THIS WEEK, dear readers, you find me plummeting down the side of a rather tall cliff, rapidly heading towards a doubtlessly painful and potentially messy encounter with the ground below. You may (quite naturally) be wondering how I found myself in such a predicament, so please allow me to elucidate.

I have noticed of late the rise of a curious literary phenomenon, that being the appearance of a vast array of autobiographies penned by the rich and famous, which are cluttering up the shelves of book-shops up and down the land, like literary pigeons depositing their word-droppings into the eyes of anyone passing by.

This year sees publication of such tomes as Mr. Charles Dickens’ ‘What? THE Dickens?’; Sir Robert Peel’s ‘Unpeeled’; Charles Darwin’s ‘The Origin of Charles Darwin’ and ‘Bell Ends’, by Alexander Graham Bell, all vying for the punter’s hard-earned (or hard-inherited) cash. It is certainly a lucrative market, which gave me a rather glorious idea…

“Pah!” I exclaimed, as I slammed shut a copy of Mr. Bell’s book, which I had been reading in the drawing room of my spacious mansion. “Alexander Graham Bell! What has HE done to warrant such a publication, eh?”

“Well, he revolutionised the way we communicate with one another by developing and patenting the telephonic device, milord,” Botter replied.

“Pah!” I repeated. “But did he ever wrestle a bear, I ask you?”

“Not to my knowledge, milord.”

“Precisely! But I have!” I cried.

“As I recall, milord, that was just a rather large lady in a fur coat…”

“Aye, but she was wild!” I beamed. “Anyway, the point remains – my life has been considerably more interesting than these bearded buffoons who have been blessed with biographical books! But where is my autobiography, hmmm? Nowhere, that is where! Well, that is a publishing oversight that I shall attempt to rectify right now! Quick, let us hasten to the ‘Wonder Factory’!”

“The…the what, milord?”

“My STUDY, Botter. Heavens, do try and keep up.”

*****

AS YOU all should know by now, whene’er I embark upon another Astonishing Adventure, I am careful to chronicle it in one of my journals, so that future generations may read them and revel in their sheer majesty, thus keeping my memory alive for time immemorial, if not longer. Once completed, my journals are carefully stored away in the bookcases of my study, which were now being viewed by my considerably widened eyes.

“Bugger me!” I declared as I surveyed the rows upon rows of journals before me. “There are a lot of ruddy journals here!” I plucked one from a shelf, and flipped through its yellowing pages. “Ha-ha! Listen to this, Botter: ‘March the Sixteenth, 1864. My man-servant Botter got his head trapped in some railings today. I had rather a good laugh at his expense, and then helped him free. Several hours later.‘ Ha! Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Botter winced.

“Good times, good times,” I chuckled as I slid the leather-bound volume back in the shelf.

“I must say, milord, I’m rather impressed that you are willing to put so much work into this autobiography of yours…researching through all of these journals will take you months, I’d wager!”

“Oh, scrotums to that, Botter!” I beamed, spinning away from the bookshelf. “I have thought of a far easier, and much more exciting way of preparing for this task! Quick! Let us hasten to the Likely Mobile!” Botter’s face suggested a complete absence of comprehension. “Ready the horse and carriage, you wretched sphincter.”

*****

“MILORD,” Botter said slowly. “I cannot help but wonder why we have come to Death Ridge, and why we are standing at the vey edge of an extremely tall cliff.”

“Ha! Poor, stupid, intellectually-impaired Botter!” I cheered, slapping my man-servant so very heartily on the back that he nearly toppled over the edge. “A small cliff would never suffice!”

“Suffice for what, milord?”

“Let me explain, you poltroon! You see, they say that when a man finds himself in a life-threatening situation, facing near certain death, his entire life flashes before his eyes…”

“Uh-oh…” Botter began.

“Thus, I have decided to hurl myself off this very cliff, so that my life may flash before my eyes, thereby saving me all that terribly tedious research I would otherwise face. And naturally, as I have lived such a full, rich and exciting life, I shall need a very tall cliff from which to leap, as opposed to a much smaller cliff which would be more than adequate for someone like yourself, who has lived a very dull and remarkably uninteresting life. Do you see? ‘Tis rather ingenious, is it not?”

Botter shook his head. “If you shall forgive me for saying so, milord, I think it is rather – ”

“It is, rather!” I beamed. “Toodle-pip!”

And with that, I jumped right off the cliff, which is where you came in, dear readers.

And as I began my descent towards the decidedly solid ground below, my life did indeed begin to flash before my very eyes. My plan was working PERFECTLY.

I could see myself as a mere lad, playing and frolicking on the grounds of the Likely Estate – ah, such fun! And there I was, being caught reading some pornographic literature behind the old oak tree, my father quickly confiscating said pamphlet from me…

My father. Lord Eustace Likely, Gentle-Man Explorer – a hero to millions, and a father to me, or at least he was, until he buggered off when I was six years-old. I had since presumed him to be dead, but a recent run-in with my arch-nemesis Lord Loathsome had revealed to me that he was still very much alive. I should really go and look for him, I suppose. But what if he has forgotten me? What if he simply does not care? What if he turns out to be a massive, terrible twat-hole? The disappointment could kill me!

Damn that Loathsome for imparting that news to me. Damn him to Hades, the snivelling little tit-sack.

Ha! Tit-sack. Tit. TITS. Hmm….

Suddenly a stream of memories relating to the ladies I have pumped over the years trickled through my mind, forming an ocean of breasts, a sea of vaginas and a beautiful, babbling brook of buttocks. Ah, so many beauties! Ladies, female pirates, sensual Russian spies, bakers, paupers, wives, dancers…so many notches had been carved upon my bedpost that it had been whittled down to a toothpick. Ah, happy times!

Hmmm, I pondered as I tumbled through the air, I wonder how my dear Dorothy Mount-Worthy is keeping? It has been a while since I last beheld her fine form, and longer still since I last bedded that fine form. Ah, what a woman! She was one of the few ladies who could lay claim to my heart as well as my ‘part’. The last I heard she had returned to her husband, Count Mount, a fellow I always thought had one too many vowels in his title to adequately describe him.

Ah, well, I sighed as I continued my downward trajectory. There is plenty more fish in the sea, as they say. But in all honesty, I don’t really want to have sex with a fish. A mermaid might be interesting, I suppose, although it’d depend largely on which half is which. The traditional mermaid build, with a human upper-half and fishy lower-half does not really work for me. If it was the other way around, then one is blessed with a chuff AND a creature with a mouth that looks like it was designed with fellatio in mind. Perfect!

Good heavens, now I’m incredibly aroused, I mused.

And then I hit the ground.

*****

I AWOKE with a start.

“Wh-where am I?” I blurted.

“‘Tis alright, my lord,” said Botter, carrying a tray of broth over to me. “You are back home, in your own bed.”

“How…why…who…what the ARSE is going on?” I snapped, springing up into a sitting position.

“You were rather lucky, milord. You landed on a group of schoolchildren who were collecting seashells on the shore”

“Oh,” I laid back gently. “Anything broken?”

“A dozen conch, a bucket of wentletraps and you also crushed their teacher’s cockles.”

“Well, that’s alright then.” I smiled weakly.

“Did you at least manage to see your entire life flash before your eyes milord? Have you now got adequate notes for your autobiography through this foolhardy scheme?”

“Er…no, sadly not. I got rather…distracted. I fear we shall have to find a bigger cliff, I simply have too much life to recall!” I paused. “Either that, or I shall get you to do all the research for me, Botter.”

“Very good, milord.”

I smiled and allowed my eyes to gently close once more. One day, I thought, one day I shall compile my adventures into the world’s most thrilling book. ONE DAY.

And who knows? Maybe there shall even come a time in the future when all of my adventures are transmitted through a series of wires, to strange glowing boxes all across the Empire.

At any rate, I confidently anticipate that I shall still be much celebrated and admir’d for centuries to come. I am much to marvellous to fade into obscurity.

Unlike that Dickens fellow.

- Lord Likely.

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- Lord Likely

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I wonder if I may momentarily interrupt my recollections about my damned voyage to America, to inform you all of a rather bizarre occurrence which befell me recently.

What am I saying? Of course I cocking-well may momentarily interrupt – these are my ruddy journals and I shall do as I damned well please!

So, to business.

As a rich and charming member of the aristocracy, with a gargantuan todger, I receive many more marriage proposals than the next man (the next man, in my instance, happens to be my man-servant, Botter, so such a boast really is not all that impressive once you take into consideration Botter’s foul and ungodly nature).

To expedite the process of sifting through the countless proposals, I devised a rather splendid questionnaire, featuring some carefully thought-out questions designed to single-out those ladies best suited to marrying one such as wondrous as myself.

The first lady-in-waiting to partake in my rigourous interrogation was a Miss Lisa Phegan, who also went by the pseudonym ‘LoopyLisa21f‘. Her frankly beguiling answers to my perfectly pertinent questions are reproduced for your enjoyment and/or bewilderment:

Application for Title of ‘Ladyship’

Name:

Lisa Phegan. Sometimes known as LoopyLisa21f, or “Self-Powered Nancy”, my super-hero name if I was one… I’d basically just travel around in an electric wheelchair, solving crimes and that – like a cross between Professor X, Batman, and the Tour de France (or, as my dad calls it, “The Wheel-Ponce Jamboree”).

Age:

21

Title (the proletariat are considered for ladyship, but must be in possession of a cracking set of jubblies to compensate for lack of noble blood):

Ms. Or miss. Or mussss.

Physical Attributes (please enclose pictorial reference, preferably a nude photograph):
(photo attached)

Name three (3) household chores at which you excel:

I’m pretty good at all the household chores. My dad has a phobia of all things around the house, and spends most days just screaming, and reeling away from stuff. Consequently, I pretty much have to do everything: cleaning, weaning, gilding, gliding, guilding, welding, wielding, building, Bill Ding…

Describe yourself in twenty words (one of which should ideally be ‘buxom’ or ‘comely’):

Buxom, comely, homely, hairless, uninfected, splintered, sore, pus-y (as in relation to pus), winded, honked-up, Tarzan, Scrabble-liker, tucked-in, tall midget, sassy.

Are you wealthy?
Not really. I’m currently £44.58 overdrawn. Craig subscribed me to a Viagra mail order service for a joke, and it’s draining my bank account dry. I keep phoning them to say I don’t need a daily delivery of Viagra, but they haven’t stopped the direct debit yet, and just laugh at me down the phone.

Unfortunately, the dog got into the Viagra at the weekend, and ate most of it. It had much the effect you might imagine, but the dog also started foaming at the mouth and eyes, and making this sort of weird grunting noise while jerking its head from side to side, like it was trying to shake off a load of flies. The dog did this for six hours. Also: it had intimate relations with my dad for a further six hours.

Are you adept at using any weapons?
Not really, dear. I used to do judo, but the judo teacher fell out of a window one day, and snapped his thorax in four places. After that I realised that judo wasn’t much use, and stopped going. What’s the point of learning a martial art if you can’t even levitate, or develop and impervious thorax?

Have you ever been in a fight? If so, please furnish further details:
I had loads of fights with Craig, but the worst one we ever had was over a game of Subbuteo. It was awful. He tried to do a nude pitch invasion, and I had to wrestle him behind the sofa before my father’s golf friends saw. And then something even more awful happened – Craig fell backwards onto the pitch, and got a goalie wedged up his cracksie. We had to take him to casualty, and they used a special pair of tongs to remove it, and then Craig told the doctor it wasn’t the first time he’d had Seamen up his bottom.

The doctor seemed to get deeply offended by this, and refused any further treatment. I don’t really know why. Maybe because the goalie was actually Edwin van der Sar, and maybe because Craig also tried to rub himself up against some medicine.

Have you ever killed another human being, or cockney?
I’ve never killed either one of those things. The biggest thing I ever killed was a proboscis monkey. I accidentally drove over it at a safari park. Craig got out, picked it up, shoved it in the glove compartment, and then it was in there for about a week until Craig took it out and fried it up. He just put its nose in a bap, and ate it with some poupon, guy!

What is your preferred tipple?
The left one.

What is the drunkest you have ever been?
I only ever get drunk when Craig makes me drink. He gets really down sometimes, and says that the only thing which will cheer him up is watching me drink myself unconscious. I’d prefer it if he got drunk with me, rather than just sitting there, watching in silence as I down a bottle of schnapps. Also, sometimes he gets me to spin around and around until I’m sick on myself. He quite likes that too.

Would you be able to sire an heir for his lordship?
You talk really funny, dear. I had to look up what that meant (I thought it was something to do with horses). I’m not sure if I ever want to have children. I get all silly when I hold babies, and get an urge to bite them. I always imagine that they are made of marshmallow. But it turns out that they’re not, and that you can be arrested for biting babies. And that they’re more likely to press charges if you do it more than once.

How many times a week would you perform the sex-act upon your new husband?
I… it… I can’t answer that. You’ve made me blush so hard that I’ve ruptured my eardrum.

What is your preferred sexual position? (eg: The Squatting Cleric, The manatee, The Reverse Handshake etc)

There goes the other one (the other eardrum – that’s not the name of a sexy position).

Would you object to your partner making sexual congress with others, with and/or without yourself present?

Now my shoes have burst.

Have you ever touched another lady on the breast? (Please give explicit detail, referencing erotic lithographs as and when appropriate):
Only my mother when she was breastfeeding me. She only tried it the once, though, and gave up because it hurt. After that she bought a small cow, and fed me directly from that. On the same subject, do you think boy cows find udders sexy?

Would you willingly lay down your life for your lordship, should he find himself under attack from natives, beggars or whores?
I don’t think so. I suppose I could try and teach him some techniques to avoid getting into scrapes. My dad always said that the best way to avoid getting beaten up is to just keep apologising. I got mugged once, and I just spent the whole time saying sorry for putting them out. It didn’t work (they stole my purse and helmet), but at least it didn’t escalate. Also, manners cost nothing. Except in my case they cost me a purse, and the cost of a cycle helmet.

Are you gagging for it?

Gagging? Is that what happens when you put some cloth over a person’s mouth? Are you trying to kidnap me in some way? You know: kidnap me via questionnaire?

*****

Well, after I had read this application through, my interest was piqued, and my ‘Lord Palmerston’ (as I am wont to calling my proud penis) was on full alert. But that was only the peak of this oh-so erotic iceberg, for then I clapped eyes upon the photograph she had enlosed with her form:

Oh! What beauty! What grace! What alluring five o’clock shadow! Oh, how my heart soared and my balls tightened – could this glorious creature be the one?

I was expressing my joy to a friend of mine, Lord SuperFitGuy1821, over a glass of whisky at a society gathering, when he suddenly dropped his glass in shock and horror, and furthermore, his monocle popped straight out of his eye and into his soup.

“Egads, Likely!” he gasped. “LoopyLisa? I know that blasted name all too well, sir! I too was courted by this slovenly wench, but it was not until I met up with her for a dinner date that I realised the horrible, shocking truth…”

“That ‘she’ is in fact a ‘he’, perchance?” I replied, coolly.

“Precisely, Likely!”

“Oh, I am well aware of that,” I said, dismissively. “I am not a cretin, nor a fool, nor a cretinous fool. Man or woman, however, I cannot help feel that I would like to pump this divine creature all the same, in one hole or another.”

Upon further research, I discovered that LoopyLisa was the creation of a gentle-man called Mr. Biffo, from London Town. Furthermore, he has written an entire book, featuring transcripts of his torrid encounters with lust-crazed men, whilst in the guise of this Lisa character. The tome is called ‘Confessions of a Chatroom Freak‘, and is, I am reliably informed by those who dare venture near the commoners, available in all good bookshops, and here.

I urge you all to spend your hard-earned pennies on purchasing a copy of this book, so you too can fall under LoopyLisa’s bewitching spell, and also enjoy a jolly good laugh.

In the meantime, if this mysterious ‘Mr. Biffo’ character is still out there….please, do get in touch. I promise to be gentle.

- Lord Likely, who will continue his tale of his journey to America at the week-end.

Thanks to Mr. Biffo for his co-operation in today’s journal entry.

Finally, please observe Lord Likely’s guide to telling if your dinner-date is a man, published HERE.

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