YOU MAY well hear talk of some sort of diamond jubilee taking place this year, but I urge you all to dispel such nonsense from your minds immediately. There is only one jubilee worth celebrating and that, my dear readers, is MINE. For this year sees the fifth anniversary of my Astonishing Adventures, or my ‘Wooden Jubilee’, as I like to call it. Rather apt for a fellow who himself will often be found to be ‘sporting wood’.

It was upon this day, five years ago, that I took pen to hand and wrote the following wondrous words:

“Being a hard-working member of the aristocracy is tiresome fare indeed. When not deciding which hat to wear, or attending private functions, or stabbing a beggar, there are countless other tasks which all vie for my finite attention.

That was the opening of my first ever Astonishing Adventure, entitled ‘The Peculiar Prostitute Predicament’, a thrilling tale about murderous harlots which enraptured the globe, leaving people on the edge of their seats as the action unfolded. It also introduced the world to my glorious self – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action. From that day on, literature would ne’er again be the same, and society would be fundamentally altered for all time. And, of course, millions upon millions of ladies would begin to view their partners with acute disappointment, dismayed to find them failing to measure up in comparison to me. Quite literally, in most instances.

Since then, my adventures have gone from strength to strength, wowing more and more readers with each new fresh exploit. Admiring words have poured forth from my myriad readers, including the national press, when The Guardian newspaper declared my adventures to be one of the ‘best of the web’ three years ago (see the sidebar, left). Celebrated performers of the day have also stepped forth to heap praise upon my deserving shoulders, such as comic actorMr. Rob Riggle, who wrote to me stating, ‘I am a fan. Well done, sir….I throughly enjoyed reading your site and I look forward to reading more of your adventures!‘ A very astute chap indeed, that one.

I have also been drawn by modern artists, joined forces with talented authors such as Mr. Darren Craske and Mr. Jonathan Pinnock and formed an uneasy alliance with the bafflingly popular musician, Professor Elemental. I have even conquered the airwaves in the form of my own astonishing audio play, and I have made exemplary use of this new-fangled moving picture technology, as you can see below. There is no medium I cannot thrive in!

Truly, it has been a fantastic and formidable five years, and I am truly grateful for anyone who has stopped by to read my words, or who has left a comment, or who has befriended me ‘pon the Twittering Device or the Book of Many Faces. You are all superlative souls, and I should like to buy you all a drink. Just one between you all, mind. You shall have to pass it around. I am not made of money (unlike the suit I am currently wearing, I hasten to add).

Despite such a delectable half-decade of dazzlement, I am not going to rest upon my laurels, no matter how comfortable they may be. The next couple of months shall be a veritable whirlwind of activity based around my Wooden Jubilee, including all sorts of wonders. There shall be laughter. There shall be highly-charged eroticism. There shall be special prizes, and – most importantly – an all-new Astonishing Adventure. EGAD!

So do be sure to keep coming back, for I would hate you all to miss anything. But I do ask that you bring a bottle, for above all else, I intend to get blind, roaringly DRUNK in celebration.

Let the party commence!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

From the diaries of Herbert J. Bottsworth (‘Botter’).

First of June, 1890.

MY HEART was pounding so hard, I half-expected it to burst through my chest, through the door, and bounce off down the road to find a rock to cower under. I was home alone, and there were a couple of criminal ne’er-do-wells outside, who seemed to want to be inside the house – and they certainly weren’t about to let me get in their way.

I listened carefully as I heard the men continue to plot their assault.

“Right, these rich toffs always keep their money either in a safe, or stashed under their mattress. So, I’ll take the front, you go and try and force your way in ‘is back entrance.”

I smirked. ‘Force their way into my back entrance’ indeed!

I paused. My word, I thought, I have been in his lordship’s employ for too long! This was no time for cheap innuendo! This was time for decisive ACTION!

*****

I CALCULATED that I had a few minutes to spare before the criminals organised themselves and successfully picked the locks on the doors. It wasn’t a lot of time, but as I knew the layout of the house back-to-front and inside-out, and knew precisely where all the tools I required would be, it was enough for me to implement my plans to fend off these rogues.

Indeed, no sooner had I finished setting up my first booby-trap, that I saw the front door fall open, and a tall, filthy, heavily-stubbled fellow slid into the hall, brandishing a bag in one hand and – considerably more worryingly – a pistol in the other. He glanced about and let out an impressed whistle at the sight of the many great items his lordship owned. He gazed around in awe for a moment longer, then noticed the winding staircase, and headed towards it – thereby also heading directly into my trap.

From my vantage point looking over the railings on the first floor, I watched the man slowly ascend the stairs. I waited until he was at exactly the right point, and then I threw a paint-can attached to a rope over the railings. I watched with glee as it arced perfectly through the air, coming to an abrupt halt at the thief’s head, sending him tumbling backwards onto the floor, where he lay, unconscious.

I took a brief moment to congratulate myself on the perfect application of some basic mathematics, and then I remembered I had another felon heading around the back of the house. Wasting no time, I untethered the rope from the railings and the paint-can, and dashed off through the house, pausing only to grab a candelabra from the dining-room table as I passed through…

*****

THE door handle on the back door turned slowly, and then the door was gently pushed open to reveal the face of a shorter chap, with a dusty old bowler hat, and a straggly beard. He peered through the gap in the door, and satisfied that no-one was around (having failed to spot me crouching behind the sink) he pushed the door open further. I smiled as I watched the rudimentary pulley-system which I had just set up move into action, the rope attached to the door-handle tightening, causing the other end to tip the lit candelabra on its side, the flames directly coming into contact with the cad’s bowler hat.

The man remained in the doorway for a few more seconds, evidently suspicious of his surroundings, but not suspicious enough to notice that his bowler was quickly setting ablaze. He was about to venture fully into the kitchen, when he stopped, and sniffed at the air.

“Woss burnin’?” he said out loud, and then, realising it was his hat, began screaming and yelling, while frantically trying to remove his flaming head-wear without burning his hands. As he leapt about, he failed to notice that I had scattered several marbles about the floor, until his feet came into contact with them, and he wound up slipping up and falling with a heavy thud onto his back.

I waited to make sure the man was out-cold, and then slowly inched forward. Suddenly, the man’s eyes flicked open, and before I knew it he was back on his feet, and brandishing a gun in my direction.

“So, fink yer pretty clever with all this gubbins, do ya?” he sneered. “Well, let’s see if yer ‘alf as smart when it comes to dodging bullets!” And with that, he fired at me, and I fell to the ground.

“Huh, not very smart at all, then?” the thief sneered as he approached me, still pointing the gun at me. “Better luck in the next life, mate!” he chuckled, but in a flash I kicked the pistol from his hand, and was standing before him, unharmed.

“B-but how? Are you a GHOST?” the dim-witted cad blurted.

“No, I am a SERVANT!” I corrected, flinging open my jacket to reveal a serving-tray strapped to my chest, which I duly unfastened. “And as for the ‘how’ – solid silver serving-tray!” I beamed, showing the dumb-struck fellow his bullet lodged in the tray. “I do believe that you have been served, sir!” I exclaimed, before whacking the criminal about the head with the item.

*****

I TORE back through the house again, reasoning that if I could get outside, I might be able to alert a local police-man, and have the thieves taken into custody. But as I rounded the corner from the drawing-room into the hall, I saw the first felon standing in front of the door, his pistol aimed squarely at my head.

“Where do ya fink yer off to, eh?” he grinned. “Fink you’re pretty clever, with all this gubbins, do ya?”

“Oh please,” I sighed. “I have just this moment heard the same speech from your colleague. Can we just not move onto the point where you are unconscious again?”

“Oh-ho!” He cackled. “An’ what makes you think I’m gonna be unconscious, eh?”

“Because,” I said, pointing to the grand-father clock by the wall as it chimed two. “I have just noticed that it is two o’clock in the morning.”

“And?”

“And…THIS!” I exclaimed, as, on cue, the door suddenly flew open rather violently and knocked out the burglar, while in staggered his lordship, clearly very inebriated, and seemingly covered in wine.

“All women are HARLOTS!” he declared, swaying uneasily on the spot. “At least, I WISH they were, then they would not get so terribly offended when I offer to pay them for sexual intercourse.”

“Good evening, your lordship,” I smiled, having never before been quite so pleased to see the old rogue.

“No, a terrible evening. A waste of a night! And…and what in the name of French ticklery has been going on here, Botter?” his lordship continued, surveying the scene before him.

“I…I shall explain in the morning, milord.”

“You better had, you wretch! ‘Tis a mess! Remind me to dock your pay and thrash you senseless for this!” slurred his lordship, as he made his way uneasily across the hall, and up the stairs. “Oh, and Botter?”

“Yes, milord?”

“I fear I may have vomited all the way down the path, so be a good fellow and clear that up as well, eh? Make yourself useful, you blithering arse-tube.”

I smiled. “Very good, milord.”

I do not know what it is that keeps me in the employ of such a rude, obnoxious and frequently drunk man. Nor am I certain why I risked my life just to save his property. It is certainly not the money, that much I know. Nor am I bound by contract to remain with him for ever more, I am free to leave whenever I please.

Thus, all I can conclude is that I stay by Lord Likely’s side because, in a peculiar sort of way, I actually rather like him. For all his bluster, I believe he is generally a good-hearted man, which is why he agreed to employ me in the first place, and why he has even saved my life on a fair few occasions. No-one has spared quite as much thought towards me as his lordship, which, I suppose, makes him the very best friend I have.

Even when I am cleaning up his vomit at two in the morning.

- Fin.

ATTENTION! Botter has now joined Lord Likely upon the Twittering Device – if you need any assistance, please do see if Botter May Help.

Alternatively, Botter may also be located within The Book of Many Faces, where he shall only be too happy to supply any assistance.

Enjoyed this? Please consider donating below, to help us bring you more Astonishing Adventures! Many thanks, chums!

8:ooam, 29th of January, 1891.

“UNBEKNOWNST TO you, Likely, I was at that gala ball at Sir Muddick’s abode. I was working undercover with the CTUN, and we had tracked down the Anti-Hat League to that very destination,” explained Felicity Boondoggles, pacing up and down the room.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, my memory seeping back into my head like a runny egg-yolk dribbling over the rest of the egg. “The Anti-Hat League…the bomb There was a bomb in a HAT! Cocking arsery, we’d better get back there, woman!”

“Sit down, Likely,” Felicity urged me, in such a way that I found myself powerless to resist. “Good. Now, after the League had threatened to blow up the house and everyone in it, it seemed you decided to start drinking…”

“Oh yes,” I recalled. “I had been rather parched, my dear – ”

“Then, it seemed you wouldn’t STOP drinking.”

“Oh.”

“Before we knew it, you were completely out of your MIND, staggering about the place, your trousers around your ankles, making a complete…well, ARSE of yourself.”

“I…I was REALLY parched,” I proffered feebly in my defence.

“So, there you were, staggering about like a bloody fool, the League members shouting and screaming at you, the party guests terrified out of their minds…and before we could stop you, you succeeded in knocking the hats off of BOTH of the gentlemen…”

“Ah. So…so are we dead? Is this heavens? It’s terribly disappointing…” I mused.

“From earlier surveillance at Mr. Cockduster’s millinery shop, we already knew which of the two gentleman had been given the booby-trapped hat – Mr. Swallows,” Felicity continued, ignoring me completely. “And somehow – SOMEHOW – by sheer, dumb luck, you decided there and then to urinate on Mr. Swallow’s discarded topper. And somehow – and I do not even know how this is AT ALL possible – in doing so you managed to diffuse the bomb. You are one lucky bastard, Lord Likely.”

“Ah! So all’s well that end’s well, eh?” I beamed. “Well, where’s my reward? I take gold or paper money, but none of that tin nonsense…”

“Hmph.” Snorted Felicity. “You shan’t be receiving a PENNY, your lordship. Thanks to your larks, the Anti-Hat League managed to slip away in the confusion. They’re still out there, Likely…and they will STRIKE AGAIN!”

An awkward silence fell between us suddenly, like a piano wrapped in wool dropped onto the world’s largest cushion. All I could hear was a clock gently ticking somewhere in the room.

“Tits,” I said.

- Lord Likely.

Follow his lordship on Twitter and/or Facebook to keep up-to-date with the latest developments in this LIVE 24-hour adventure, and to influence upcoming chapters yourselves!

2:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

WHILE PANDEMONIUM reigned around me, I took the opportunity to have a sneaky drink from an open bottle of wine that happened to be on a table beside me. I thirstily knocked back its contents, which, happily, turned out to be most of a bottle’s worth.

It was bloody LOVELY, and just what I ruddy needed. Ah, alcohol, I thought as I felt its warmth fill my body. Let us never be apart again.

Now, back to the problem at hand…whose hat had the bomb ‘neath it? Mr. Spitts, or Mr. Swallows?

THINK, Likely…THINK…just need to come up with a plan, then shpring into action. Spring. Spring into action, I thought, correcting myself.

Hic.

- Lord Likely.

*SO: which chap has the bomb hat? Vote SPITTS or SWALLOWS, friends! Leave a comment below, or on Twitter (using the #1score4 tag), and/or Facebook – quick, time is of the essence!

~ A Christmas Carry On, Part Three ~

For the previous chapter, do please click hither.

“ENCHANTED, I must say,” I said to the rather seductively-shaped spirit who had suddenly materialised in Mr. Scrooge’s bed-chamber. “And you are?…”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” said the Ghost of Christmas Past, hovering in front of me at just the right height for me to be at eye-level with her glorious, ghostly globes. “I am here for Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge…”

“Him?” I scoffed, jerking a thumb behind me, to where the aforementioned miser was cowering behind a curtain, muttering prayers under his breath for his wretched life to be spared. “Why on earth would such a splendid-looking spectre travel all this way from the afterlife to seek out that cranky old coot?”

“It concerns Mr. Scrooge’s welfare,” the ghost replied. “His soul is in great peril, for he is a wicked man.”

“Ah, if it is a wicked man you desire, m’dear, then look no further – I can be very wicked indeed!”

“Please, sir, I have work to do,” the ghoul said dismissively, and then she glided right through me as if I were not even there.

“Egad!” I exclaimed excitedly. “I have not been so thoroughly penetrated by a woman since the time I attended that dominatrix party in Soho…”

I turned about to see the ghost approach Mr. Scrooge, who’s continued attempts to remain hidden behind his curtains had resulted in him becoming completely tangled up in them, leaving him to the mercy of the advancing apparition. As the spectre warned Scrooge about his impending spiritual reclamation, I decided to prepare a surprise for our ghoulish guest.

“And so, Ebenezer, that is why you must take my hand and come with me..”

“Ahem! Ms. Past?” I interjected. “I believe it is traditional at this time of year for people to share a kiss ‘neath the mistletoe, is it not?…”

Exasperated, the spirit turned around to face me. “Please, sir, I must tend to this…wait a moment…I do not see any mistletoe at all…”

“Cast your eyes lower, m’dear,” I beamed, arching an eyebrow suggestively. The ghost did so, until her eyes fell upon a sprig of mistletoe fastened to my belt, just above a spectacularly large protrusion in my trousers, caused by my ever-mighty Lord Palmerston.

“Oh!” gasped the ghoul. “OH!” she went on to exclaim, her eyes widening at the sight of my trousered tent-pole.

“‘Oh’ indeed, m’dear…so how about it, eh? You must surely miss a bit of rumpy-pumpy now and again, what? I’d wager that the last time you had something stiff in your box was when you were buried…”

“Heavens! I can resist you no more!” exclaimed the spirit, and then, using her supernatural powers, she lifted me clean off of my feet, and hurled me onto Mr. Scrooge’s bed, where she quickly joined me for a spot of paranormal hanky-panky.

“Wh-what is going on?” blurted Mr. Scrooge, disentangling himself form the curtains.

“It is probably for the best that you do not ask, sir,” replied Botter. “Things are about to get rather odd.”

*****

TWO o’clock came and went, and then three o’clock passed by. It was not until the clock heralded the arrival of four o’clock that the Ghost of Christmas Past and myself emerged from our sensual seance, to a small group of rather shocked onlookers. Now joining Mr. Scrooge and my man-servant were two more spectres: one, large and plump, with a big, red beard who was surrounded by food;  the other a rather more sinister figure in a dark cowl.

“PAST!” bellowed the fat phantom, tossing a half-eaten chicken leg over his shoulder. “There you are! Have you quite finished haunting this man, may I ask?”

“Haunting?” said the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“There appears to be ectoplasm all over my sheets,” Scrooge observed as he inspected his bed-covers.

“We heard plenty of wailing and moaning coming from within that bed, so we assumed that…” the Ghost of Christmas Present (for it was he) trailed off, as Past lowered her head. “Hold on a moment…you…you DIDN’T, did you?”

“Aye, sir,” replied the spirit, who would have undoubtedly blushed at this point, if she were indeed able to do so.

“HA!” roared the Ghost of Christmas Present, spraying crumbs from his mouth. “Good work, sirrah,” he exclaimed, turning to me. “I have been longing to do the same myself…”

“Listen, can we hurry up and get this job done?” whined the other ghoul, the Ghost of Christmas Future. “It’s bloody freezing here, it’s Christmas Day and I have a party to go to. And if you think I’m going in this dreary old robe then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Oh, put a cork in it, you bony berk,” snapped Present.

“Hmph! Why don’t YOU just shove another cake into that over-stuffed cake-hole of yours, hmmm?” Future shot back.

“Are you saying I am FAT, you cad?” asked Present.

“No, not at all,” said Future. “I’m saying that you are FATTEST.”

“RIGHT!” boomed Present. “That does it! Have at thee, sir! I shall snap you like a bloody cocktail stick…”

“Sirs, please!” implored the ever-lovely Ghost of Christmas Past. “Let us not fight. ‘Tis Christmas Day, after all, and we still have a man’s soul to save…”

“Hmmm,” I mused, stroking my magnificent moustache in contemplation. “Deceased ladies and gentlemen, I think I have a solution to all our problems…”

*****

AND so we all adjourned back to Likely Towers, whereupon I threw a most magnificent festive shindig, which was naturally very well attended. I got blind, roaring drunk, while Botter just got blind and roaring (he temporarily lost his sight after a cork shot into his eyes, leading him to subsequently topple into the fireplace). Meanwhile, the spirits quaffed spirits which served to raise their spirits, resulting in much raucous laughter and shenanigans.

I took it upon myself to raise Mr. Scrooge’s mood, plying him with plenty of booze. Soon enough, Mr. Scrooge went from hum-bugging to bum-hugging, as he chased many a delectable damsel about my estate,  a sloppy grin spread about his previously gloomy countenance. Truly, ’twas a Christmas miracle.

And all it took was a visit from the Host of Christmas Party. HUZZAH!

A very MERRY CHRISTMAS to you all, dear readers! Lord Likely bless you, ev’ry one!

- Lord Likely.

I could not believe that my arch-enemy, Harold Loathsome, had chosen to hold our final showdown in a bell-tower. It just seemed so very cliched. Honestly, I had expected more from him. Maybe it was time I found a better class of nemesis.

And so it was rather begrudgingly that I hauled myself up the winding stairs that led to the tower, cursing Loathsome’s name as it quickly became apparent that there were far more flights of stairs than I had first imagined. Maybe that is how Loathsome intended to finish me – by wearing me out completely through such exertions, so that when I finally faced him he could cut me down without a struggle. That would be exactly the sort of twattish plan I would expect from the murderous cove.

As I continued my struggle against the stairs, another memory from my school-days bubbled forth from my brain. When I had attended St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys, there had been a long-running rumour that the school’s bell-tower was haunted. Many people – staff and pupils alike – had claimed to have heard ‘unearthly wailing and moaning’ and some ‘ominous banging’ coming from the tower, with one teacher even claiming to have discovered some ectoplasmic residue in the room. The truth, however, was much less spectral and far more scrotal; the school’s bell-tower had merely been my favourite spot in which to hide girls from the town, whereupon we would indulge in some covert coupling, hence the frequent moaning and banging. And needless to say, that was most certainly not ectoplasm found in the bell-tower…

I smirked inwardly at the recollection, and was further buoyed by the fact that I had finally reached top of the stairs, thus ending my terrible escalatory ordeal. I rested myself against the wall for a momentary respite, but did not get to relax much before I was interrupted.

“Well, you certainly took your time,” said a rather snide, disembodied voice. Immediately I sprung to attention, my eyes straining through the murk of the bell chamber in an effort to locate the speaker. I soon picked out a top-hatted figure silhouetted against the early evening light which was snaking its way through the slats on the window of the room.

“Loathsome,” I spat.

“Lord Loathsome, if you do not mind,” the shadowy figure replied calmly. “Yes, I have a peerage now as well. I inherited it from an aristocratic friend of mine. Well, the dead have no use for such titles, you see…”

“You may call yourself whatever you wish, Loathsome,” I sneered. “I shall still only refer to you as ‘tosspot’, if it is all the same to you.”

There was silence from Loathsome, except for the sound of a match being struck as he lit himself a cigarette. I briefly caught a glimpse of one of his small, beady eyes in the match-light, before he lit his fag and discarded the match over his shoulder.

“Still the same old Likely,” Loathsome finally said. “As arrogant and up his own arse as ever. It is high time someone bought you down a peg or two, Likely. And I shall only be too pleased to take on that responsibility.”

I felt my muscles tighten as I readied myself for some kind of ruckus, but instead Loathsome slowly stepped forward into one of the few shafts of sunlight in the tower, finally revealing himself in all his foulness.

Loathsome still looked as loathsome as I remember him; he was a skinny and wiry fellow, wearing a long, dark-grey overcoat on top of a black suit, with a similarly dark top hat on his awful, greasy, straggly blonde-hair. He had a long, pointed nose, and his cruel, thin lips were contorted into some sort of wretched smile. The only change I could really observe was that he now sported an eye-patch across his left eye, leaving only one piggy eyeball free to glare at me.

In short, he rather resembled a bastard wrapped up in a cunt.

“I am glad you could make it, Likely,” Loathsome grinned. “I rather feared you were going to be late. Why, it is already ten to six, you know…”

“Why don’t you just stop wittering and make some sort of ruddy move, Loathsome?” I snapped, growing weary of his melodramatic performance.

“Oh no, Likely. No, no, no. I have been waiting for far too long to hurry this now,” my enemy responded, drawing upon his cigarette and blowing a smoke-ring in my direction. “Twenty-five years I have waited. Twenty-five years since you publicly humiliated me in front of everyone at this very school. Twenty-five years since you got me expelled. Twenty-five years since you had me exiled to Africa, to spend two and a half decades toiling in the burning sun. Suffice to say, I fully intend to really, really enjoy this moment.”

“To be fair, Loathsome, you deserved every bit of your punishment, You were, after all, a massive cock-end.”

“Please, do keep the feeble insults coming, Likely. It shall make killing you all the more sweeter.”

“You do not scare me, Loathsome. Not one bit. I have bested you many times before, and I dare say I shall do so again. You forget that I am vastly superior to you in every possible way.”

“Oh, you think so?” chuckled Loathsome, his lips parting to reveal rows of horrid, yellowing teeth. “I do beg to differ, Likely. I mean, you have been rather slow to finally catch up with me, have you not? And I do not imagine that you have any inkling as to precisely how long I have been tracking you, and messing with your over-privileged life…”

I froze. The thought of Loathsome stalking me was terribly nauseating. Why could I not be stalked by someone decidedly more attractive, and considerably more be-titted?

“I thought that would get your attention, Likely,” Loathsome jeered. “For you see, I have been following your progress quite closely…quite, quite closely indeed. And for such a long time, too! Right from the moment you opened a letter in which the writer threatened to cut you, early last year…”

My mind raced as I tried to recollect the moment in question, and then I remembered.

It was February, 1856, and I had received a mysterious missive from some lunatic threatening to cut me. The return address on the letter had led me to a house at Buckingham Place, where I had subsequently been drawn into an astonishing adventure involving murderous prostitutes and an evil old brothel-owner called Mrs. Dinklesuck. At first, I had assumed the letter had been a cryptic cry for help from one of her unfortunate clients, but this was later proven to be incorrect, leading me to dismiss the note entirely. Now, however, I could see its importance all too clearly. It had been written in the same hand as that used in the note which had been affixed to the first victim of Loathsome’s murderous spree at St. Bumthrusty’s.

“So it was you who penned that letter,” I mused. “How extraordinarily dull.”

“That was just the beginning, Likely! I had far more fun toying with you later that very day, when I took great pleasure in ramming your carriage off the road…”

“Egads!” I gasped. “I remember that! You made me spill some whisky, you utter shit-ball.”

“Wait, Likely, because it gets rather more brilliant still. A few months later, as you boarded the HMS Bastard to sail to America, I sent an assassin after you, to rough you up a bit. You know, just for fun.”

“Doctor Corkscrews!” I exclaimed, as I remembered my encounter with the murderous medic.

“Indeed, indeed. It is a terrible shame you offed him, Likely. He was under strict instructions not to kill you. I just thought his attack might keep you on your toes…” Loathsome stopped to draw upon his cigarette once more, before flicking the cigarette butt across the room. “And then – then! – I hatched a brilliant scheme to pilfer all the booze from the Likely Estate earlier this year. Oh, your face! It really was utterly, utterly priceless!…”

The news that Loathsome had a hand in many of my most notable adventures of the past couple of years set my head reeling, and I had to steady myself on the wall beside me. The fact that Loathsome has been manipulating me so made me feel rather sick, but above all it made me want to pound his putrid skull to dust.

“That just about does it, Loathsome,” I hissed. “I think I have heard quite enough. Now, if you will be so kind as to put your fists up, I think we…”

“Wait a moment, old boy,” Loathsome replied, rather too nonchalantly for my liking. “What time is it?”

“What in the name of shittery does the time have to do with anything?” I yelled.

“Oh, the time is very important, Likely. Very important indeed,” Loathsome answered, strolling over to the enormous bell hanging from the roof of the tower. “For you see, at six o’clock, this bell here will chime the hour.” Loathsome gently patted the side of the bell. “‘Tis quite a size, isn’t it? Apparently, this is the largest bell in the entire county, Likely.”

“I think I am looking at a rather bigger bell-end right now, Loathsome.”

“Very droll. Anyway, at six this bell will chime six times; and on each of those chimes the bell’s huge clapper will strike the inside of the bell with quite considerable force. Imagine, Likely, if someone were unfortunate enough to wind up actually inside the bell when that happens…why, I would think they would be pulped to a mash fairly quickly, don’t you?”

I slowly drew closer to the fiendish felon, knowing all too well that he was planning something awful.

“What have you done, Loathsome?” I demanded.

“Here,” said Loathsome, striking another match. “Take a look inside, Likely.”

I took the match from Loathsome’s hand, and knelt down to look under the bell. And there, manacled to the actual inside of the bell, was Botter, considerably not-dead, but looking rather the worse for wear, his face badly bruised and his mouth gagged. Furthermore, he had been stripped down to his underwear, which I felt was not only completely unnecessary, but also incredibly revolting. Truly, Loathsome was a most twisted individual indeed.

I rose back up slowly, but before I could return to my full (glorious) height, Loathsome delivered a swift boot to my beautiful face, sending me sprawling flat on my back. Loathsome laughed maniacally as he withdrew a revolver from his overcoat, and pointed it at my head. Blearily, I retrieved my solid-gold pocket-watch from my waist-coat, and tried to focus on the tiny clock face.

“I would say your time was running out, Likely,” Loathsome chuckled.

The blurring of my vision subsided, allowing me to read the time on my pocket-watch. Annoyingly, it seemed Loathsome was rather correct.

It was four minutes to six.

I had less than four minutes to save my own life, and to save Botter’s.

In that exact order.

- Lord Likely

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Time runs out as ‘A Lesson in Murder’ reaches its nail-biting, pant-soiling conclusion!

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Hmmm, now where was I?

Ah yes. I had apparently lost my home and my entire estate to a couple of swarthy Italians in a drunken wager, and my man-servant and I were now attempting to sneak our way back into the Likely Estate via a secret tunnel, when all of a sudden something was scurrying out of the darkness towards us.

I believe that should bring you all bang-up-to-date…now, let us continue!

So, there we were, stuck in a rather tight spot. Usually, being stuck in a rather tight spot is something I relish, but on this occasion I feared that the creature heading towards us might have a taste for upper-class flesh, and did not wish to become the mid-afternoon snack of some foul beast.

“Botter,” I said to my petrified man-servant. “I fear you may have to lay down your life for the greater good.”

“Greater good?” Botter replied.

“Yes. I am greater and far more good than you, hence I should live and you should perish at the jaws of some slavering monster.”

“Oh,” Botter said.

Before we could properly say good-bye to one another, the creature was upon us. I braced myself for the worse, but was rather surprised to find the abomination did not tear us from limb to limb, but merely stopped and said calmly; “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you chaps, but you wouldn’t happen to know how where the exit is, would you?”

I allowed myself to look at the creature, and saw that it was in fact no creature at all; instead, standing in front of us was an incredibly unkempt naked man, with long straggly hair and a beard to match, long yellowing finger-nails and toe-nails and a surprisingly short penis. He was certainly foul, but not a beast.

“What the Dickens?” I exclaimed. “Who the tit are you?”

The man looked at me, then looked at me much closer, his awful face craning towards mine, allowing me to catch a whiff of his frankly vomit-inducing scent.

“Likely?” he finally said. “Likely? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is I – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action!” I bellowed.

“Likely!” cried the man, throwing himself upon me and taking me in a full embrace. “You came back! You finally came back!”

“Oh God!” I lamented. “It is touching me! Help me, Botter! Find me a crucifix and a priest, pronto!”

“Don’t you recognise me, Likely?” beamed the man, revealing a smile bereft of several teeth. “It is I, Tugger!”

My mind raced backwards trying to recollect where I may have met this fellow before, until I finally found a match. Tugger had been one of my fellow students at St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys, a decent enough chap, who had become rather well-known due to his habit of constantly masturbating during classes – hence his nickname, ‘Tugger’.

“Tugger?” I repeated slowly. “Tugger Johnson?”

“In the flesh!” grinned Tugger.

“And little else,” I noted, wryly.

“Yes, well, you shall have to forgive my appearence, Likely. I have been trapped in these tunnels for the past God knows how many years, ever since that night we were down here…remember?”

Despite having been pumped full of alcohol over the years, I was surprised to find that my memory was able to clealry recollect the day in question.

It was back in my school-days, not long after I had made the discovery of the very tunnel we now stood in. Such a discovery excited the younger Likely greatly, especially when I realised I could use the tunnel to bunk off from school and slink back into the Likely Estate unnoticed, get blind drunk and return to school completely pissed as the proverbial fart. Happy days.

One day, however, I was confronted by Tugger and that awful little shit-box Harold Loathsome, who had noticed my inebriated state and wanted to know how I was getting hold of booze during school hours. As I was pissed at the time, I gladly gave up the information, which served only to excite the boys further, and they pleaded with me to allow them to accompany me on my next trip. I agreed to permit Tugger to join me, but I denied the same prvilege to Loathsome.

“But why won’t you let me let come?” whined Loathsome.

“Because you are a wretched, whiny little ball-sack,” I had replied. “And in addition, you smell like ham.”

“You rotter, Likely!” spat Loathsome. “You will pay for this, you’ll see!”

I ignored the little twat’s words, and the very next day Tugger and I set off to raid my father’s liquor cabinet and drink our weight in gin. However, as we trotted through the tunnel, we suddenly found our way blocked by the imposing figure of my father, Lord Eustace Likely (now missing, presumed dead).

Tugger had fled in fear, leaving me to face the wratch of my father. He was deeply furious, not because I had been drinking in school, but because I had been drinking his booze. My father boarded up the entrances to the tunnel and I received quite a thrashing that night, but the next day I was sent to school with a hip-flask full of whisky – the very same hip flask I carry to this day. My father was nothing if not fair.

Of course, I knew that Harold Loathsome had grassed me up to my father, as he was a weasly little runt who delighted in putting a stop to other people’s fun. This fact was later confirmed when he came up to me in the Common Room that afternoon.

“How did your little expedition go, Likely?” he had sneered. “Did your daddy approve?”

“Well,” I smiled, removing the hip flask from my pocket. “You might well say that he did.”

With that, I had taken a swig of whisky, and spat it out in Loathsome’s eyes. Then, for good measure, I hurled the pathetic urchin through a window. For that action, I received another thrashing upon my noble buttocks that afternoon, but it had been worth it. Loathsome really was utterly loathsome.

Loathsome certainly has figured in a lot of my reminiscences of late. I wonder if that will prove to be important later on?

Anyway, back to the present day. I snapped out of my recolections to find Botter and Tugger sat on the ground, quietly chatting to one another.

“Oh!” exclaimed Botter, as he noticed me. “I do believe milord has stopped having a flashback now.”

“Indeed I have,” I stated. “Was I gone long?”

“About forty-five minutes, milord,” Botter answered.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, leaning back against a wall.

“Tugger was telling me how he’s been trapped down here ever since the day your father caught you, and that he survuved by eating rats, and that over the course of the past thirty years he has masturbated over every inch of this tunnel. Incredible, is it not?”

“Incredible,” I agreed, quickly moving myself away from the wall. “Well, Tugger, it has been a pleasure, but we must depart, for we have to rescue my home from filthy Italians!”

“I quite understand,” Tugger nodded. “We have all been in that position at some point or other.”

Tugger and I shook hands (and then Botter wiped my hands clean for me), and I bade my former classmate farewell, giving him clear directions on how to finally escape from his current dilema. He thanked me profusely, and headed off into the darkness.

Botter and I continued on without further incident, save for one moment when my man-servant broke wind rather violently, which I bore the brunt of as I was following behind him at the time. After another half an hour or so, we finally reched the end of the tunnel, and the entrance into the Likely Estate.

There was indeed light at the end of this particular tunnel, but what I would darken my mood considerably…

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely Mourns A Loss!

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Date unknown, 1857.

I awoke with the most awful of headaches.

I am no stranger to hangovers, of course. My hedonistic lifestyle dictates that I often wake up with a fierce, pounding headache and with little or no recollection of the previous twenty-four hours. Indeed, the entire of the 1830s remain a mystery to me still, being nothing more than a decade-long hangover.

This time, however, was different. I could not recall one single damned thing, not even my name, who I was, or how I had come to be sitting in the street, in a puddle of my own piss (at least, I hoped it was mine).

And why were people throwing coins at me, for cock’s sake?

“Get a job, you filthy, degenerate swine!” yelled one portly gentleman as he passed me by.

I may have been completely clueless as to my own identity, but I was fairly certain I was not the sort of chap who tolerated that sort of slur upon my character.

Did I even have a character? I could not remember.

“Go and take an extremely lengthy constitutional off an incredibly meager pier,” I retorted to the fat fellow. At least, that is what I had tried to say. What actually emitted forth from my mouth was a lengthy, slurred cacophony of nonsense, which caused the target of my vitriol to nod sadly and stride onwards.

I mumbled something in return, then allowed my head to loll over to the side, where it remained as I tried to marshal the facts I had to hand in an attempt to fathom out precisely who I was.

I grabbed at my groin. Fact one: I was a man. Good, I thought, I am making progress.

Fact two: I was a particularly well-blessed man. Even better.

Fact three: I was on a street.

Fact four: I was -

“Mother, dearest, what on Earth is THAT?” asked a precocious young lad with a shock of blonde hair, pointing at me with clear disgust.

“Keep away, Sebastian,” replied the child’s equally pretentious mother. “That is a homeless man. Keep well away, for the homeless eat little children for dinner, you know!”

The child yelped in horror and withdrew back behind his mother, and then they both scurried past in a terrible hurry, leaving me with one, final, undeniable fact.

Fact four: I was a homeless man.

Something was distinctly amiss here, of that I was certain.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely is drunk. Very drunk INDEED.

Presenting gaup - another quality venture from the cads responsible for these Astonishing Adventures.

As his lordship attempts to penetrate each and every nook of the inter-net, we are proud to announce the unveiling of his latest undertaking – Lord Likely’s Fanatical Followers, a brand-new fan club for Lord Likely on the ever-popular Facebook web-site. Do feel free to join up, and declare your moist lust for his lordship!

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!

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Against all my better judgement, I followed the foul-smelling, cider-swigging reprobate as he led us through the twisting back-streets and alley-ways of the city. I made sure that Botter, my man-servant, kept closely behind me, lest any more ruffians leapt from the shadows and tried to bugger me six ways to the Sudan. You might say he was maintaining a valiant rear-guard action.

“‘Ere we is, sir,” croaked the homeless wretch. “Our ‘ome sweet ‘ome, as it were.”

“I cannot help but notice we are in a scrap-yard,” I said, not helping but noticing that we were in a scrap-yard.

“Heh, yeah. I ‘spect it’s a bit more ‘umble than what you is used to,” the vagrant beamed, whilst mangling the English language. “Wait ‘ere, sir, an’ I’ll go an’ get the boss.”

“The boss?” I repeated. “How in the name of cock-suckery does a homeless swine like you have a boss?”

“Jus’ wait ‘ere,” the cove replied, and staggered off.

“What an awful and abhorrent chap,” I mused as I watched the filthy figure disappear behind a broken-down carriage. “I don’t suppose he is any relation of yours, is he Botter?”

“Very funny, milord,” Botter dead-panned.

We waited patiently until the foul creature returned, accompanied by an even fouler looking man who was wearing a suit that hung sadly off of his boney frame, as if it was yearning to be on someone less repellent; whilst atop his awful head sat an even-sadder looking bowler hat, seemingly held in place by a large knife sticking out of the top.

“Greetings, sirs!” he said, offering me his hand to shake, a request I declined. “Please, take a seat! Sit, sir, sit!”

I looked around at my surroundings, and found nothing that looked suitably worthy of my noble buttocks, so I gestured to Botter to make himself useful as a temporary chair. He rolled his eyes, and knelt down on all fours. I sat down on his back, and found him to be less comfortable than I had hoped. I would have to dock his pay for being an insubstantial seat.

“I am Kenneth the Hat,” the fellow began. “I got that name because I wear a hat,” he added triumphantly.

“And the knife?…” I asked.

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” Kenneth the Hat replied, gently tapping the blade. “I got into a bit of a scrap with a chef a few years back, when he caught me foraging for sausages in his kitchen. He plunged this flippin’ great knife in my head, and the doctor’s say they can’t take it out because it’s too close to my brain. One slip, one wrong move, and I become a drooling vegetable. Ha-HAH! Ha-HAHAHAHAHA!”

I wondered if it was not already too late.

“Anyway, you’ve met Flakey Jim, here,” Kenneth the Hat continued, indicating to the grimy chap who led us here. “Now, let me introduce you to the rest of the group!”

I shifted uncomfortably on my man-servant-shaped seat, as Kenneth the Hat produced two dustbin lids from a pile of junk, and loudly banged them together.

“VAGRANTS! ASSEMBLE!” he roared, somewhat over-theatrically.

There was a moment of silence, and then more stinking fiends began to emerge from their hiding places, stepping out from within broken wardrobes, squeezing out from underneath disused bath-tubs and sliding out from inside smashed-up grandfather clocks. They were like giant, human cockroaches in many ways, and each was more foul and pitiful than the last.

Sometimes the lengths I would go to in order to get some booze amazes even myself.

“Here they all are, sir! This here is Beardy McBeard,” he said, pointing to a man with a huge, dirty, black beard which seemed to have pigeons nesting inside. “He has a beard,” Kenneth the Hat added unhelpfully.

“Beard.” Beardy McBeard agreed.

“And this is No-Legs Noreen,” Kenneth continued, indicating to a pitiful-looking hag who was, indeed, bereft of legs.

“I ‘as ghost legs!” she cried.

“For the millionth time, Noreen, there are no such things as ghost legs!” Kenneth turned to me. “You shall have to excuse her, sir, she’s a little bit daft. Ah-HAHAHAHAHAHA! Ah! That there’s Mr. Disease,” Kenneth rambled on, as an incredibly sickly-looking chap shuffled forward. “He has over one hundred different diseases. Impressive, eh?”

“Astonishingly so,” I mumbled, as Mr. Disease smiled weakly.

“And then we have this poor sod,” Kenneth the Hat said, introducing a man with a huge wart on his face. A wart so huge, in fact, it was his face. “This is Benson – “

“…Wart-Face?” I guessed.

“Why, yes! Have you two met, perchance?” Kenneth said, genuinely surprised.

“No,” I replied. “I would have remembered such an encounter. I never forget a face, and his face is considerably less forgettable than most.”

“Oh. Well, that’s us, anyway! Now maybe you can tell us a bit about – “

“KENNETH!” yelled Flakey Jim, waving his arms about with such ferocity he dislodged numerous flakes of skin in the process . “Jennifer’s comin’!”

“Oh no!” wailed Kenneth the Hat. “Not Jennifer!”

“Who in the name of Saint Paul‘s sainted scrotum is this Jennifer?” I snapped, as the group of paupers became increasingly agitated.

“Oh, she’s AWFUL, sir!” moaned Kenneth the Hat. “Hideous. Such a foul, degenerate creature! She is horribly disgusting, sir, and incredibly freakish. In fact, she is so incredibly freakish we nick-named her Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish.”

“How very clever,” I said sarcastically.

“Oh, Lord! Here she comes!” screamed Kenneth the Hat, and then he ran for cover with the rest of his grotesque group, leaving me to face this monstrosity alone, save for my man-servant-stroke-seat.

I braced myself to have my eyeballs assaulted by this fresh display of degradation, but as Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish appeared at the gates to the scrap-yard, I saw that she was anything but incredibly freakish.

She was just incredible.

Jennifer, the Incredibly Freakish.

So bowled over by her radiant beauty was I, that I quite literally fell off of my chair.

“Blimey, what a cracking bit of crumpet, eh milord?” my chair observed.

I had to agree. Things were definitely looking up.

And by ‘things’ I mean ‘my penis’.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Lord Likely gets incredibly freakish with Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish.

A Terribly Important Announcement! His lordship has very kindly decided to let all of you join him in The Cock and Balls (his preferred drinking establishment) for light and heavy refreshments, chit-chat and barely-concealed flirting. Do the honourable thing, and visit the Cock and Ball Inn right NOW! Many thanks.

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!

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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

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