November, 1857.

AS I stood contemplating my next move, my ponderings were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, who bounded across the road toward me, huffing and puffing as he put his sizeable frame through such clearly untypical exertions.

“Ah! Likely!” he wheezed. “Jolly good to see you, old boy!”

“I imagine it would be,” I replied.

“Thank you for responding to my telegram quite so promptly, Likely!” Spunkleford continued. “I dare say you are all fired up and ready for another rip-roaring adventure, eh?”

“Well actually, dear inspector, I was about to go and sample some delicious, hot buns over at that bakery over there,” I said, pointing to the shop on the other side of the street.

“What? But why?” Spunkleford asked, then his face fell when he saw that I was pointing at Mrs. Bapps’ Bakery. “Oh heavens, no, Likely! Can we not have one investigation wherein you do not wind up underneath some poor woman or other?”

“Of course, inspector!” I brightened. “This time I shall make certain that I am on top!”

With that I strode across the street, with Spunkleford grumbling on behind me.

The shop’s bell gave a rather pathetic little tring as I entered Mrs. Bapps’ Bakery – hardly a fanfare befitting the entrance of one as utterly fabulous as I. Nevertheless, the bell seemed to do the trick, and no sooner had we entered the establishment then did Mrs. Bapps herself emerge from a back-room with a cheery, “Good day, gentlemen!”

I took a moment to behold the woman, and found her most pleasing to the eye, and indeed the other eye. She was a well-built, blonde lady, with lovely, smiling green eyes. She also looked rather dirty – not physically, you understand, although her face and apron were covered with flour as would be expected from one in her trade – but she had an air about her that suggested she certainly knew how to butter a gentleman’s baguette, if you follow my meaning.

“So, how can I help you fine gentlemen?” Mrs. Bapps continued as she dried her hands on a towel. “Can I interest you in a nice hot bun, maybe?” she continued, as she turned around and bent over to open up the door of the oven behind her, revealing a rather shapely derrière in the process.

“Mmmm,” I said approvingly. “Those buns certainly do look quite, quite appetising!”

“Rather! They smell delicious!” exclaimed Spunkleford, whose thoughts rarely strayed further south than his stomach.

“There you go then, gents!” chirped Mrs. Bapps, as she laid a tray of buns on the counter before her. “Fresh out of the oven!”

Botter and Spunkleford hungrily tucked in to the piping-hot food, while I refrained. I never eat on the job, you know.

“Are you not having any, sir?” Mrs. Bapps enquired.

“Not yet,” I grinned.

“Oh?’

“You see, m’dear, I am afraid to say that I have precisely no interest in your baked goods. I think I should instead like to order something rather more…delectable.”

Mrs. Bapps smiled and leant over the counter, which gave me a fantastic view of her considerable cleavage, the sort of cleavage one could lose one’s wallet in, and then possibly one’s hand as well.

“So, sir…what would you like, then?”

“Well…” I began.

- Lord Likely.

Vote Now!

Well…What, Precisely?
( surveys)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote‘ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: The entirely lovely Nurse Myra! Huzzah and hurrah!

So do not delay, dear readers…his lordship awaits your instruction! Make him do your bidding!

And also: a very happy Thanksgiving Day to all of Lord Likely’s loyal American readers! Have a jolly good day, you all! Or something like that.

THE fog hung about the streets of London like an unwanted guest at a party, getting in everyone’s way and generally souring the mood somewhat. Unlike an unwanted guest at a party, however, the fog was considerably harder to eject, being as it was a formless cloud of minute water droplets.

“Blasted fog!” snapped a rather irritated gentle-man as he fumbled his way through Nubstraddle Road and onto Bilgecranny Lane. “Bugger it, where the hell am I now?”

As the fellow peered through the fog around him in an attempt to gain his bearings, a small voice suddenly piped up behind him.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?”

The man turned around and strained his eyes through the murky darkness, until he picked out the small figure of a scruffily dressed urchin a few feet away.

“What, boy?” the man asked angrily.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?” the child repeated.

“What? Why on earth would I want my shoes shined at this time of night, in this sort of weather? I can barely see the road before me, let alone behold the cleanliness of my shoes, you blasted wretch!”

There was a pause, and then, rather innevitably, the question was repeated.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?”

“No, I said! No! Bugger off with you, lad!” cried the increasingly irate gent. “Confound it! I shall never find my way home at this rate…” the man continued, turning his back on the boy and moving off in the direction he had come. But, no sooner had he taken a few short steps, then he suddenly found himself confronted by the the boy once more, his pale, grey face raised up.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?”

“READ ALL ABOUT IT! GENTLEMAN’S SHOES STOLEN! REEEAAAD ALL ABAAAHHHHT IT!”

That was the cacophonous racket which assaulted my delicate ears as I stepped out of my carriage and onto the filth-caked streets of London Town. Really, it was enough to make a man wish he could vomit into his own earholes.

I strode up to the newspaper vendor responsible for the noise, and snatched a copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News from his hand.

“Will you keep that bloody noise down, you disgusting oaf! I am feeling rather fragile to-day, on account of my terrible, terrible hang-over. It feels like a herd of wilderbeast are stampeding through my head, and then having sex with each other,” I said.

“Well, excuse me sir, but people must hear the news!” the vendor replied.

“I am sure people are more than capable of reading the newspapers for themselves, without you screaming the headlines at them,” I parried.

“Don’t be too sure, sir,” the cockney continued. “In this increasingly busy and industrious time we live in, people are finding themselves with less time to peruse the newspapers. While I do not disagree that print is still very much a valid medium for dispensing such information, I firmly believe that new delivery methods will be developed as we find ourselves with further constraints upon our time. You mark my words, sir, one day there shall be people like me in every street, ‘ollering the news at people for their own convenience.”

What a curiously eloquent and forward-thinking newspaper-vendor, I thought to myself. But while those were indeed my thoughts, what I actually said was: “Oh shut up, you fanny.”

“Milord!” said my useless man-servant Botter, who had followed me out of the carriage and who had then picked up a copy of the newspaper for himself. “Isn’t this the very mystery we’ve been called to investiage?”

Botter held up the newspaper and pointed at the shoe-theft story about which the newspaper vendor had been yelling. While I desperately wanted to chide Botter for being woefully incorrect and inept, the bastard was actually completely spot-on. I had, just an hour previously, received an urgent communication from Inspector Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, asking me to help him investigate the theft of a gentleman’s shoes. While I initially dismissed such a case as far beneath my considerable talents, a twenty pound fee and the promise of free whisky had soon won me over. As well as an overwhelming urge to see justice prevail, of course.

“Yes, I do believe it is, Botter,” I concurred, reading the news article. “You little shit,” I added, not wanting to miss an opportunity to ridicule Botter anyway.

“Well, shall we move on to Bilgecranny Lane, then milord?” Botter asked.

“I suppose so,” I mumbled, surveying the area. I immediately noticed a small baker’s shop on the other side of the road, which belonged to the tantalisingly-named Mrs. Bapps, and which made the incredibly erotic promise of ‘hot buns‘ on a poster in the shop’s window. Food would be good, I thought. And maybe some intercourse, too.

Further down the street, there was a public house called The Rutting Stag, which also appealed. There really is nothing like chasing away the ill-efects of an all-night drinking session than by drinking more alcohol the following morning. And maybe some intercourse, too.

Both these establishments sounded much more alluring than the prospect of hunting for some misplaced footwear, and I found myself rather torn between them.

Oh, what is a lord to do?

- Lord Likely.

Vote Now!

What Is A Lord To Do?
( polls)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote‘ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

So do not delay, dear readers…his lordship awaits your instruction! Make him do your bidding!