DESPITE having practically plastered London with ‘Lost Cat’ posters, and having scoured the capital myself, I seemed no closer to finding my beloved pet lion, Thundercock. The police had even offered to help me search as well, promising to look ‘high and low’ for my poor pet, which I thought was rather inefficient of them, unless they hoped to see my lion soaring across the skies in a hot air balloon or something.

Anyway, in spite of all these efforts, I was still no closer to locating dear Thundercock, and so it was in a rather depressive state my man-servant found me as he slithered into the drawing room of Likely Towers.

“Milord?” he asked tentatively. “I just thought I’d -”

“Oh, do sod off, Botter. I am not in the mood to even attempt to converse with the likes of you today,” I sighed, turning away to gaze out of the window in deep, handsome contemplation. After a while, however, it became quite apparent that Botter had failed to heed my words, and had resolutely failed to sod off.

“Why have you not sodded off yet?” I snapped, swinging round in my chair to find my man-servant still standing there, his head bowed as he nervously fumbled a piece of paper in his hands.

“Um…well, I…it’s just that you have been so down of late, milord…I thought…I thought this might cheer you up a bit,” Botter replied meekly, proffering the paper towards me.

“It had better be a warrant for your immediate execution, Botter,” I snarled, grabbing the sheet from my servant’s filthy grasp. “I fear only that would bring me any amount of joy on this greyest of days.”

“It is better than that, milord,” Botter brightened. “It seems like there is an adventure afoot!”

“An adventure, eh?” I exclaimed excitedly, momentarily forgetting my woes. There really is nothing like the prospect of a jolly good adventure to clear the senses, focus the mind and stiffen one’s todger, and thus I eagerly digested the note with a renewed sense of excitement.

The note was, in fact, a telegram from my contact at Scotland Yard, Inspector Albert Spunkleford, asking for my help in apprehending a rather deranged game hunter who was running rampant through the city with a rifle, taking pot-shots at all and sundry, while heading to the city’s zoological park.

It hardly sounded like the most thrilling of adventures, but I was pleased for any diversion from my worries, so instructed Botter to ready the carriage for our departure.

*****

BOTTER and I were welcomed to the zoo by scenes of utter confusion. There was a rather unkempt and wild-eyed man yelling at a group of police officers huddled together at the zoo’s gates, a man whom I presumed to be the hunter in question, judging by the rather tatty safari suit he was sporting and the large rifle he was wielding (it is keen observations like these which separate the common man from the great). This fellow occasionally interrupted his garbled tirade against the police to fire a shot into the brickwork or in the officers’ vague direction, after which he’d resume his rant.

Spunkleford, meanwhile, was providing valiant support by cowering behind a nearby carriage, covering his ears and rocking gently backwards and forwards.

“Ah, Inspector! I see you have things covered here…specifically, your ears,” I quipped as I snuck down beside him.

“Likely!” beamed Spunkleford, removing his hands from the side of his head and squeezing my arms with joy. “Am I ever glad to see you!”

“Most assuredly,” I replied. “So then, Inspector…what in the name of twattery is going on here, precisely?”

“Well, you see that bounder there?” Spunkleford asked, indicating towards the lunatic gunman. “That there is Colonel Cackshott. Used to be a rather respected figure, though you wouldn’t think that to look at him now. He had been in Africa on safari with a hunting party, until he was caught getting rather…ahem…intimate with the carcass of a recently-shot gazelle.”

“Heavens! Maybe he misunderstood the instruction to ‘mount’ the animals?” I responded wittily.

“Anyway,” Spunkleford continued, choosing to ignore my humourous quip. “Cackshott was sent back to England shortly thereafter, massively disgraced and incredibly humiliated. I fear the chap’s gone rather off the rails.”

“By the sounds of it, dear inspector, I do not think Cackshott was ever on the rails, or anywhere near them. So, it is safe to assume that this cad has not come to the zoo for an innocent day out, then? Clearly he is looking to shoot and or hump something, yes?”

“I believe so, yes,” Spunkleford replied, shaking his head sadly.

“Rightio,” I said as I drew my pistol from within my coat. “I think it is time to see that this necrophiliac zoophile is put down, eh?”

With that I broke cover and strode out into the street, training my pistol on Cackshott, who was busily screaming at the increasingly befuddled police officers.

“Cackshott,” I bellowed, pulling back the hammer on my gun. “‘ Tis Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! The game is up! Throw down your weapon or I shall shoot you where you stand, sir!”

Cackshott swivelled round and let off a shot, which whizzed harmlessly past my head.Thank heavens Cackshott lived up to his name.

“I warned you, Cackshott,” I snarled. “No second chances.” Then, I pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Then I realised: with my mind preoccupied with worry about my pet lion, I had quite forgotten to check that my pistol was loaded. I cursed under my breath, vowed to dock Botter’s pay for neglecting to remind me, and then I braced myself for Cackshott to take advantage of my folly.

Cackshott, however, seemed quite uninterested in my mistake, and was looking past and behind me, his eyes wide, his tongue licking his dry, cracked lips with considerable relish. My brow furrowed in confusion. Damnation, I thought. ‘Tis awfully rude not to pay attention when in a fight for one’s life.

Cackshott’s gaze didn’t falter from the spot behind me, and so, curiosity finally getting the better of me, I turned to see what it was that was holding the colonel’s attention.

There in the street behind me, standing in all his majestic and magnificent glory, was my precious Thundercock.

“Thundercock!” I grinned, almost overcome with elation upon seeing my proud pet once more. But before I could rejoice any further, I heard the tell-tale sound of a rifle being cocked behind me.

I spun around again and my blood froze;  Cackshott had his weapon aimed at the lion, and looked rather like he was planning to shoot Thundercock dead.

And then, no doubt, he planned to stuff him.

- Lord Likely.

Is this the end of the lion for Likely? Will Cackshott shoot Thundercok, or is he lion? Will Likely take this lion down? And how many more terrible ‘lion’ puns can we make? Be here promptly for the fantastic finale of Lord Likely and the Lost Cat to find out!

It was a freezing cold, damp and drizzly November evening, and rather than being snugly ensconced in the warmth of my luxurious mansion, I was outside, standing in the rain, getting wetter and more irate with each passing second.

“What in the name of blue-arsed buggery am I doing here?” I snapped angrily.

“Um…it was your idea, milord,” replied my equally sodden man-servant, Botter.

“My idea?!” I snorted. “It was my idea to come and stand in the pouring rain, freezing my balls off, with only you for company? I find that very hard to believe.”

“Well, milord, you did say that…”

“Botter, please, do not tell me my own mind. That will only enrage me, and then you shall be beaten about the head. Do you understand?”

“But I – “

And so, rather inevitably, I clouted Botter around the head with my cane. He yelped in pain.

“Now let that be a lesson to you, Botter, I do not want to…what-ho!” I said, suddenly espying a poster upon the wall nearby. “Look, Botter, there’s that show I wanted to see!”

“Milord, that is what I was trying to tell you – we ARE going to see that show! You read an advertisement in the news-paper for this production, and then you got so excited that you demanded we head to London immediately. Along the way, you drank an enormous amount of whisky, and when you ran out of whisky you started on the brandy. After that, you went on to the gas from the carriage’s gas-lamps, and then fell asleep. And now, we’re here – standin’ out in the rain, waitin’ to get into this here theatre!”

“Well, what a pleasant surprise!” I beamed. “I really should get blind, steaming drunk more often, you know. Every day is a fresh barrage of unexpected delights when one is in a semi-permanent state of alcohol-induced amnesia, I must say.”

“Still…an apology would be nice,” muttered Botter, rubbing the back of his head rather over-theatrically.

“Botter, Botter, Botter. Being a member of the upper class means I never need apologise, you know that!” I said, as I inspected the theatrical poster more closely. “Good heavens! I went to school with this fellow!”

“You went to school with Silas Surprise?” asked Botter, somewhat awe-struck.

“Hmmm? Oh, no, not him. This chap, here,” I said, indicating to the far smaller print at the bottom of the page. “‘Archibald the Entirely-Adequate‘. That’s the one! Funnily enough, he had exactly the same nickname at school. Ha! Poor old Archibald.” I paused a moment. “Hold on! Do you suppose that this is the reason why I wanted to come here? To catch up with my old chum Archie?”

“No, you just said you wanted to see a woman getting viciously penetrated by a wild lion.”

“Well, quite,” I mused. “It is not every day you get to see such a spectacle. Still, maybe I shall drop in on Archie whilst I am here. It should be nice to see the old boy again, and besides which it is always infinitely entertaining to meet up with past classmates, if only to rub my enormous success and considerable wealth in their wretchedly unfulfilled faces!”

“Very good, milord.”

“Egads! This queue is moving damnably slow, is it not?” I griped, as the line shuffled slowly forwards towards the theatre. “Damn it all to Hades! I should not have to suffer the inconvenience of queuing with the rest of the proletariat now, should I? I am a ruddy aristocrat, after all! I shall go and have a word with the doorman, and see if I cannot use my high-standing and VIP status to get us in quicker.”

Botter sighed as I broke free from the queue, and strode purposefully down to the front of the line. Without breaking my pace, I walked up the steps and toward the open doors.

“Excuse me, sir, where do you think you are going?” the doorman enquired, blocking my path with a thick, tree-trunk like arm. “You will have to join the queue, I’m afraid.”

“A pox on you and your ruddy queue!” I shouted. “Do you not know who I am?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” replied the doorman, shrugging his hefty shoulders.

“Well, I am very important indeed, let me tell you. I think you shall find my name upon that list of guests you are holding, there,” I said, noticing the sheet of paper clutched in the Neanderthal man’s fat mitt.

“Oh! I’m sorry, sir,” replied the ape. “And you are?…”

“I’m just here,” I interjected, jabbing my finger blindly on the page.

“You’re Mrs. Gobblerod?”

“Well, no, clearly not. I’m just down a bit…” I said, running my finger down the list. “I should be just…HERE!” And with that, I whipped my fist off from the bottom of the sheet, and straight into the doorman’s groin. The man exhaled deeply, then crumpled to the floor, clutching his badly-bruised ball-sack.

“Hm.” I casually rested my cane upon my shoulder as I regarded my handiwork. “Crude, but undeniably effective. Come, Botter!” I cried out, turning to the theatre’s doors. “It is show-time!”

- Lord Likely.

Now Open: We are very pleased to announce the unveiling of The Upper Crust, a very special web-based community for all those loyal to his lordship to engage in friendly discussion, befriend one another, share items of interest and to get blind, roaring drunk. It is absolutely free to join, and his lordship hopes to see you there. Please bring a bottle.

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