I fully endorse this service, although I cannot either confirm or deny whether I am the ‘Lord L.’ in the advertisement above. Ahem.

Today’s astonishing article was  penned by a glorious guest-writer; the entirely excellent and rather ravishing Lady Catherine. Repay her fabulous work by visiting her fine web-log – and tell her Lord Likely sent you!

Be back here in a few short days, chums, wherein I shall be giving away FREE BOOKS. Huzzah!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely, and Lady Catherine.

If you are interested in penning a guest article for The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely, then send your suggestions and submissions to his lordship for consideration:  hislordship@lordlikely.com

—Lord Likely in Exile in Australia—

Lord Likely rises to power in Australia.

Part Two, in which, his cream rising to the top, Lord Likely becomes master of his domain:

May 21, 1862

I begin to father numerous children. The husbands of the children’s mothers are not amused.

—

So there I was, standing on the balcony in my nightshirt in the cool evening breeze, Lord Palmerston hanging drowsily in temporary repose from his recent exertions, the imminently satisfied nubile Chesterfield twins peacefully asleep on the bed behind me.

As I stood there leaning over the iron railing and gazing idly over the sleeping camp, enjoying a fine post-climactic cigar, I contemplated my current predicament.

Several irate husbands of the camp ladies are apparently hell-bent on stretching my Lordly neck with a common rope. To make matters even worse, they had the full sympathy of Her Majesty’s Territorial Governor, the Duke of Chesterfield, father of the temporarily-sated twin girls currently dreamily ensconced upon my large 4-poster.

What to do. What to do.

“Baaaa-aaaa. Baa-Baaaaa”

I was rudely awakened from my reverie by the sound of a distressed sheep on the street below.

In the darkness I could make out the figure of a man leading an unwilling ewe down the alleyway towards the servant’s quarters.

“Botter!” I cried down at the man below. “Botter, you cretinous fuckwit! Why don’t you just leave off with that poor sheep, man!”

My manservant Botter, always on the very edge of mental collapse, had of late been acting even more strangely than usual, having taken up company with an unfortunate ewe sheep, dressing the poor beast in black stockings and a large blue polka dot sunbonnet, and leading her around with a dainty little velvet rope he had undoubted stolen from some brothel doorbell.

The lovely couple was obviously returning from a night on the town, and Botter’s wooly companion was apparently suffering from a splitting headache, knowing full well what her paramour had in mind as the evening came to a close.

“Baaaaa-aaaaa. Baa-aaaa-Baaa”

“Yes, milord?” The embarrassing jackass tilted his loathsome head to one side as he looked up at me, squinting, still holding the velvet rope tightly as his lady continued her escape efforts.

“Botter, why don’t you just give it up? Let the poor sheep go, man. Have you no pride at all?”

“Pride? No milord. No pride. Love Dolly…”

Dolly. That’s what he called the beast. Dolly Malone. Holy snappin’ duck shit. Dolly Malone.

Unable to even continue the conversation, I started to turn away with a dismissary wave of my hand, when the poor imbecile piped up again in his semi-drunken quavering high pitched voice.

“Milord?”

“Oh, what in holy fuck, man? What? WhatWhatWhatWhat?”

“Friday. It’s Friday night, milord.”

The man had finally gone completely bonkers. Quickly I looked for something to throw down at him.

“My wages fall due today, milord, and I was wonderin’…”

Botter’s voice trailed off into a fit of violent coughing, culminating in his apparently hacking up whatever had choked off his words in the first place.

I was in my nightshirt. No pockets, no money.

“Wait here, sheepfucker!”

I turned abruptly and reentered the bedroom to look for Botter’s money, but as I walked passed the bed, one of the twins–god knows which–awoke and smiled at me. Momentarily distracted, I reached down between her open legs and and searched for a moment. No, no money there.

I continued on to the large dressing table and quickly snatched the lone coin from it and hurried back to the balcony. It was obvious the twins were stirring and would soon be in need of another dose of Lord Palmerston medicine.

“Here. Take this you fool. I’ll pay you the rest tomorrow. Or whenever I feel the fuck like paying you.”

As I spoke, I flung the gold sovereign over the balcony, assuming the tottering wretch would catch it in his hands. But the night was quite dark now and the coin struck him in his forehead, causing him to cry out and stagger back, leaving a noticeable gash above his watery right eye.

As the blood began to stream into his rapidly blinking eye, the mindless pervert stumbled backwards and went suddenly arse over elbows over his ewe-lady and landed flat on his back, his feet kicking helplessly in the air. In the process, he lost hold of the velvet rope and his mistress, seizing upon his loss of composure, broke free.

“Botter…” I began, hands outstretched in helpless apology. But it was no use. His lamb-lady was already racing down the alley, her stocking-clad hooves padding rapidly over the paving stones with the profusely bleeding Botter in hot pursuit.

I made a mental note to go down and retrieve the sovereign, but first there were more pressing matters to attend to in the bedroom.

I closed the door to the balcony securely and, pulling my nightshirt over my head, turned to face the now wide-awake and eager mirror images of passionate pulchritude.

Lord Palmerston had, as usual, already risen to the occasion and was quite prepared to immediately engage the waiting and willing female duplicates, but paused momentarily to consider his choices. Four delightfully oversized titties, two equally delightful ports of entry.

What to do?

“Will there not be intercourse, then?”, teased Sadie. Or Susie. Whichever the hell.

I stood there, calmly, waiting for Palmerston to decide, when all at once, overcome with the impossibility of such a choice, he simply lunged forward toward the nearer target, pulling me rudely behind him as he dove into the bed and into Sadie. Or into Susie, whichever it was, and soon he was burrowing wildly like a crazed rabbit after the world’s last carrot.

“Ooooooo,” said Sadie, politely, in response to the burrowing. Or perhaps it was Susie.

“Ooooooo,” echoed her sister, although she seemed to presently have no apparent reason for doing so.

As for Palmerston, he was of no help to me at all, completely blind now, and thrashing violently around in the darkness, totally incapable of guiding me as to what I might do next, when suddenly Susie, or whichever one was momentarily unoccupied, made the decision for me, pulling my now-hatless head down into her, at once rendering me totally speechless–unable to form words, or even to use my mouth at all if truth be told.

Susie–or was it Sadie?–began to perform the familiar circular “coconut cracker clasp” maneuver with her legs locked around my straining neck. This of course immediately caused an involuntary rapid trilling of my tongue much like an Arab lady calling her mate.

The room began to slowly swirl as I surrendered to the will of the now bucking and pumping twin dynamos, and it was at that precise moment that I heard, in the distance, a long pitiful bleating sound, and realized that the demented fuckwad Botter had apparently been successful in his own pursuit of happiness that evening.

*****

Faithfully transcribed from the original journals by Mr. Relax Max, lately author of the web-log entitled “BritishSpeak.blogspot.com”

Lord Likely is currently away, adventuring in foreign climes and shaking hands with the natives.

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So there I was, standing, finally, on the soil of my new homeland, staring at the smiling red-haired wench and experiencing my first Australian erection.

Suddenly, the oppressive gloom that had followed me on my long voyage lifted. With a smile, I quickly undid my trousers and loosed the mighty Lord Palmerston to the morning breeze. It was invigorating! I realized that, far from being in captivity, I was at last truly free for the first time in my life.

Standing thus fully “unsheathed” as it were, I turned my attentions back to the buxom lady, who, I couldn’t help but notice, had rather increased her attentions in my direction as well.

All the Victorian restraints of my native land were behind me now, and how I reveled in my new freedom of being able to expose myself as I pleased! After all, what could they do to me now—send me off to Australia?

It was remarkable! Passersby barely glanced our way—even as my sturdy truncheon began to produce loud exclamations of encouragement from the red-haired Molly Muff.

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This document is being written in the hope that it might be smuggled out of this wretched place and its contents disseminated, so that I may be freed and my name cleared. At the very least, I hope that my family and all the Dickkens to follow will know the truth about me.

My name is Charles Dickkens, and I am the proud bearer of my family name.I am a writer who only seeks to document the truth and wishes to bring to light social injustice and the miseries of my times.

My story is a simple one. My start in life is simple and my fall from grace simpler still. For I was no match for that devil called Lord Likely. Pray, dear reader, for I believe you to be a person of kind heart and trustful disposition, and I rely on your magnitude of heart to look charitably on this state of opprobrium.

So let us begin.

I, Charles Dickkens was born at an early age, and after a period of time spent as an apprentice nutmeg mender, I slowly developed my career as a writer. The remuneration was modest, but the future looked promising until my path crossed with that of the cad Lord Likely. That swine ruined my career and wrecked my life, stealing my work and my identity, whilst causing me to be incarcerated in this ghastly place.

My downfall was in taking the blackguard into my confidence and revealing the shocking, but little known facts concerning Queen Victoria that I had recorded.

I can remember as if it were yesterday when I first came across the blighter. That bleak and rainy December evening when on my way back from a séance in a cold and gloomy house in Shadwell to my garret in Bloomsbury, soaked to the skin and low of spirit I took refuge in ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’.

And a strange sort of shop it was indeed. For upon crossing the threshold I was confronted by the sight of a man of gentlemanly appearance (as far as I could discern, seeing that he was not wearing any britches or any other garment on his lower half) on all fours with a horse’s bit between his teeth. Sitting astride him was an obese hag who I later discovered was called Little Nell, a joke that the other members of the establishment enjoyed because of her gross size.

Nell had a riding crop in her hand and was beating the person (who it later transpired was Lord Likely) across the buttocks, goading him forward across the carpeted floor with grunts and vicious kicks to his nether regions with her heels.

Likely was still wearing his characteristic top hat and was breathing heavily. His eyes were red and wild, and he had snot escaping from his nostrils.

You can imagine my shock, dear reader, to witness this terrible exhibition of depravity. Realising my mistake I quickly turned ready to make my escape, but my path was blocked by a character wearing an ill-fitting red wig and whose mannish face was covered with vast amounts of ladies’ face powder. Beneath an unfastened salmon-pink silk dressing gown could be seen frilly drawers and silk stockings. As I took stock of the figure before me, I quickly realised that this was no lady. In fact it had nothing to do with the female personage at all.

Please understand that I am no prude, nor am I quick to make moral judgements. My involvement with the poor and lower classes of London has exposed me to all forms of indelicate behaviour. Therefore my feeling of ill ease was born of a sense of looming danger which filled my soul with deep foreboding and dread.

The character stood with one arm stretched across the doorway, the palm of the hairy hand resting on the doorpost, and the silk dressing gown gaping open. “Want to buy a lady a drink?” she said in a deep-pitched voice.

Realising that I would have to use all my guile to extricate myself from this unfortunate situation, I attempted to engage the person in conversation. “And what might your name be, Madam?” I enquired.

The person thrust the obviously padded breasts towards me and gave a pout. “You can call me Botter,” she said in a husky voice.

I didn’t like the way things were turning out and began wondering how I could have been so foolish to have mistaken this place, full of harlots and miscreants, for a simple temperance society meeting room where I might have taken refuge from the elements for a few moments.

Before I could decide upon what action to take next, Lord Likely gave a sudden shudder and heaved his back upwards, throwing Little Nell onto the floor, in a bundle of belly fat and open-crotch drawers.

He cast his bloodshot gaze towards me, then with some effort rose and after taking a moment to compose himself he moved towards me. As he approached, and without breaking his gaze his right arm shot out and hit Botter in the groin, causing the poor wretch to scream out in a flurry of distress and face powder.

“Gown,” was all that Likely said in a clipped tone.

Botter, a picture of pain and humiliation, slowly pulled the dressing gown from his body. Likely stood without moving as this poor excuse for a woman – or man for that matter – draped the garment over his shoulders.

With a strangely engaging smile Likely stuck out his hand towards me.

“Likely, sir. And you are …?”

He cocked his head slightly and continued, “You appear, sir, to have me at a disadvantage.”

His absolute self-assurance and perfect manners, despite the fact that his Lord Palmerston was making an appearance every now and again from behind the gown, made it perfectly clear that he was in control of this chance encounter.

Overwhelmed by his self-confidence, I instinctively extended my hand to meet his.

“Charles ……. Aagh.”

I am afraid to admit that I let out a rather girlish scream before I could complete the sentence, as I felt my hand crushed in a vice-like grip.

Likely kept hold of my hand for what seemed like an age, as he applied the dreaded ‘Caledonian Knuckle Crunch‘, sadistically relishing his dominance and my agony. Then in an almost feminine manner he broke the grip and let his hand drift away as if in a genteel wave.

“You were saying,” he said abstractedly, pulling the gown about his person.

I let out a nervous cough, flexing my fingers behind my back, then said “Charles Dickkens, sir. At you service.”

Likely looked up, then cast a glance at Little Nell, who was still lying on the carpet with what in the dimness appeared to be a black cat sitting in her lap. “This is all rather tedious. Why don’t we retire to partake of some refreshment?”

Before I could respond he turned and strode towards a door at the end of the room. Never looking back he simply opened the door and walked in, aware, just as I was that I would be following him.

Almost in a trance I crossed the short distance and entered the room, which was even more dimly lit than the one we had just left.

As I stepped in, I noticed a couch to my right on which a Chinaman was lying. His eyes were half closed and he had a sleepy look of ecstasy as he sucked on a pipe.

Likely was now draped on a couch at the back of the room, the gown unfortunately gaping open.

Likely patted the cushion beside him. “Don’t be shy,” he said in an almost brusque tone.

I moved towards him, trying not to appear to be aware of the state of his dress, and sat next to him on the couch.

Just then a ghostly figure appeared out of the shadows and placed a tray of drinks on the table in front of us. Likely said, “Now pray, tell me all about yourself.”

For the rest of the night I was unaware of the passing hours. The dark seduction of the evening, the scent of the Chinaman’s pipe, Lord Likely’s medicine (which I later found to be a mixture of port wine and laudanum), together with the sheer force of the man’s personality lead me to talk, and talk and to offer all the details of my life and my future aspirations.

I could hear my own voice and see Likely’s fiendishly smiling face shimmering in front of me – and then no more.

My next recollection was of waking in a back alley in the district of Whitechapel with guttersnipes rifling through my pockets.

But, oh if that were the extent of my misfortune. For after stumbling my way back to my garret, constables were waiting for me. Everything that I had blurted out to Lord Likely had been turned against me. I was about to be tried for high treason, and while I was suffering incarceration, Likely stole all my works.

Rewriting these pieces of literature he completely devastated the beauty and truth of the originals.

By the cunning means of taking my family name and removing one ‘k’ he created the pseudonym ‘Dickens‘ which he used to publish these poor imitations of my works in a style that would appeal to the masses.

I shall endeavour ………..

Quickly, I can hear the approaching footsteps of the jailer. I must stop writing and conceal this message behind a loose brick in the wall of my prison for later completion.

- Charles Dickkens.

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Its compact form protects one’s ever-so-valuables from errant bullets or personal knife attacks from vagrant children and it also harbours a veritable cornucopia of titbits of news and information which no discerning gentleman should be without.

When I’m in need of the most up-to-date ruminations on Her Majesty’s Imperial thrusts in the Indian subcontinent then it’s to The Cockney Slapper that I turn.

Or when I want to tax my cognitive prowess with one of those imaginative Crossed Words examinations of personal knowledge then The Cockney Slapper comes to the rescue once more as each issue contains nine such mental tests ranging in complexity from Chimney Sweep right up to Cambridge Graduate. I so very much enjoy giving a fresh Chimney Sweep a rigorous going over.

But without a doubt my favourite page of the periodical is the Sad Singletons section. Perusing personal adverts from the perennially paired-up-deficient both saddens me deep within even as it causes my entire body to convulse with laughter. Such a combination of emotions I find to be as addictive as opium and almost one third the price. Behold:

And The Cockney Slapper, correctly rolled and stuffed, also simulates an engorged male member most convincingly.

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The investigation over the disappearance of Miss. Elizabeth Hathaway
continues. Inspector Spunkleford of the Yard revealed to the Press several
pieces of evidence, in the form of letters taken from the missing girl’s room.

“We intend to find the young lady”, said Spunkleford. “These letters give us
several new avenues of inquiry.”

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“Ouch!” I complained. The act of dragging the thick, heavy shackles upward seemed impossible, but I complied.

The man at the bench -presumably the Judge- set his glasses on his nose and eyed me carefully. “Is he drunk, Chief Inspector?”

“I don’t believe so sir,” replied the dignified looking old man. “I found him unconscious at the scene of the crime.”

“Very well then Spunkleford,” he says. “Let us proceed.”

The banging of the gavel brings agonized bolts searing though my bandaged head.

“What are the charges?” asks the Judge with disinterest.

“The Defendant is hereby accused of breaking into the Likely Manor, violating, and then ultimately killing livestock which is the sole property of His Lordship!”

“Man,” I says. “You got a way of making this all sound so tawdry-”

“Silence!” demanded the Judge, banging his gavel painfully again.

“Okee Dokie,” I says wincing.

“Yesterday I found him,” Spunkleford continues, pointing at me, “knocked cold from a head wound, only a few dozen meters from the body of The Cunt.”

“That old nag was still alive?”

“She was a very spirited mare Milord,” replied Spunkleford. “And as a result, Lord Likely took great care of her. She was his favorite to loan out to, eh, undesirables.”

“Your Honor,” interjects Doctor Watson. “Indeed, I found a key to her stable on the Defendant’s person.”

Lord Likely?

“And how did the horse die, good Doctor?”

The Doctor lowered his hat solemnly to his heart. “I’m afraid all the excitement of taking out one last bounder was just too much for the old girl sir.”

“That’s too bad,” sad the Judge.

“Too bad?” I complained. “That mangy cur nearly kicked my head off!”

“That ‘mangy cur’ as you put it,” interjected the Doctor, “was a thoroughbred.”

“Is that why you gave her the hospital bed and made me sleep outside? It was 45 degrees and raining!”

“I gave you a blanket,” insists Watson.

“You gave me the dog’s blanket.”

“Twas a fine blanket.”

I lunge against the chains in futility. “Yeah. That’s what the dog thought!”

“And how, exactly, did you arrive into those circumstances?” the Judge asked me.

“I don’t know. I was home changing some light switch panels, and woke up to this guy,” indicating Spunkleford.

The Judge was puzzled. “Light switch panels?”

“He was quite concussed,” offers Doctor Watson.

“Hey, I haven’t even started ‘concussing’ yet,” I says. “Who are you crazy people?”

“Order, sir!” demanded Spunkleford, drawing his club. “One more outburst, and blood will be spilt!”

“It isn’t ‘spilt’, it’s ‘spilled’! By Thag’s tangly toenails, why are you people so possessed with butcherin’ our fine American language!?”

Spunkleford’s spectacle fell out and rolled across the wooden floor. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “He’s a Colonial!”

“Oh dear,” smiles the Judge, returning his attention to Spunkleford. “Is Lord Likely still away?”

“He is not due back from safari for several months.”

“Lord Likely?” I ask finally.

“The very same,” replies Spunkleford, retrieving his spectacle.

“Of ‘The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely‘?”

“Indeed.”

“Adventures that took place in, like, 1850?”

“And continue to this day.”

“How?” I demand.

“Sir, on this day of November 8, 1888, Lord Likely is navigating the Amazon.”

“Probably numerous Amazons!” snickers the Judge.

1888?

“Okay,” I says aloud to myself. “I’ve got this all figured out now. It’s a bad dream. And when you figure out that you’re dreaming, you can change stuff in it.” I close my eyes. “None of this is happening. I haven’t been somehow been dropped into some nightmarish and horrifying point in history where everybody wears hats-”

“How,” asks the Judge, “Would a commoner such as yourself be acquainted with His Lordship’s Journals?”

“I’ve been reading them for years,” I explain. “My great great Indian grandmother Tee Tee claims that I’m a distant descendant. That’s how I got my tribal name ‘Little Wolf’.”

Spunkleford guffaws. “Well, I happen to be very well acquainted with His Lordship, and I can assure you there is no ‘Tee Tee’ to speak of-”

“She had a romp with some guy named Lance.”

Murmurs leap around the courtroom, and Spunkleford’s spectacle rolls across the floor again.

“She ended up chewing my great grandpa out of her own cervix, ‘cuz she thought he was malignant,” I add.

Rubbing his spectacle clean moments later, Spunkleford stands thoughtfully quiet for a moment.

“I grow weary of this madness Chief Inspector,” says the Judge.

“Yes sir,” says Spunkleford. “But may I confer with you a moment?”

Impatiently, the Judge motions him toward the bench.

“Is it possible,” the Judge whispers, “that this is indeed the illegitimate child of his Lordship?”

“Well that would certainly explain why He would loan him The Cunt,” replies Spunkleford.

“This makes things much more complex. If I have him flogged and neutered -as is my inclination- we run the risk of infuriating the local nobility.”

“And I would wager,” adds Spunkleford. “That Lord Likely would assume flay the bounder himself.”

“So it is agreed. We free the poof, but keep him close by until His Lordship returns.”

“This seems the best course of action, given the circumstances,” Spunkleford concurs.

The Judge sighs.

Wham!

-Again with the hammer.

“I hereby release the Defendant into the strict custody of Doctor Watson until the return of Lord Likely, whereas we will then determine if charges are to be pressed.”

With his keys Spunkleford unlocks the shackles, and they fall loudly to the floor.

“Huzzah!” cries a woman in the crowd. “Now we can return our attention to Saucy Jack!”

The crowd cheers.

“Saucy Jack?” I says to no one in particular.

“A murderer most foul sir! A living breathing devil! He has hacked four women to pieces, and slipped into the shadows as if he weren’t never there!”

Another man stands, and shakes his fist at Spunkleford. “He must be stopped before he strikes again!”

“Let’s get out of here,” I nudge Doctor Watson. “All this yelling is making my head ache.”

“You can’t go into public like that sir,” gasps Watson, almost inhaling his own mustache.

“Like what?”

“Well, you don’t have a hat!”

“Look, just hand me that one on the floor.”

Spunkleford, addressing the increasingly unruly crowd, adopts an experienced, calming demeanor. “Settle down people! I assure you, Scotland Yard is doing everything in it’s power. We have men scouring the alleys and streets day and night for this ‘Jack the Ripper’. There will be no more victims.”

“Jack the Ripper?” I says.

“Indeed!”

“Look. You’re not going to find a guy named ‘Jack the Ripper’ in any alleys and streets.”

The crowd goes silent.

“What do you mean?” asks the first woman.

“Well, I mean think about the nickname Jack the ‘Ripper’. You should obviously be looking for an impossibly fat dude in really tight clothing.”

“Like Major Chudd-Fuddle!” cried a snaggle-toothed man.

“Perhaps. But that’s too simple. Plus his name isn’t Jack. If I were you, I would pull every officer from the streets, ‘an surround the one place you know this ‘ripper’ Jack must go.”

“Where would that be?” asks Spunkleford, intrigued.

“Someplace he could get his clothes fixed on really short notice.”

“To Timothy Tackle-Tuck’s tailor shop!” cried the crowd in unison.

Within moments, the courtroom was empty, save for myself, the woman, and Doctor Watson -who was draping my tattered rags with his trench coat.

“Sir,” said the woman. “I want to thank you. Tonight, for the first night in months, I can go home and sleep with my doors and windows unlocked without fear.”

“It was my pleasure, Miss-”

She curtseys. “Mary Jane Kelly“, she replies. “But my friends call me Ginger.”

I take her hand gentlemanly.

“It was all elementary my dear,” I says patting it reassuringly. “It was all elementary.”

Lord Likely is currently away, adventuring in foreign climes and seeing how many different words for ‘cunnilingus’ he can learn.

To-day’s guest post comes courtesy of Lord Lobo, from the most humourous web-log Predator Press.

His lordship is thrilled to the point of ecstasy with Lobo’s fine article, and thanks him and his wonderful wife Lady Terri for thrusting the piece upon me.

If you should like to pen a guest article for The Astonishing Adventures in his lordship’s absence, then please do send an electronic mail to lord likely at gmail dot com, and let us know what you would like to toss off for us.

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Sir Henry Felchington,

On the birth of our saviour in the year of 1856 just passed, my good wife presented me with a gift of incredible magnitude, a full scale crystal replica of the phallus belonging to esteemed adventurer and aristocrat, Lord Likely.

I awaited until the 28th day of December before visiting your Bummage & Quim emporium on the Felchington Estate and upon arrival, I explained to one of your servants that I required a strong, sturdy formula which would secure the art piece well above our fireplace.

One of your servants kindly suggested “Dr. Euston Cockrot’s ‘All-Tight’ Formula“, an experimental substance concocted from semen of urchin and phlegm of wench which to the best of my knowledge, has received acclaim from Lord John Rimming the Forth, an expert within the field of home decor.

We purchased the adhesive for a total of four shillings and thruppence before making our way home. On route, we paid visit to Direct Empire Ltd., an established firm dedicated solely to the insurance of household goods. There, we paid a total of two crowns and a shilling to insure Lord Likely’s phallus against damage and theft.

December 31st came and to celebrate the coming of the New Year, I wished to erect the monolithic appendage above the fireplace as intended. Using “Dr. Euston Cockrot’s ‘All-Tight’ Formula”, me, the wife and our repulsive servant all worked together, hoisting the full scale manhood above our heads.

While the wife and servant strained under the weight of the gigantic member, I applied the formula to the base of the shaft and also, to the space available above the fireplace. We then positioned the sculpture as planned, letting the formula settle before releasing our arms from around the shaft itself.

Yet within thirty minutes of admiring the new addition to our living room, Lord Palmerston fell straight to the floor, shattering upon sheer impact. As you can well imagine, my wife sobbed inconsolably while I cursed this Dr. Cockrot and his infernal bloody concoction.

Furthermore, I have since contacted Direct Empire Ltd. who have refused to pay out for the damage incurred to this gift. In their own exact words:

“We have no proof that Dr. Euston Cockrot’s ‘All-Tight’ Formula is capable of hoisting a thirty foot crystal appendage by itself, nor do we have proof that Bummage & Quim Home Decor Ltd. can assure their customers that Dr. Euston Cockrot’s ‘All-Tight’ Formula can handle the magnitude of a thirty foot penis.”

Therefore, we request that Bummage & Quim Home Decor Ltd. provide us with all of the following and that failure to do so will result in legal action being taken against your firm:

1. A full copy of your legally binding terms and conditions
2. A full refund of four shillings and thruppence for purchase of Dr. Euston Cockrot’s ‘All-Tight’ Formula
3. Assurance that Dr. Euston Cockrot’s ‘All-Tight’ Formula is adequate for the erection of a thirty foot crystal phallus

I, as always, will await your imminent response.

Your most humble and obedient servant,

Reverend J.C. Qelqoth

Lord Likely is currently away, adventuring in foreign climes and seeing whether it is possible to father children in each of the seven continents.

To-day’s guest post comes courtesy of Reverend Qelqoth, from the humourous, satirical website The Cult of Qelqoth.

His lordship is eternally grateful to the Reverend, but wishes to make it known that he himself has absolutely no problems whatsoever in keeping his Lord Palmerston up.

If you should like to pen a guest article for The Astonishing Adventures in his lordship’s absence, then please do send an electronic mail to lord likely at gmail dot com, and let us know what you would like to toss off for us.

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