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.

The horse and carriage hurriedly swung through the gates of the estate, and quickly rattled on up the driveway of a large and impressive estate, which lead to a suitably large and impressive manor house with large and impressive windows, and a large and impressive door at which stood a distinctly small and less-than-impressive man, who seemed to be waiting anxiously for the carriage to arrive.

With a loud and slightly over-theatrical ‘woooooah!’, the cabbie drew the vehicle to a halt outside the doors of the house (both of which were large and impressive, lest we forget) and touched the brim of his hat in greeting to the concerned man in the doorway.

“How is he?” enquired the small man, nervously toying with a bowler hat in his hands.

“Not good, I’m afraid mate,” the cabbie replied, hopping down from his seat. “‘E seems delirious, frankly, mumblin’ and mutterin’ away to himself, so ‘e was. An’ he’s been sick at least three times on the way ‘ere.”

“Oh dear,” the worried man replied, running a shaky hand through a mess of blonde curls atop his head. “That does not sound good at all. Not at all.” He put his bowler hat back on his head, and a look of grim determination crept over his face. “Well,” he sighed, “let’s get him out of there, then.”

The cabbie nodded solemnly, and pulled open the door of his cab to allow its passenger to alight. No-one emerged. The two men exchanged worried glances, and just as they stepped forward to investigate further, the passenger suddenly sprung forth from within the carriage, loudly proclaimed something about aliens, before completely missing the steps of the cab and landing in a heap on the stony ground below. The two men looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“It is as I feared,” observed the small, blonde man sadly. “His lordship is completely and utterly drunk again.”

“I demand the immediate execution of both the cabbie and his ruddy unfriendly cab,” I mumbled from my undignified position on the floor, for it had been my handsome form which had sprung forth from the hansom cab.

The blonde man hurried to my side. “Are you quite alright, milord?” he enquired, trying to help me up.

“Unhand me, Botter!” I roared at my man-servant (for it was he). “I am not incapapapapable, you know.”

“Yes, milord,” Botter replied, stepping back and watching as I slowly and shakily got to my feet.

“There,” I beamed triumphantly, swaying slightly in the moonlight. “A cake of piss.”

And then I’m afraid to say, dear reader, that your noble and entirely humpable narrator lost his footing and fell to the ground once more.

Botter rolled his eyes, and came to my side once more.

“Good night, was it milord?” he asked as he helped me back to a state of absolute verticality. “It certainly seems like there was plentiful alcohol on supply, at any rate.”

I disentangled myself from my man-servant’s grasp, teetered slightly, but thankfully remained as gloriously erect as my mighty manhood in the company of a room full of harlots.

“I may have partaken of a tipple or twenty-three,” I finally replied. “But I am not pished.” I added. “By God, Botter, you truly do have a face like a horse’s arse, you know.”

“That’d be because that IS a horse’s arse, milord. I’m over here.” Botter responded. I rubbed my eyes and saw that I was indeed addressing the backside of one of the cabby’s horses. I tipped my hat and turned back to face my man-servant.

“Are you sure everything is alright, milord?” the oik continued. “Only you were shouting something about ‘aliens’ as you stepped out of the cab a moment ago.”

“Aliens!” I repeated, my eyes widening in terror. “Egad, yes! I was surrounded by them! Dozens upon dozens of aliens!”

“Aliens, milord? Really?” Botter asked.

“Yes, Botter! Aliens! You know….foreign types. Foreigners. Everywhere, they were. Everywhere!”

“Oh, I see. Well, you were at a party at the Indian Embassy, milord. I’d imagine there would be some foreign faces there.”

“And foreign bodies!” I remarked. “Some rather delectable foreign bodies, now that I think about it,” I recalled, stroking my luxurious moustache as I reminisced. “Although that damned ambassador seemed to take umbrage with me when I asked his wife to demonstrate all the positions from the Karma Sutra upon my person. Quite a humourless cove, that one.”

“I see, milord,” Botter nodded.

“PISS!” I bellowed suddenly, lurching forward.

“Pardon?”

“Piss! I desperately need to piss, Botter!”

“Oh, well if you just wait a moment, milord, we shall get you inside and – “

“Buggeration!” I roared. “There’s no time for all that flim-flam. I’ll simply relieve myself in a bush over there,” I said, pointing a shaky finger.

“Milord, you have a perfectly serviceable toilet, you know…” Botter began.

“Arse gravy!” I interrupted, staggering over to the bushes. “What is the point of me having this large and impressive estate if I can’t relieve myself in it once in a while, eh?”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed. “I shall just pay for the cab and meet you back in the house when you’re done.”

I grunted in response and continued to make my way falteringly to my makeshift lavatory. Once there, I spent a good few minutes wrestling with the damned buttons on my trousers, but as I went to unsheath my Lord Palmerston I was stopped in my tracks by something apparently moving through the soil below.

“What in the name of Satan’s scarlet scrotum is that?” I asked myself, peering closer into the dark. At once, I saw it move again, and this time got a glimpse of the mystery interloper. It was long and green, and looked to all intents and purposes like a large snake, wriggling through the soil of my flowerbed.

“Well I’ll be damnmnmned,” I slurred, as I peered closer. “Some sort of pervert snake hoping to get a peek at my tally whacker, I’d wager. Well, we shall see about that!” I exclaimed, searching about for a rake or a hoe I might deploy in the disposal of said invertebrate. But my quick search revealed nothing, and upon turning back to the garden I noticed the creature had vanished. I shrugged my shoulders and resumed my efforts to urinate, at which point the snake-like beast shot out from the ground, wrapped itself around my neck, and lifted me a good thirty feet into the air.

I could tell then that this was no common or garden snake with which I was dealing.

“Unhand me, sir!” I shouted at the foul creature. However, my request fell on deaf ears, for the beast possessed neither hands nor – as it subsequently transpired – ears.

From my vantage point, I saw my man-servant dash over to assist me, but another tentacle shot out from the bushes and caught him square in the stomach, sending him flying backwards into a distinctly unconscious heap. Ruddy good help, I noted sadly, is so hard to find.

I could feel the creature’s tentacular grip around my neck tightening as it thrashed me around like an overenthusiastic dominatrix (the best sort, I find) but to my alarm I now found myself being reeled in towards its gaping maw. Truly this time I was heading for the French kiss of death: the petite mort of oblivion.

But then: salvation! There was a sudden rustling in the bushes and a cry of “Take that!” With a dreadful howl, the creature released me and I plummeted to the ground, landing on my arse in a pile of compost. From my undignified vantage point I watched in admiration as my rescuer proceeded to despatch my alien assailant with clinically efficient swordsmanship.

Then my saviour stepped forward into the moonlight and to my utter astonishment she was revealed to be a woman!

“Great heavens, ma’am,” I cried, “How can I ever thank you?” (Although I have to say my mind was already considering the possibilities – now that I could get a glimpse, I could see she was a most becoming filly.)

However, she would not meet my eye.

“Sir,” she said, “Your pistol appears to be cocked.”

I was nonplussed at this, for I had no weapon on my person.

“The meat is … on the counter,” she continued. “The worm is out of its lair. Jack is out of his box. Master Willy is waving hello – ”

At last I understood. She was, in her elegant way, referring to my penis, which was still on display and treating her to a sneak preview. I reluctantly tucked it away again, for the time being at least, and hauled myself to my feet. I bowed to her and attempted to recommence intercourse.

“So to whom do I owe this lucky escape from almost certain death?” I said.

“My name is Elizabeth Darcy, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.”

Great heavens, I realised, this must be the wife of that old fart Fitzwilliam Darcy! Which would make her one of the notorious Bennet sisters! Five-in-a-bed, here we come, I thought. But I had to make conversation first.

“How did you come to be so adept with a weapon?” I said “Surely that is man’s work, is it not?”

“I have been trained by a Mr Wickham,” she explained. “He is a Lieutenant seconded to the Department of Unusual Affairs. He hunts aliens. Like this one.”

She looked down at the mass of severed tentacles.

“By jingo!” I ejaculated. “Are there more of these things?”

“I fear ’tis true. We have won a battle or two, but the war is not yet over. One day, someone will write a great book about our adventures so far, but there may yet be many sequels. As well as vignettes such as this one – although no doubt there will be debates amongst the aficionados as to whether it is a true part of the canon.”

“Madam, you talk in riddles!” I exclaimed. This was getting needlessly post- modern.

Elizabeth sheathed her weapon and looked about her consiprationally. “I fear I have said too much, sir,” she whispered. “If I tell you any more, I fear I may have to kill you.”

“Ha-ha!” I chuckled, enjoying what I thought had been a rather witty bit of banter, but the deadly serious look on the pretty woman’s face quickly told me that this had been no joke. I coughed and swiftly changed the subject. “Madam, I could not help but notice the energy and verve with which you tackled the giant, thrashing tendril. If you would be kind enough to join me in the house, I am sure I could offer you a similar experience with my very own ‘trouser tendril’, if I may be so blunt.”

The woman’s jaw dropped, not in amazement at the generosity of the offer, alas, but in disbelief that I had even chosen to breach the subject of possible intercourse. “Sir!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “I am betrothed to another, in case you were not aware!”

“I am well aware, m’dear,” I smiled. “You can bring him along, if you must. I am always game for what the French call….wait, what is it? Ah, yes – ‘three people humping’.”

*You filthy brute!” rejoined Elizabeth, before punctuating her displeasure with a swift boot to my nether regions. I fell to my knees, my hands clutched to my battered ball-bag.

Elizabeth grunted satisfactorily, then turned sharply on her heels and stalked off, muttering under her breath something about men and how they were worse than any foul being from outer space, and then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived.

My man-servant Botter, having by now regained consciousness, hastened over to me once again. “Milord?” he said, somehow managing to turn a single word into an enquiry with the ruthless degree of economy so typical of his class.

“First the tentacles,” I squeaked, “and now my testicles. What a woman! I do believe I am quite, quite smitten.”

“Who is she? What did you say to her? What happened, exactly?” asked Botter, helping me to my feet.

“Let us just say this,” I said, as we hobbled back to the house. “I have my pride, and that dear lady suffers no prejudice…”

Fin.

Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy features in the new paperback novel ‘Mrs. Darcy versus the Aliens’, penned by the scurrilous scribe of the age, Mr. Jonathan Pinnock. For further information about the book, and to read an extract, do please visit the webbed-page at www.mrsdarcyvsthealiens.com

Finally, you may purchase her new adventure from the British and American tendrils of the almighty Amazon corporation. Huzzah!

To read the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

THERE ARE a few activities from which one should refrain whilst deeply hung-over. Bouncing up and down ‘pon a dirigible is one; taking a small rowing-boat out to sea on a particularly stormy day would be another. And one may most definitely add ‘standing over a bloody, severed, chewed-up corpse first thing in the morning’ to that inglorious list.

“And as you can see, the attacker tore out the victim’s larynx, here,” Inspector Spunkleford continued, pointing at a gaping, bloodied hole in the victim’s throat. The gruesome scene before me, coupled with the after-effects of my previous night’s drinking, was causing my stomach to churn harder than a particularly aggressive milk-maid trying to make butter in a hail-storm.

“Botter,” I said, turning to my man-servant. “You do realise that it is awfully bad manners to keep your hat on in the presence of the deceased?”

“But you – ” Botter began.

“Do not argue Botter! Remove it at once, and pass it here!”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed, as he passed me his bowler.

“That is more like it, Botter. A little respect never hurt anyone,” I said, and then I proceeded to empty the contents of my stomach rather forcibly into Botter’s hat.

“There you go,” I said, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief, and offering the vomit-filled bowler to my man-servant. ” You may have it back now.”

“Very good, milord.” Botter glumly replied.

Having disavailed myself of that particular booze-fuelled burden, I felt much more like myself again, and felt my brain wake up and steam back into action.

“Hmmm,” I hmmmed, as I produced a magnifying glass and examined the corpse laying on the street. And then I sneezed.

“Well, we can rule out a wild animal attack. This was most definitely the work of a person. And a rather well-to-do person, at that.”

“And how do you know that, Likely?”

“They seasoned the body with pepper before taking a bite.”

“Well, that certainly corroborates with the night-watchman’s statement…” Spunkleford beamed, evidently pleased that his meagre attempts at police-work had yielded results.

“Yes…but he also stated that the assailant was CHARLES DICKENS, who, need I remind you, is currently deceased, and not in a terribly good position to go out and about as much as he used to do, let alone feast upon the flesh of innocent bystanders…although…what’s this?…”

I stooped down and retrieved a scrap of blood-stained paper lying beside the victim’s right hand. It had been torn from a larger sheet, but the part which remained clearly bore the word ‘DICKENS’. This was entirely too coincidental, I reasoned.

“Inspector, do we have any idea who this fellow was at all?” I asked, motioning toward the body.

“Ah, yes Likely! We recovered a wallet from the body. We believe him to have been a gentleman named Theodore Fruntlope, worked as a publishing editor for one of the big book publishers.”

“A publisher of big books, or a publisher of considerable status?”

“Erm…yes. The second one.”

“I see. And what books does this publisher publish?”

“Oh, you know. Paper ones. Lots of pages, split up into chapters, and – “

I sighed. “Which AUTHORS, Spunkleford?”

“Oh. Well, I…I’m not really sure, old boy…” Spunkleford blustered.

“Well, I suggest you find out right away, Inspector!” I cried, thrusting a finger into the air. “I shall wager that one of the authors on their books is none other than one Mr. Charles Dickens!”

“Ah! Erm. I see. And?…”

“AND!…” I paused, my finger still held aloft. “That means something! I’m not sure exactly what it means yet, Spunkleford – but I assure you I shall work on it! Come along, Botter! There is thinking to be done!”

*****

BOTTER and I adjourned to a nearby tavern called the ‘The Soggy Biscuit‘, a place of ill-repute but healthy profits, due in no small part to the fact that the landlord made his premises freely available for prostitutes to ply their trade, which thus made it one of my favourite places to go when I needed a good, hard…think.

I drunk long into the early hours of the evening, enjoying the delicious beer, and the delicious women. Soon I was deep in conversation with a hugely buxom harlot by the name of ‘Big’ Bella Butterlegs, so-called because her legs spread ever so easily. As we talked, Bella took  to whispering sweet nothings into my ear, while I returned saucy somethings into hers, and we soon agreed to depart to her abode around the corner, for a spot of rumpy-pumpy – much to the chagrin of my miserable man-servant.

“Milord,” he whined, “Should we not be working on the investigation?…”

“Botter, why don’t you investigate THIS!” I boomed, extending my middle finger at the wretched cove. “Now, what can you deduce from the evidence before you?”

“That you wish for me to extricate myself from your company?” Botter answered sadly.

“Indeed, to put it politely,” I nodded. “To put it impolitely, FUCK OFF, you wretched little arse-smear!”

And with that, Bella and I left The Soggy Biscuit, laughing heartily at my supremely excellent insult and Botter’s subsequent misery.

As we staggered down the road, arm-in-arm, I felt my spirits rise, along with my proud Lord Palmerston, and suggested to Bella that we slipped into a secluded alley-way so she could tend to my raging erection there and then. Bella giggled, and acceded, as well she might, the filthy slattern.

We dashed into such a side-street nearby, and Bella dropped to her knees before me like the cock-hungry whore she was. But before I could free my tumescent tally-whacker, we were disturbed by the sound of something stirring at the other end of the alley-way.

“Hello?” I barked, re-fastening my belt. “Who’s there? This isn’t some sort of peep-show, you know! Although we may be able to come to some arrangement, for the right fee…”

No reply came, but the sound of shuffling steps.

“Hello?” I repeated, peering into the darkness to see if I could pick out a figure.

“Please sir….” came a small boy’s voice from the shadows, “…can I have some more?”

“More?” I snapped. “More WHAT?”

Then, out of the dark, appeared the most wretched apparition I had e’er seen. He was indeed a young lad, dressed in a cheap, cloth hat, scarf, a grubby waist-coat and equally dirty shorts. But it was not his evident poverty that repulsed me so (although that was indeed disgusting), but the unnatural green-ish tint to his skin, his misty eyes and the blood dripping from his mouth. And, worse still, the bowl he was holding out in front of him, in which sat what looked very much like a human BRAIN.

“Please sir…” the spectre repeated, “can I have some more….BRRRAAAAAAAIIIINS?”

And then, the child lunged forth, jaws slavering…

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Three…

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Illustration by the supremely-talented Mr. Stuart Linfield. Good show, sir!

“Rrrrarrrggggggh! Rrrrrrarrrrgh! Guuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggh! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!”

“Heavy night, milord?” asked Botter, my man-servant, as I shuffled into the breakfast room.

“Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuh! Rrrrrrrarrrrrgggh!”

“Very good, milord.”

I collapsed heavily into a chair at the table, my head thundering as if it were filled with elephants vigorously humping one another.  Good heavens, what a stupendous night that had been, I thought. At least, I assumed it had been a stupendous night, I could not actually remember any of it. But I had been there, and I am naturally stupendous, so it seemed entirely reasonable to assume that the night itself had thus also been stupendous.

It was then that I realised that my man-servant was still talking.

“Buuuuuuuuuuuuh?” I groaned.

“Can I get you anything, my lord?” Botter repeated.

“Ffffffffffffeeeeeeeeerrrrrrgh,” I burbled. I cleared my throat, and tried again. “Coooooooffeeeeeeeeeeee.”

“Very well, milord. I’ll just prepare some,” Botter replied, picking up a sack of coffee beans from the table.

“Noooooooooo. Cooooooffffffeeeeeeeeeeeee,” I repeated, my arms flailing in the direction of the sack.

“But I need to – ”

“COOOOOOOFFFFFFFEEEEEEEEEE!” I yelled, as I reached forward and grabbed the sack from my man-servant’s wretched mitts. Botter duly stepped back, as I took the bag and proceeded to bury my head inside its contents.

“Are…are you all right, milord?” Botter asked nervously, as a full ten minutes passed during which I did not move an inch from this position – that is until I felt the cretin’s hand upon my shoulder.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!!” I bellowed, springing back upright, spraying coffee beans from my mouth as I spoke. “Touch me again, and your hand shall find itself wedged firmly up your anus.”

“Very good, milord.”

“Hmph,” I grumbled, as I finished chewing the beans still in my mouth. “Anything new to report, Botter? Any post?”

“A couple of letters, my lord,” Botter answered, handing me the aforementioned couple of letters. “And a great big sack of mail from your admirers,” he added, placing the large sack on the table. “I am afraid we have lost another post-man, however. He threw his back out bringing that to the door.”

“Pfffft. The Royal Mail really needs to employ stronger men, if you ask me. Unless they are planning to change their name to ‘Royal Female’. HA!” I chuckled, as I flicked through the post disinterestedly. “AH! Look, Botter! A letter from Poppycock Press, my would-be publisher! I imagine they’re writing to offer me a small fortune for the privilege of publishing the manuscript I sent to them.”

I tore open the envelope and skimmed the missive within.

“BALLBAGS!” I roared, hurling the letter aside. “They are refusing to print my masterpiece! They say that it is much to crude and far too depraved for print! Bah, these fellows would not know a good thing if it came up to them, lowered its trousers and excreted a lump of solid gold upon their chests! A pox on them, I say!”

“Maybe you should tone it down a touch, milord, and resubmit? I mean, there is an entire chapter in there where you go into great detail about masturbating over an image of the Queen…”

“TONE IT DOWN?” I bellowed. “I am Lord Likely, not Jane ruddy Austen! I shall simply have to find a publisher with rather bigger balls, is all…”

My tirade was cut short by a knock on the door.

“Go and see who that is, Botter. I wish to fume some more.”

Botter nodded and scurried off to answer the door, while I sat in my chair, looking mean, moody and magnificent.

“It’s Inspector Spunkleford, milord,” Botter said, re-entering the room. “He wishes to see you right away, says it is most urgent.”

“Dear me,” I sighed. “Whatever is it now? Can he not find his way back to Scotland Yard on his own, or something? Fine, send him in.”

Botter nodded smartly, and withdrew, to be replaced by the portly form of Spunkleford.

“Ah, Likely!” boomed the big man, rather too enthusiastically for my aching head.

“Gah! A bit quieter if you could, Spunkleford, there’s a good chap.”

“Ha! Heavy night eh, old friend?”

“What? Why does everyone keep saying that? How can a night be ‘heavy’? Unless you are calling me obese. Are you calling me obese, Spunkleford? I mean, I concede I have developed something of a ‘champagne gut’ of late, but still….”

“Never mind, Likely,” beamed Spunkleford. “‘Tis not important. What is important is this rather interesting case that’s come up…think you’ll be interested, as it’s rather astonishing, you see…”

“Oh?” I said, leaning forward, my ears pricking up at the ‘a’ word. “Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve just come from the scene of a rather brutal murder. Chap seems to have been savagely attacked… but furthermore, he was EATEN.”

“Eton? Well, they’re rather wealthy, those college boys. He was probably mugged, I’d wager…”

“What? No, not ETON, Likely! EATEN. As in devoured. Feasted upon. Chewed up. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” I paused. “OH!”

“‘Oh!’ indeed, Likely. But wait for it, this whole matter gets stranger still. You see, we have a witness to this ghastly crime, a night watch-man from a nearby clockwork book factory. Saw the whole thing, and he was therefore able to give us a full description of the assailant.”

“Oh! Well, it seems like a rather open and shut case then, Spunkleford. I don’t understand why you’re here, frankly.”

“Ah! Well you see, we got in a sketch artist to draw up a picture of the attacker, as we do in these instances. And…well, take a look for yourself, Likely.”

Spunkleford pushed a drawing across the table. I picked it up, looked at it, rubbed my eyes, and then looked at it again.

“But that’s…”

“…Charles Dickens, yes.”

“But he’s…”

“…been dead for twenty years, yes.”

“But I…”

“…don’t understand how a dead man could possibly murder someone?”

“No, I was actually going to say, ‘…but I really wish you would stop finishing my sentences, Spunkleford. It is terribly irritating’.”

“Oh. Sorry, old boy.”

I pondered upon this latest mystery. Having a world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation was astonishing enough to warrant my time and energy, but a DEAD world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation? How could I possibly resist?

“I’LL TAKE THE CASE!” I roared, leaping to my feet and then tumbling to the floor in quick succession. “And some more coffee,” I added from my spot on the ground.

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Two…

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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.

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Good day, all!

Apologies for the tardiness in updating my fantastic journals this week, but after I completed my two-hundredth entry last week, I celebrated long and hard, and hard and long. Indeed, the hangover only vanished two hours ago, when I found myself naked in a field, getting my face licked by a dirty, old cow.

But that is quite enough about Baroness Mirkin.

Thus, as I am still in a rather hazy state and barely able to string two syllables together, I have decided to publish another of my Incredible Illustrated Indiscretionsthis week in place of an Astonishing Adventure. While the following strip cartoon may be light on words, I do believe you shall find it no lighter in sheer excellence, for everything I touch turns to gold!

Which should make my penis very valuable indeed.

Now: on with the merriment!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something wondrous, I do not doubt.

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

Good day, dear readers!

Behold a bold new era for my (frankly incredible) journals, as Mr. Isambard Kingdom Brunel has just completed his renovation of my diaries, resulting in the cock-stiffening, mimsy-moistening new look you are currently witnessing before your doubtlessly stunned eyeballs.

Mr. Brunel did take a day longer than I had hoped, but he cannot really be blamed. I did wind up treating him to a few drinks on Monday evening, which led to a few dozen drinks, which in turn led to a twelve-hour stay in the local hospital for the poor chap. Some people really cannot hold their booze, you know.

Luckily, Mr. Brunel is rather more adept at holding a hammer, and his work upon my journals is looking very nice indeed, even if I do say so myself. Which I do. Excitingly, I am told there are a few more changes to come, which has me pounding my Palmerston in erotic anticipation, frankly.

I do hope that you – my dear, darling and deliriously gorgeous readers – approve of the changes as well. Let me know by sending my some sort of communication, and I shall take the time to respond to you all. Unless your comment is negative, in which case I may just wipe my arse upon it and hurl it into a fire. (The comment, that is, not my arse.)

Many thanks to you all for bearing with us through these difficult – but knee-tremblingly exciting – times.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: More thrilling escapades and adventures!

humor-blogs.com wishes it could look this good.

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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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I was in some exceptionally deep excrement.

Was it really at all possible that I had gambled away the ownership of my entire Estate whilst off my Lordly tits on booze in Italy? Could I really have been that inebriated? Or were the two Italian miscreants currently taking up residence in my house talking complete and utter, gold-plated bollocks?

“You, sir, are lying through your filthy spaghetti sauce-stained teeth,” I ventured.

The thin man smiled, his gold tooth sparkling in the afternoon sun.

“Oh really, Meeester Likely?” he said. “Maybe this will satisfy any doubts you have!” With that, the fiend produced a crumpled document from his coat pocket, and waved it in my face. “Read this and then proceed to weep, signore.”

I snatched the paper from the man’s hand, and read it over. It appeared to be some sort of contract, with my unmistakably lavish signature at the bottom of it. It was rather reassuring to see that my penmanship clearly did not suffer when I was completely pissed.

“Hold no one twatting moment,” I said, as I read through the contract. “It says here that I entered into a penis-wrestling match with your man Rocko, here. What the Dickens?”

“Penis wrestling. It’s-a like wrestling, but with penises.”

“I understand that much, you wretched swine,” I sniffed. “What I fail to understand is how I lost. My Lord Palmerston is the better of any todger in this entire continent – nay, the globe.”

“Heh,” smirked the Italian. “You said preeety much the same-a thing on the day. Except you were slurring far more, of course. Once again, you underestimate the sheer strength and power of my friend’s massive penis.”

“Oh, really?” I smiled, crumpling the contract up in my fist. “Well I shall be sure not to do that again.” Then, as quick as a flash, I spun round and kicked Rocko right in the plums.

It was a spectacularly fluid and graceful manouevere, but it was to prove to be exceptionally foolhardy, as my foot connected with something so incredibly hard that I could not help but to yelp out in pain, while Rocko stood perfectly still, unflinching.

“FUCK ME!” I yelled, nursing my injured foot in my hands. “What in the name of the Pope’s piss-hole has he got down there?”

“My cock,” Rocko smiled.

“They don’t call him ‘Rocko‘ for nothing, Meeester Likely,” the other man chuckled. “Now, maybe you can be a good little lord, and admit defeat graciously, eh? And then, get your stinky English backside off of my property!”

“You may have won the battle, but you have not won the war!” I jeered, as I limped away, with my man-servant trying gamely to support me as I went. “Me and my Lord Palmerston shall return, and when we do, we shall leave you in such a ruined state that the Colosseum will look positively brand-new in comparision. Capiche?“

“Bar-keep!” I yelled, slamming my fist on the counter of my local public-house, The Cock and Balls. “I demand some of your strongest alcoholic beverages, and some of your sluttiest whores post-haste! I have an aching desire to get blind, roaring drunk, and reassert my manhood right away.”

“Very good, milord,” said Blind Trevor, the landlord, who is must be noted was neither blind, nor actually called Trevor, but had assumed the nickname under the assumption that it made him sound more amiable and approachable.

His real name was Rupert. Nobody likes a Rupert.

“Milord,” said Botter, as we took our drinks to a nearby table and waited for Blind Trevor to find some prostitutes. “Are you sure this is wise? Getting completely drunk got you into this mess after all….”

“Botter,” I replied, pausing to take a sip from my beer. “I have been booted out of my family home, and have suffered a terrible blow against my manhood. At least allow me to get so totally sloshed that I can forget any of this happened.”

“Come on, milord! We’re wasting time here! You should be out there, at the Likely Estate, fighting for your very home! If not for you, then for all of the Likelys who have e’er dwelled there.”

“Botter, I fear you are extremely close to having your speaking privilages revoked. Now, do be a good chap and let me be. I shall drink myself to a stupor, and then I plan to tunnel the whores so vigourously that they can barely walk again…”

I lowered my beer slowly, an idea slowly forming in my magnificent brain.

“Tunnel! Tunnel. TUNNEL! Of course! By Jupiter’s Jizz-pole, we’ve got them!”

“What?” Botter asked, as I leapt to my feet. “What is it milord?”

“There’s an old tunnel that leads from the village hall all the way to the old library on my Estate! My great-great-great-great grandfather had it built during the English Civil War, don’t you know?”

“Really? Was it built so he could get his family safely out of the Estate without being attacked by Roundheads?”

“No, it was so he could sneak slatternly young ladies into the house in the evening, and indulge in all-night orgies the likes of which would make Marquis de Sade blush. The point is, the tunnel still exists, so we can easily get back inside my abode, and drive those filthy Italians from the Estate! It is almost too facile. Quick! Let us depart to the Village Hall!”

“Oh. So you won’t be needin’ these two, then?” said Blind Trevor, who had since returned with two completely corking young women for my pleasure.

“Well…it can’t hurt to get a bit of tunneling practice in beforehand,” I beamed. “Ladies, shall we?…”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Journey to the Centre of the Hearth!

humor-blogs.com keeps trying to tunnel in here, but luckily it can’t quite get it’s massive backside through the hole.

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