles and witty writings. Although nowhere near as hilarious as his lordship’s own scrawlings (naturally), we still encourage you to visit the Pigeon by clicking the image below! The second issue is out…right…about…NOW!

The Further Scrawlings of Mr. A.D Fanton:
Digital Sickbag | The Carrotty Kid
The Best Bit of the Internet

Other places of interest:

FuelMyBlog | Blog Catalog | humor-blogs.com

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December, 1856.

It was Christmas Eve, and I was in London Town, doing some last-minute Christmas shopping, for myself, of course. I had thus far treated myself to a solid-gold moustache comb, five bottles of whisky and a particularly pornographic pamphlet entitled ‘Shoeless Hussies’. All being told, it was proving to be a most successful expedition.

“Can you spare a penny, guv?” croaked an awful, wizened old creature as I passed by, engrossed in my copy of Shoeless Hussies.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Can you spare a penny, guv?” repeated the beggar.

“Why yes, I most certainly could spare a penny. I shan’t, however, as you are much too ghastly and disgusting to waste even ha’penny on.” I said, scornfully.

“Oh, c’mon, guv! It’s Christmas after all! Surely you can spend a penny on a poor, crippled, homeless man?”

I stopped and slowly turned to face the repellent being, a smile creeping across my lordly lips.

“Ah, but of course,” I beamed, gently placing the packages upon the floor. “I should only be too happy to oblige.”

With that, I pulled down my trousers, unsheathed my proud Lord Palmerston and began to urinate most forcibly upon the homeless wretch.

“I must confess, it does indeed feel good to spend a penny on the unfortunate,” I beamed as I continued to piss upon the foul fellow. “Who could have guessed that charity would feel quite so rewarding?”

The putrid pauper spluttered and coughed as my wondrous waters cascaded upon his filthy face.

“Agh! Stop it, stop it, please! I ‘as my dignity, y’know!”

“Oh, be quiet,” I snapped as I continued my evacuations. “Some people would pay huge amounts of money to be pissed upon by a lord. You should consider yourself to be very fortunate indeed!”

With my bladder now emptied, I withdrew my Palmerston and pulled my trousers back up. “Merry Christmas!” I smiled, tipping my hat. The beggar grudgingly tipped his cap in return, my urine pouring off of it as he did so.

My charitable work thus concluded, I set off, whistling Christmas ditties as I went.

I was still laughing about the incident when I finally arrived back at the Likely Estate later that afternoon. I was in extremely high spirits when I entered my luxurious mansion, a fact that did not escape my bumbling twazzle-stick of a man-servant, Botter.

“You seem very chipper, milord,” he observed.

“And why shouldn’t I be? It is the season to be jolly, after all!” I beamed, handing him my hat and coat. “Plus, I did get to urinate all over a homeless man today. All in all, I had a rather good day!”

“I see,” said Botter.

“Ah, Botter!” I exclaimed, as I headed to the drinks cabinet in my living room. “Another year draws to a close. And what a year, eh? What a year. We’ve certainly had our share of adventures, haven’t we, hmmm? Killer prostitutes, female pirates, homosexual Indians, mad Russians, gunfights, parties…”

“…intercourse with Abraham Lincoln…” Botter added.

“Yes, intercourse with Abra-” I stopped. “Uh, let us never speak of that particular escapade ever again, lest you lose a bollock, Botter.”

“Fair enough, milord.”

“Good chap!” I cried, throwing myself onto my favourite chair. “Yes….we’ve certainly been through a lot this past year,” I mused, sipping from a recently-poured glass of whisky. “And do not think that I have overlooked your continued loyalty and support through it all, Botter. I have put a little something extra in this month’s pay-packet, as a token of my appreciation.”

I threw an envelope across the room to my man-servant, who tore it open with almost child-like fervour.

“Oh, milord!” He said as he opened the envelope. “I don’t know what to say…I…I…”

Botter stopped as he tipped out the contents into his hand. I watched as he pushed the few coins inside around his palm, somewhat despondently.

“Um, milord, I don’t mean to question you, but this seems like my normal salary…I…I thought you said there was something extra?…”

“And so there is!” I grinned, bounding across the room. “Look,” I said, leaning over Botter’s shoulder and pointing at his outstreched palm. “There.”

“Where?”

“By the newborn baby Jesus, are you blind, man? THERE.”

“Do you mean…this hair, milord?” Botter asked, carefully lifting out a curly black strand from between the coins.

“Exactly!” I cried. “Isn’t it a beauty, Botter? That, my good fellow, is one of my very own pubic hairs. Treasure it well, Botter. Treasure it well!”

“Oh. Uh, thank you, milord.” Botter mumbled.

“Not at all, Botter, not at all! It is the least I could do.”

“I can’t argue with that,” grumbled my man-servant, glumly.

“Well, I’m off to bed now, Botter. I want to be up bright and early in the morning, in order to get in a full day’s drinking. Goodnight!”

With that I ascended the staircase, leaving Botter to enjoy his most magnificent of gifts.

I was enjoying a rather erotic dream involving Queen Victoria, my todger, a small Persian fellow and a large vat of custard when I was rudely roused from my slumber by a noise emitting from outside my chamber door. I silently cursed the unseen offender, and picking up a nearby candle, I ventured to the door to confront the bounder responsible.

“Botter,” I said sternly. “If that is you scratching at my door, I swear I shall batter your baubles.”

I was about to turn the door-handle, when suddenly something swooped right through the wood and into my room.

“Shit on a cake!” I cried. “What in the name of the Virgin Mary’s untouched vadge is going on?”

“Looooord Liiiikely…” wailed a voice, as a ghostly white form appeared before my eyes. “Looooord Liiiiikely….“

“Yes, yes,” I snapped. “That is I. What in the blue-blazes do you want, confound it?”

The ghostly form slowly began to assume the shape of a female, and not an unattractive one at that. She seemed to resemble an angel or a fairy, as she sported a large pair of wings upon her back, and a large pair of tits on her front.

“Loooord Liiiikely…” the ghoul continued. “You are a terrible man, Lord Likely, and you have…AN ASTONISHINGLY IMPRESSIVE ERECTION.”

“Pardon?” I said. The apparition pointed at my groin, where Lord Palmerston was standing proud, most definitely wide-awake. “Oh yes, so I do,” I concurred.

“That…is huge,” observed the female phantom, running a spectral finger across her lifeless lips. “I mean, just enormous.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It…I…good heavens!” the ghost continued, fanning her face with her hand.

“I do not believe we’ve been properly introduced,” I said. “I’m Lord Likely, a fact you seem to already know…and you are?…”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m Past. Uh, the ghost. The Ghost of Christmas Past,” replied the flustered phantasm.

“Charmed,” I said. “And what can I do for you, my dear?”

“Well,” replied the spirit, her gaze not moving from my tumescent todger. “I was…I was supposed to chastise you for being a wicked man…”

“Oh really?” I whispered, moving nearer to the angelic apparition. “You have not given me much opportunity to be wicked, yet…”

“No…no, really, listen,” stuttered the spirit. “I am supposed to warn you that if you do not change your horrid ways…”

“Yes?” I said, edging closer, my fully-aroused penis almost touching the ghoul.

“Then…”

“Yes?”

“Then…oh, forget it!” cried the exasperated entity. “I do not want you to change one bit, Lord Likely. I want you to be wicked. I want you to be wicked with ME, right NOW!” she panted, throwing me back onto my bed using her supernatural powers. Naturally, I was only too happy to oblige, and so I set about channeling the spirit all through the night.

I cannot quite recall the actual physics of our love-making, nor how I was able to engage in intercourse with a ghost. I do recall that she was a lively little minx in the sack, far more lively than some of the living ladies I have humped in my time, I can tell you. I do faintly remember grabbing onto her wings at one point, whilst roughly taking her from behind, while she moaned and wailed like…well, like a ghost. A ghost getting the pumping of her after-life.

I awoke with a start the next morning, as the sound of church bells in the distance heralded the beginning of Christmas Day. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and glanced across at the other side of my bed. It was empty, practically undisturbed from the night before. Had my erotic exertions with the Ghost of Christmas Past all been a figment of my fevered imagination, I wondered.

I moved to get up out of the bed, when I felt something sticky near my groin. I looked down, and saw a small pool of some gloopy, gooey substance. Ectoplasm!, I thought. Proof indeed that I had not dreamt up the entire scenario. I really had fucked a phantom! Oh, joy of joys!

However, on closer inspection, it transpired that the sticky substance was simply my own exalted ejaculate, and not ectoplasm as I had first assumed. I sighed.

Ah well. Whatever the truth behind my supernatural encounter, it was now Christmas Day, and as I listened to a chorus of carol-singers gently singing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem‘, I made a vow to myself. I made a vow to change.

Specifically, I made a vow to change my pants, for they were soaked through with my spaff. After that, I resolved to throw my own shit down upon those infernal carol-singers, and then go and deliver a festive beating to Botter.

I do so love this time of year.

Merry Christmas, dear readers, and Lord bless you, every one.

– Lord Likely.

Post-script: if you are wondering what became of Mr. Silas Surprise and The Curious Case of the Conjuring Calamity, then simply know this: I beat seven shades of effluence out of that magical bastard, and saved the day again. Well, what else did you expect?

Attention! His lordship is one of the many rogues featured in the marvelous new publication, Revealing the Human Behind the Avatar – learn more about it here!

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Hallowe’en.

Upon returning to the Likely Estate after my long, arduous, but nonetheless astonishing American Adventure, I was annoyed to find that there was scant food in the house, and the food which we did have had long since expired and gone off. Worse still, squirrels had somehow gotten into my lovely new Porn Library, and chewed their way through my entire thirty-eight volume Karma Sutra.

I chastised Botter for allowing things to slide into such an awful state, to which he replied that he would have been more diligent, but he had been too busy accompanying me to America, and could not keep a close enough eye on the Estate from across the ocean. Needless to say, I clipped him around the ear for his insolent back-chat.

Although exhausted from my recent travails, it was clear to me that there was no option but to take matters into my own hands, and venture into the city to replenish our supplies. I left Botter with instructions to set about cleaning up the mansion, then I set off to London Town.

I stepped out of Liverrott’s Alcohol and Booze Emporium, my final port of call on my shopping trip. I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I had managed to complete the shopping in record time, no doubt due to the fact that I was unhindered by my cretinous man-servant. I smiled to myself, and with my spirits soaring as high as a kite, I set about trying to find a hansom cab to transport me back to the Likely Estate.

After forty-three minutes of fruitless searching, my mood had soured somewhat, and I was cursing every cab driver in the city, and their families, and their families’ families. Why was it one could not find a cab when one really needed one, I pondered angrily. And where in the name of Charles Dickens‘ cock-hole was I? It appeared I had strayed into the more unfamiliar regions of the nation’s capital, and was rather lost.

As I mused on this conundrum, I heard a slow, shuffling sound coming from behind me. I tensed every muscle in my body – even my Lord Palmerston – and prepared myself for the worst. Then I swung around to confront it.

‘It’ was horrifying than I could have ever imagined.

There, in front of me, was some kind of filthy, grotesque apparition, with drawn, sunken eyes and lifeless, pallid skin. This awful spectre slowly reached out to me, its clawed hand turned palm-up. I almost felt like vomiting into my own hat, so hideous and disgusting was this shambolic mockery of humanity.

Then this fearful creature spoke.

“Change?” it hissed. I recoiled in disgust. I do so hate filthy beggars. “Change?” the demon repeated, thrusting his hand towards me as if to accentuate the point. I had absolutely no desire to part with my precious money, for which my father had worked so hard, and so I attempted an evasive maneuver. However, as I turned away, ready to flee, I was faced with yet another fearsome phantasm.

“Change?” croaked the second abomination.

Sweat beaded my lordly brow, as I feared for my wallet’s life. I backed away slowly from the putrid, poverty-stricken pair, but was stopped in my tracks by another of their ilk, who had mysteriously appeared from nowhere. I quickly came to realise that these awful creatures were numerous and many, and were bleeding out of the shadows and towards me, the scent of fresh currency filling their nostrils. They all advanced towards me, hands held out, chorusing the word, “Change” as they approached me.

“Get back, you vile devils!” I roared, brandishing my cane as if it were a weapon.

“Please, sir,” said the first man-beast, slightly surprising me with his eloquence. “Do not fear us. We do not wish to harm you. We just ask for your kindness.”

“AAARRRGGH!” I screamed, and twatted the man with the end of my cane, sending him crashing to the floor with a nasty cut to his head.

“Please! Sir, you must stop!” cried another of the vagrants, who seemed to be a female, or at least the closest to female. “Leave poor Gary alone! Please! He is just a man, like you! The only difference is, he has nothing. Nothing at all.”

At this juncture, a small, dirty, scruffy, crippled child hobbled out from the crowd, and towards me.

“Have you come to save us, mister?” he asked quietly, tugging at my trouser leg.

“ARRRGGGH!” I yelled again, punting the tiny terror clear across the street.

“Please, sir!” cried out the female. “That is my poor, sickly child! What kind of monster are you?”

“You will have to forgive me,” I said, stifling the urge to be sick as I beheld the woman’s grotesque countenance. “You all look so ghastly that I cannot help but be terrified and offended all at once. I feel like I should put you all out of your misery.”

The disgusting crone shook her head sadly, forcing dust and grime to become dislodged from her wispy locks as she did so. Then she scurried off to the aid of her son, and scooped him up into her arms, cooing soothing words into the boy’s ear. As I watched this tender, caring act unfold before me, I felt something approaching pity and compassion well up inside me. Could it be that I was beginning to care about these unhappy blighters, I wondered.

“Sorry my head got in the way of your cane,” said Gary, suddenly appearing at my shoulder, nursing his bloodied head.

“AARRRGGGH!” I cried, and struck him once more with my cane. He crumpled to the floor., silently.

“Right!” I exclaimed. “That is it! I have had enough of this! I am going to do something about this terrible situation RIGHT NOW! Wait here, I shall be but five minutes! Do not go anywhere! Not that you have anywhere to go, I suppose. Ta-ta for now!”

And with that, I departed.

“There! Is that not much better?” I said, standing back to better admire my fine handiwork. The assembled paupers murmured something in return, which I took to be a show of appreciation. “Marvelous, glad you agree. I must say, I think I have performed something approaching a miracle, here today.”

To understand exactly what I had done, I must furnish you with some pictorial aids. This first illustration shows the awful creatures in all their hideous foulness, so I recommend that you view the image on an empty stomach:

Quite a horrendous sight, I am sure you will agree. Now then, is the second image, showing them after I had taken it upon myself to greatly improve the quality of their life:

I am sure you will agree, I had brightened up their drab and dreary life quite considerably, and I had also made them look far less threatening with the simple addition of gaily-coloured party hats. In addition, I took the liberty of replacing the horribly deformed crippled child with a delightfully cute lemur, as everyone likes lemurs, after all. Finally, to cap it all off, I donated a very handsome statue of my good self, so that these savages may remember my extraordinary benevolence for ever more.

As I stood surveying my wonderful work, Gary sidled up to me.

“Thank you, sir,” he faltered, adjusting his party hat atop his wounded head. “You…um…you have done us an honour, here today. No doubt about that! But we were just wonderin’…it’s just…we’d like somethin’ to eat, we are all so famished and so weak…so, um…do you have any spare change? “

I snorted with outright indignation, and thwacked the dismal creature about the head with my cane once more, then stalked off.

Some people are just never satisfied.

- Lord Likely.

His lordship will be taking a short sabbatical, to recover from his Astonishing American Adventure and his exhausting charity work. He shall return next Monday, when he hopes you will join him in celebrating the Likely Centenary. Smart dress essential.

Lord Likely recommends you pass the time waiting for his return by visiting any of the web-logs listed on the left-hand side, or by visiting these web-sites:

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More things I have stabbed with my trusty fencing sword, over the years…

A Grizzly Bear: When a Chinese Circus (bearing the slogan ‘Where Animals Are Beaten For Your Pleasure!’) came to town, I was reluctantly dragged along to witness the awful spectacle by a friend of mine, Lord John Ratzenberger, who loved circuses a bit too much, as far as I was concerned.

So we adjourned to the circus, and readied ourselves for an evening of so-called entertainment.

The event passed predictably enough, with a procession of gaudily-dressed, smug wankers carrying out tedious feats of ‘danger’, until one particular act began, involving a grizzly bear juggling. The bear was clearly as interested in performing as I was in watching, which is to say not very interested at all. His trainer persisted, throwing juggling balls at the poor creature until it finally snapped, and lunged at the man, and bit his hand clean off.

From there, pandemonium ensued, as the bear turned his attention to the audience and began running amok in the stalls. Finally sensing some adventure and excitement, I raced down to join in the fracas and tried to placate the animal, by stabbing him in the head with my sword.

This was an uncharacteristically bad idea on my part, and I was rewarded by a swift paw to the face, which sent me reeling back, dropping my blade in the process.

Weaponless, I decided to take the bear on bare-handed, while he himself remained bear-handed, and so we fought. Fisticuffs with a ferocious bear was, undoubtedly, the most exciting event on the play-bill that night.

I eventually triumphed over the creature, by kicking him in the stomach, then delivering a swift upper-cut to his furry jaw. The animal fell back, knocked out-cold by my powerful swing.

To conclude the night, I stabbed Ratzenberger for daring to bring me along to such a terrible show. He never invited me along again, thank God.

Botter: I have stabbed Botter countless times, as there really is nothing like a sharp-point to the torso to jolt a man-servant into action.

One particular time stays in the memory, when Botter had failed to adequately clean one of my swords.

“Botter,” I said, in my sternest tone, “this blade is not sufficiently cleansed. There is still grime and shit all over it.”

“Shit?” said Botter.

“Yes, Botter, shit.” Then I jammed the blade into Botter’s unsuspecting posterior, causing him to yelp in pain. To add further to the comedy, he then flailed around the drawing-room, sword still embedded in his anus, knocking things over with the handle as he stumbled about.

Of course, I made him pick up and clean everything he knocked over, which he did despite the sword still resting in his awful hide.

I did not allow it to be removed for a further three hours.

Another Beggar: They really are cunts, you know.

– Lord Likely.

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Now, where was I?

Ah, yes, heading to London Town to track down my would-be assassin.

Well, having gathered our senses after our drunken debacle, Botter and I recommenced our journey. However, after a few hours of aimless wandering, we soon came to the inevitable conclusion that we were lost.

“We are lost, Botter”, I exclaimed. “Furthermore, you appear to have soiled your undergarments during the night, and thus you are now emitting a stench so foul I feel I may have to throw up into my own nasal cavity, so I can longer smell it. To whit, my dear Botter, you stink of shit.”

Botter stopped the carriage to allow me a temporary reprieve from his awful odour. I strolled into a small copse nearby, and drew in a long, hard lungful of the fresh, country air.

Except, to my nose’s horror, all I could smell was urine.

I swiveled round quickly, and swiftly located the source of this latest malodour. I was confronted by a fearful apparition, all unkempt hair and cheap fabrics. The terrible creature lumbered towards me, mumbling in some fearful, unholy tongue.

I swiftly drew my fencing sword, and used it to keep the monster at an agreeable distance, while I loudly summoned Botter to my side.

My man-servant made his entrance, and then to my bewilderment, approached the terrible beast with an outstretched hand.

“Botter!,” I began. “Keep away! We know not what devilry this fiend may enact…”

“Wotcha,” said Botter, addressing the creature. “How’s it going?”

I could only look on, agog, as the two began conversing in what I could only estimate to be some long-dead language.

Botter gave the foul abonimation a friendly pat on the back, and turned to me.

“Your lordship, this here is Albert Spunkleford. He’s Mrs. Spunkleford’s little boy. You remember, right? She was friends with that woman who ran that small bakery in town that made novelty buns shaped like cocks, who was married to Mr. Retch from the council? Y’know, the brother of Waldo Retch, the watch-maker? Who was briefly married to…”

“Cease, Botter, before you recount to me the complete ancestry of every damn soul in the land.”

“Sorry, your Lordship. Anyways, Al’s from London Town, see, but wound up stranded here after visiting relatives. He reckons he knows the way to the Town, sure enough. Could be helpful, sir.”

I eyed up the haggard form of Albert Spunkleford, replete with a rather too recent urine stain about his crotch.

“It is decided, then” I announced. “He travels with us.”

Botter and Al both smiled.

“BUT,” I added, “he travels on the roof.”

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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.

- Lord Likely.

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