It was a typical, completely unremarkable after-noon in London Town; carriages clattered noisily up and down the cobbled roads, smartly-dressed gentlemen doffed their hats as pretty ladies glided past them, cheeky cockney urchins weaved in and out of crowds, laughing and screaming as they did, while high above their heads Big Ben loudly signalled the hour with three, booming chimes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson stood outside Tightfist & Son’s bank, looked up and observed (to no-one in particular) that it rather looked like it was going to rain.

Completely unremarkable, you see.

Of course, I am not here to chronicle the ordinary and banal. Who would desire to read a publication entitled ‘The Ordinary and Banal Non-Adventures of Lord Likely’? No-ruddy-one, that is who. No, my duty is to regale you with adventures of a distinctly more astonishing nature. Happily for us, shorty after Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson had made her trite observation, something astonishing did indeed manifest itself.

As Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson contemplated the skies, the window of Tightfist & Son’s bank shattered with an almighty smashing sound, as two men crashed through the glass and tumbled into the street outside, where they wrestled and struggled with one another in front of dozens of stunned onlookers.

Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson, however, was more concerned about whether or not she should nip home and retrieve her umbrella.

One of the gentle-men who had just made such an explosive entrance was, of course, my glorious self – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action. The other (considerably less than gentle) man was a bare-knuckle boxer who went by the name of Finnegan ‘Fists’ O’Fury.

O’Fury had, until recently, been rather successful in his chosen sport, earning himself a clutch of awards and trophies for his pugilistic prowess. However, during his last fight, O’Fury sustained a twisted ball-bag, an injury that was to prove so serious that he was unable to continue his brawling career any further.

As his earnings dwindled, O’Fury had decided that he would deploy his skills elsewhere, namely in pursuit of a life of crime. Thus began O’Fury’s reign of terror, where the former boxer robbed several banks over the course of a few weeks, holding the cashiers up with nothing more than a loaded fist, which he threatened to use if he was given any trouble. One foolish banker who refused to cooperate is still looking for his jaw to this very day.

Naturally, as all the police’s efforts to capture the elusive O’Fury had failed, I was bought in by Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, in the hope that I would succeed where they had cocked it right up. Naturally, I had quickly concocted a brilliant scheme to lure O’Fury to a nearby bank, and well, to cut an increasingly long story short, it ruddy well worked, which is how I wound up smashing through the bank’s window with the fellon in my grasp.

I know. I am cocking well amazing.

“Give it up, O’Fury!” I roared, as we disentangled ourselves from each other. “Your life of crime bally well stops here!”

“Feck you, you stinkin’ bag o’ shite!” spat O’Fury, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Oh, for the love of buggery,” I sighed. “Can you not just come quietly, you irksome sod? I am really rather exhausted, and I have to be at the opening of an envelope in approximately twenty-seven minutes…”

“If ye want me to stop, yeh’ll have to make me stop!” snarled O’Fury, raising his fists.

“Fine.” I said, and then I calmly strolled over to O’Fury and kicked him right in his injured scrotum.

O’Fury winced, then grimaced, and then gently shook his hips. A broad smile crept across his battered face.

“Bloody hell!” he beamed. “I think ye’ve put me bollock back in place! Yes! I can feel it! Ye’ve feckin’ well cured me, so ye have! Ah! I’ll be able to go back in the ring again! I can win back me title! And maybe, just maybe, I can get back together with me sweetheart Mary, and see little Finny Junior. Thank ye! Oh, thank ye!”

But just as O’Fury was celebrating the realignment of his misplaced man-package, Spunkleford emerged from the bank with several burly policemen, who all decided to pounce upon the boxer, knocking him to the ground, where they then enthusiastically set about his head and body with their truncheons.

“Well you certainly took your cocking time,” I said curtly as Spunkleford strode up to me.

“Sorry, Likely. I thought that I should pay off a couple of bills, being in a bank and all. Saves me getting my ear chewed off by the wife, you know? Still, it looks like you handled yourself pretty well out here.”

“Naturally.”

“Good show, Likely. Good show!” Spunkleford smiled, slapping me heartily on the back.

“Please, do not touch that which you cannot afford, Spunkleford,” I said.

“Ah-ha! Likely, you crease me up!” chuckled Spunkleford. “Oh! And talking of creasing, I believe I have something to show you…hold on…”

Spunkleford rifled through his suit pockets, and then with a triumphant cry removed a wedge of folded-up paper from his coat pocket.

“Here it is! We received news of the murder of a school-teacher that took place last night,” Spunkleford informed me, unfolding the sheets slowly. “I wouldn’t bother you with this, of course, only I believe that this case may be of particular interest to you.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, my interest piqued. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, firstly, the murder took place at your old school – St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys!“

“Really? Good heavens!”

“Quite. And secondly, there was a note was left on the body, which was addressed to you…here,” Spunkleford said, handing me a small piece of paper. I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and opened up the note.

This is what it read:

“By Goliath’s gonads!” I cried. “This is awful. Simply awful.”

“I know,” Spunkleford agreed, shaking his head.

“Look at this! Whoever penned this missive has used the possessive pronoun ‘your’ as opposed to the correct, contracted form of ‘you are’. It renders the whole thing nonsensical! I mean, ‘Likely, Your Next‘? Your next what? The writer clearly is a meat-headed poltroon. I am surprised he could even hold a pen, to be honest.”

“Never mind that, Likely!” Spunkleford cried. “This fiend clearly has plans to murder you!”

“Oh yes. Well there is that too, I suppose,” I replied.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His Lordship Goes Back to School!

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Ivan Romanov circled Botter and I, keeping his pistol trained upon us as he did so.

“Lord Likely,” he snarled. “The aristocratic adventurer. The gentle-man of action. The Victorian vigilante.”

“It is nice to know I am as well known in Russia as I am here at home,” I said. “And I did not even have to spend one penny on advertising, to boot.”

“SILENCE!” screamed Romanov, hitting me in the face with his gun. “For once in your worthless life, shut up!“

“You make a persuasive argument,” I retorted, feeling blood trickling from my lip.

“This is one adventure you should have stayed away from, Likely,” Romanov continued, ignoring me. “But you could not resist, could you? You had to come and interfere.”

“If I am ever in the mind to interfere, I prefer to know with what or whom I am interfering,” I explained. “It is for that reason that I no longer visit Bangkok.”

Romanov laughed.

“You really do not have any idea as to what is occurring here, do you? Haha! Oh, that is priceless! You are still just stumbling around in the dark, aren’t you?”

“Maybe you would care to illuminate me, Romanov,” I said.

“Gladly!” Romanov exclaimed, clearly relishing his role as the villain of the piece. “Please, take a seat. Your man-servant, too.”

Botter and I moved to a small, leather couch in the centre of the room. Botter dusted the seat down for me, then offered to take my coat for me, which I thought was very considerate in these circumstances. Meanwhile, Romanov continued pacing up and down, like a caged animal. (Albeit a caged animal carrying a loaded fire-arm). He observed our display of well-mannered etiquette with visible disdain, which grew to outright displeasure as Botter suggested I might like a cushion with which to rest my back.

“WILL YOU JUST FUCKING SIT DOWN!” He screeched, waving his gun wildly at us. Then his tone lowered to a menacing growl. “You British, with your ludicrous charade of civility. Underneath all that well-to-do bull-crap, you are just swine. Filthy, stupid, ignorant swine.“

“I suppose a little light refreshment is out of the question, then?” I ventured. I was rewarded with another swift blow to the head. I winced. It really bloody hurt.

“You are rather out of your depth, Likely.” Romanov continued, wiping the barrel of his gun with a handkerchief. “You have stumbled into an international incident. You have fallen into something bigger than you or your over-sized ego. Bigger even than your ridiculously over-sized hat. You have blundered into a war, Likely. A war that will destroy your country and wipe it’s stinking Empire off of the face of the globe.”

“Well, I suppose every man must have a hobby,” I said. “Though I’d imagine stamp-collecting would be far more preferable, and less likely to result in widespread bloodshed.”

“Huh. Such arrogance, so typical of you and your countrymen. The same arrogance that your Prime Minister displayed in meddling with Russian affairs, and thereby setting in motion the Crimean War.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “Are we going to hear your grand scheme, or are you planning to kill us by boring us to death with an unnaturally prolonged discourse on politics?”

“SHUT UP!” Romanov yelled, his eyes burning with rage. He composed himself, then continued on. “The present tsar of my homeland may have conceded to you and your allies, and signed your wretched treaty to conclude that conflict, but I concede nothing. I am eager for revenge upon all those who opposed Russia, and those who have the blood of my countrymen upon their hands. I will get that vengeance, believe me.”

“By running away and hiding for a bit?” I asked. “Forgive me, but I am not yet trembling in my boots, Romanov.”

“Oh, but I have a plan so brilliant you will not be able comprehend it. You see, Likely, I planned to put your country in direct violation of that Peace treaty, by convincing everyone that I had been attacked and slain right here in this embassy, and thus on Russian territory.” He leaned closer to me, and flashed me a demonic grin. “My country would be compelled to react with force, and would be entirely justified in doing so. Your former allies would join us, and the evil Empire of Great Britain would be torn asunder. Then, once you were finished with, we would train our guns upon those who had aided you in the past, and destroy them as well. Carnage and death would envelop the land, and Russia would be left as the sole, reigning super-power of the ENTIRE WORLD!”

Romanov cackled manically, evidently convinced by the twisted genius of his own insane plans.

“He’s a bit odd, isn’t he, milord?” whispered Botter, as Romanov continued his rather overly-theatrical cacklings.

“I fear he is one kopeck short of a ruble,” I replied. “And I think I may be able to play this to our advantage…”

I turned to face our adversary, and addressed him in a loud, steady voice. “You are a lunatic, Romanov, nothing more. A deranged mad-man consumed by an irrational hatred which has devoured your soul and your mind until all that is left is nothing more than pure, unreasoned rage.” I paused briefly. “Also, you are a massive tosser and a wanker of previously unimagined proportions.”

Within a second, Romanov raced over to me, and delivered another blow to my head with his pistol.

“FUUUUCK!” I yelled, in an ashamedly unmanly display of anguish.

“I will enjoy killing you, Lord Likely,” Romanov hissed, globules of spit flying from his lips. “I just hope you do not struggle as much as poor Miss Nipples did, when I ended her life.”

I was already extremely annoyed, because not only was my head incredibly sore from the repeated bashings dealt upon it, but I had then suffered the indignity of being splattered with a man’s foul spittle. The news that Romanov had been Miss Nipples’ killer was merely the final straw, and I jumped to my feet.

“You, sir, are an utter, utter, utter, utter, UTTER CAD.” I yelled.

A shot rang out, and I fell to the ground.

- Lord Likely.

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