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

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

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

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

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

“Loathsome,” I spat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was four minutes to six.

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

In that exact order.

- Lord Likely

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

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The HMS Bastard shook violently as the iceberg struck, sending me hurtling backwards, spilling some of the whisky from my hip-flask as I did so, which was rather irritating. As I collided with a particularly stubborn wall, I heard a small noise in among the screeching cacophony of twisting metal. It was a gentle, sobbing sound coming from a nearby cupboard, and reasoning that cupboards, on a whole, are not prone to bursting out into fits of despair, I deduced that someone must be lurking within. I made my way over, wobbling and teetering all over the place as I did so, (but still with a certain degree of style and panache), and flung open the doors of the wailing wardrobe.

“Botter!” I exclaimed, upon clasping eyes upon my man-servant, who was cowering in the furniture. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you, my man!”

Botter sniffled, and dried his eyes. “It…it’s good to see you too, milord,” he began, before I quickly pulled him free from his hiding-place, and then hurled him through a nearby window. There was an almighty crash as the glass gave way, and then the wretched creature screamed as he plummeted from the ship, landing with a huge splash many feet below.

“That fellow always manages to turn up in the nick of time,” I mused aloud. “Now I can make my escape from this accursed vessel!”

By now, the ship in question had let in rather a lot of water through it’s recently-torn hull, and so I had to tread carefully as I hoisted myself up onto the edge of the window I had just opened with Botter’s head. I looked down at the sea below, and gently steadied myself for the descent.

“BOTTER!” I yelled from the stricken craft. “I AM COMING DOWN. BE SURE TO CATCH ME, OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL TEAR YOU A NEW ARSE-HOLE!”

Botter grudgingly swam closer to the ship, and readied himself. I took a swift swig from my hip-flask, straightened my tie and hat, and leapt.

“I’m sorry, milord. You just came down too fast,” Botter whined, as we swam away from the HMS Bastard, which by now was slowly sinking beneath the waves. I snorted loudly.

“I do not wish to hear your pitiful excuses, Botter,” I said. “Just prepare yourself for a life of extreme discomfort and shit-covered shoes.”

We swam out of harm’s way, and then turned and watched the great Bastard slip beneath the water. In the distance, small lifeboats crammed full of less-deserving passengers made their way out to sea, while we remained paddling in silence.

“What now, milord?” Botter asked.

“Well, firstly I shall allow you to carry me onwards. It simply will not do for a man of my standing to be seen thrashing about in the water like some sort of deranged fish.”

“Very good, milord,” said Botter, as I clambered upon his back.

“Now!” I exclaimed, as I assumed my new position on board my make-shift, servant-shaped raft. “I believe we shall head in…that direction,” I said, pointing towards a vast, empty expanse of ocean ahead of us.

“Are you sure?” Botter replied, daring to question my superior intelligence.

“Shut up,” I snapped. “And keep swimming,”

- Lord Likely, whose rather dampened spirits have been lifted by humor-blogs.com and the amusing antics of The Carrotty Kid.

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Two days passed while I attempted to track down my errant man-servant, Botter. I searched the cabin for clues, but got somewhat distracted when I realised that some of the alcohol in my drinks cabinet was missing. Enraged that someone would stoop to such low levels of villainy, I made sure that the rest of the booze was safely stashed away in my stomach, where no thieving scoundrels could get at it. Of course, the downside to this otherwise brilliant plan was that I ended up rather drunk, and soon wound up passing out on my bed while attempting to crawl into a large painting of a meadow on the wall of my room.

When I regained consciousness, I decided to confront Captain Anchor about the recent events on his vessel. I had found this particular voyage to be rather unpleasant, what with a derranged doctor attacking me with a corkscrew in the lavatory, my man-servant being stolen and my precious booze being purloined by unknown ne’er-do-wells, and I fully intended to make sure the Captain was fully aware of my acute displeasure. So, with a new-found fire in my belly (possibly as a result of all the booze I had consumed), I set out to give the Captain a piece of my mind.

“Now look here, Mr. Wanker or whatever your ruddy name is,” I snapped as I strode onto the bridge of the HMS Bastard. “While I am a reasonable man, I must take great umbrage with the outrageous behaviour of some of your passengers. It simply is not cricket, nor is it – “

I stopped in mid-rant as I became aware that absolutely no-one was in the room. Not only that, but the ship was still happily ploughing through the waves, and seemed to be on a direct collison course with a ruddy great iceberg.

“Well that is just cocking well fantastic,” I said aloud to no-one in particular, before jumping onto the ship’s wheel and making a frantic attempt to steer the ship from harm’s way. I wrestled furiously with the controls, until, to my great horror, the wheel came away in my powerful hands.

“Oh, shit-covered bollocks!” I exclaimed, making a last-ditch attempt to escape the imminent disaster by leaping from the ship. Alas, the doors were locked fast, leaving me entombed in the bridge. I sighed, took a swig from my hip-flask, and watched as the iceberg loomed ever nearer.

“I fear this may well sting a bit,” I said.

Then, the HMS Bastard struck the iceberg.

- Lord Likely.

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Following the fracas at dinner, I left the dining room, stopping along the way to collect a few cabin numbers from some women who seemed rather eager to further make my acquaintance, as well as from a couple of men. Being a modern-thinking Victorian gentle-man, I gratefully took all the details thrust upon me, hoping to make use of them later in order to pass the time on our voyage.

I decided to adjourn to a nearby bath-room to tend to my raging Lord Palmerston, which was now throbbing so hard I feared it may explode and cause the HMS Bastard to become lost under the wild waves of my mounding man-batter. I locked the door of the bath-room and prepared myself for the (pleasurable) task of expelling my lordly juices. I sat back on the toilet-seat, and thinking of Queen and country (the Queen mostly, of course), I commenced the task of pounding Lord Palmerston, discharging the sperm-cannon, polishing the fleshy cane, bashing the bishop, firing the pink pistol, doing battle with the purple-helmeted warrior, rubbing the magical love-lamp, throttling the butler, scrubbing the pork-sword, shaking hands with His Majesty, exorcising the possessed, whittling the spam javelin, shaking up a cock-tail, drilling for white gold, slapping the trouser-snake, wrestling the one-eyed monster, thrusting the pink key into the hand-lock, waving the sex-staff, knighting Sir Penis, introducing Mr. Todger to Mrs. Palm…whatever you choose to call it, I was enjoying it.

As I was busily thrashing away, I slowly became aware that the door handle was moving, ever so slightly, as if someone was testing it out, to see if the door was locked. I paused, mid-jerk, and waited to see what would happen next. I hoped, eagerly, that it was one of the lust-crazed ladies from the dining-room, eager to lay her hands upon my muscular man-muscle, but something told me I was going to be sorely disappointed.

I was.

The door burst open all of a sudden, and a rather wretched-looking man strode into the bath-room, cackling loudly with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He was wearing a terribly disheveled top-hat, from underneath of which some straggly, white hairs protruded. His disgraceful choice of head-wear was matched by his equally awful suit, which was not only ill-fitting but which was also covered in various stains, the origins of which I chose not to dwell upon.

The man stood in front of me, and leaned down to my eye-level, his small, beady eyes glaring at me from over the top of a small pair of half-moon spectacles perched upon a giant, hook-like nose. From this close proximity, I also caught a whiff of his disgusting breath, which smelt like something had crawled into his mouth, shat itself several times over, vomited and then died. I recoiled as he began to speak.

“Ah, Lord Likely,” he hissed, emitting further noxious fumes into the air. “I see I have caught you at an…awkward moment, heh heh heh.”

“Who in the name of Dutch bollockery are YOU?” I shouted, still clutching my cock-piece.

“A thousand pardons, your lordships,” the man sneered. “How frightfully rude of me. I think it only right and proper that you know the name of the man who killed you….”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name,” the man continued, “is Doctor Corkscrews.” At this point, as if he had spent ages carefully rehearsing this particular moment, the doctor produced two large corkscrews from behind his back and began waving them in my face. “I am afraid I will be screwing you now, your lordship. Heh heh heh heh…”

There was a pause. I looked at the demented doctor, then at my still-pulsating Palmerston, and then back at the doctor.

“I don’t suppose you would mind finishing me off before you kill me, would you?” I asked.

– Lord Likely.

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“How do I look, Botter?” I asked my much maligned man-servant, whilst straightening the cuffs on my finest dinner suit as I prepared to dine with Captain Anchor, on the HMS Bastard.

“Very handsome, milord,” Botter replied.

“Hmmm. I was hoping for ‘devastatingly gorgeous‘, or ‘criminally sexy‘, but ‘handsome’ will suffice, I suppose.” I admired my reflection in a nearby full-length mirror, to garner a second opinion from myself.

“My God, I look positively ravishing!” I exclaimed. “There shan’t be a dry seat at the Captain’s table tonight, I dare say.”

I picked up my hat and cane, and headed for the door.

“Now, Botter, you stay here and look after the place. Do not think for one minute that you may lie down on my luxurious bed, or use my bath-tub. I swear, if I find so much as one stray pubic hair in the soap, I will relieve you of your testicles. Understood?”

“Very good, milord,” Botter said.

“Excellent. I shall see you later, then. Don’t wait up!” I said, and I exited my cabin in high-spirits, blissfully unaware of the events yet to unfold…

I strode down to the dining-room, which took a good forty-five minutes due to the fact that the ship was so ruddy huge. At one point I took a wrong turn, and wound up in a lady’s dressing room, a mistake which added a full twenty-seven minutes to my journey. I finally entered the dining-room at seven o’clock, and joined the Captain at his table.

“Ah, Lord Likely,” said Anchor, rising to his feet to greet me. “So glad you could make it, your lordship. Hors d’oeuvre?”

“I’ve…already had a quick nibble, thank you Captain. I should like to go straight for the main course, if I may.”

“Of course! Of course!” bellowed Anchor, as I took my seat at the table. “Today, the main course is horse thigh stuffed with cabbage leaves. Will that be to your liking?”

“That sounds delightful,” I replied, laying a napkin across my knees.

“Marvelous. While we wait for our meal, may I introduce you to everyone? This here is my second-in-command, Renchard Dirigible,” he said, motioning to a thin, gaunt-looking chap with blonde hair, which had been waxed so heavily it looked like it had been painted straight onto his scalp. Dirigible nodded slightly, but said nothing.

“A pleasure to meet you too,” I said dryly.

“Then we come to our navigation officer, Jean des Lunettes, who joins us from the French navy.” Lunettes was a tall, old man, with a thin, white moustache. He also sported a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles upon his nose, which I found to be a rather worrying accoutrement for a navigation officer.

“Bon soir, Monsieur Likely,” Lunettes said, sipping a glass of wine. “It is very rare for me to meet a real-life aristocrat, ‘owever in ze revolution in la France, I did meet a lot of real-dead aristocrats, n’est pas? Haw-haw!”

I felt my blood boil as Lunettes guffawed loudly. The thought of my fellow aristocratic kin being purged by filthy commoners riled me, and I was almost ready to smash a bottle of Château Margaux right across Lunettes’ wretched face.

“Well,” I finally said, mustering an astonishing level of self-restraint. “The honour is truly all yours.” Lunettes stopped laughing, and glared at me, angrily.

“Ahem,” Anchor interjected, sensing a possible international slug-fest on the horizon. “Allow me to introduce the engineer of this fine ship, Sir Wilberforce Ingot Majestic. Without him, we would not be enjoying this luxurious Bastard right now.”

I took my eyes off of Lunettes, and turned to face Majestic. He was a stern-looking man, who’s face looked like it had been carved out of stone. He did have a first-rate pair of sideburns, however, of which I was rather envious.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Likely,” Majestic boomed, in a voice so loud and deep that I genuinely feared it might cause the entire room to collapse in on itself. “I have heard much talk about you, sir. I hope that not everything I have heard is true, as some of it sickens me to my very core, and makes me want to die.”

“BASTARD!” I yelled, causing some of my fellow diners to almost choke on their wine. Majestic’s eyes widened with horror.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” he roared.

“The HMS Bastard!” I continued, gleefully. “A fine feat of modern engineering, Majestic, very fine indeed. You are to be applauded for what you have achieved.”

“Oh. Well, that is very kind of you to say so, your lordship.”

“I thought so,” I replied, smiling.

“Finally, your lordship,” Anchor said, getting increasingly nervous. “I would like you to meet my wife, who I met while sailing through Asia. Your lordship, this is my beloved, Yu. Yu Anchor.”

I groaned, and wondered why the Anchors both had to have such ridiculous names. My misgivings quickly evaporated, however, upon clasping eyes upon the form of Mrs. Yu Anchor. She was a shapely, hazel-eyed beauty, with jet-black locks and a smile so bright I worried it might cause my retinas to burn up. I felt something stirring in my loins, and knew there and then that I hoped to one day penetrate this fine woman.

“Enchanted, Mrs. Anchor,” I said, lightly taking her hand and placing a single, soft kiss upon the back of it. “A genuine pleasure to meet you, Yu.” Mrs. Anchor giggled quietly, and blushed. I cupped her hands in mine, and gazed into her beautiful, dark eyes. Then, suddenly, the table gently rose up, causing Majestic’s wine to become up-ended.

“BLAST IT! My wine!” he shouted, as he leapt to his feet to avoid getting his lap soaked in booze. The kerfuffle caused me to snap out of my trance, and I too leapt to my feet, revealing to the rest of the table a most glorious erection trying it’s best to break through my trousers.

“I aplogise, Wilberforce,” I said, mopping up the table with a cloth. “I cannot think what happened there!”

“Confound it man, please try and control that…that…thing!” roared Majestic, as I accidentally tipped over another glass of wine with my Lord Palmerston.

“Sorry, sorry,” I apologised, trying to tuck the offending obtrusion between my legs. “It must be the motion of the sea, or some such…thing.”

“This is unforgivable, my lord!” Majestic grunted. “You have spilt ruddy wine on my very best suit!”

“Oh, please allow me,” I said turning to Majectic in an attempt to dab his jacket with a cloth. Instead, in the confusion, I wound up jabbing the poor fellow in the eye with my fully-engorged end. Majestic howled in pain, at which point I realised that the entire room was watching the fracas in stunned silence.

“Apologies, everybody. I have rather a massive lob-on at the moment, but I am sure it shall pass shortly. Please, resist the urge to gawp at my proud protrusion, and carry on with your meals. This awful business is between me, and my ridiculously huge penis.”

I bent down and whispered to the Captain, who was cradling his head in his hands, in utter despair.

“I had better leave, Captain. If this blasted thing goes off,” I hissed, pointing at my groin, “we shall all be in great, great trouble.”

And with one final wink and a wave to the Captain’s wife, I left.

It had been a very hard day, on the whole.

– Lord Likely.

Illustration: ‘Cock Candle’, by John Constable, 1827.

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Captain Anchor and I boarded the HMS Bastard, with Botter lagging behind, carefully attempting to balance all twelve cases of luggage I had bought along with me. We ascended through the decks, only stopping to wait for Botter to pick up the cases that he would invariably drop with increasing frequency.

“Whoops!” he exclaimed, as they tumbled down to the ground for the umpteenth time.

“Botter, if you drop those cases one more time, I shall drop-kick you into the ocean. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir. Sorry sir,” came the apologetic reply.

“Honestly,” I said, turning to Captain Anchor. “I am beginning to think it would have been much more efficient to hire a ruddy mule. And maybe a mule would have stank less, as well.”

We strode on through the long, grey corridors of the ship, until we came to a stop outside an equally grey door.

“Your lodgings, my lord,” Captain Anchor beamed, extending his hand towards the door.

“Hmmm. It hardly seems worthy of one as overwhelmingly important and ridiculously wealthy as I,” I sneered.

“Please, step inside and have a look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

I sniffed haughtily, and flung open the door.

“By St. George’s sainted scrotum!” I exclaimed, as I laid eyes upon the room inside. It was a massive room, equal in size to that of a particularly roomy and spacious cathedral. Golden chandeliers rocked gently from side to side, hanging over a fine selection of luxuriant furnishings and fittings, including a beautiful leather couch, a quadruple bed with satin sheets, a silver-trimmed bath-tub and a glorious, mahogany drinks cabinet filled with enough alcohol to inebriate a small army. While I am used to living in luxury and opulence, this was a completely different kettle of fish altogether. A gold-plated kettle with a diamond studded spout, and stuffed with bluefin tuna.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction, my lord?” asked Captain Anchor, nervously.

“It shall suffice,” I said.

“Very good, your lordship,” Anchor replied.

“Um…where will I be sleeping, Captain?” Botter enquired.

“You are to sleep in the cargo hold, with all the other baggage,” the Captain answered.

“Oh.” Botter said, dejectedly.

“Well, I must depart, for I have to get this Bastard onto the open sea,” Anchor smiled. “I trust you shall join us for luncheon tonight, your lordship.”

“Absolutely,” I replied, opening the drinks cabinet. “I do so enjoy eating out.”

“May I join you both, sirs?” Botter asked rather meekly.

“Certainly not!” Snapped Anchor. “You shall dine in the kennels, with all the other dogs.”

“Oh.”

“Then, you can go the gentle-man’s latrines, and hang out with all the other cocks,” I interjected, not wishing to be outdone in insulting my own wretched man-servant.

“Ha! Good one, your lordship!” Anchor cried. “Good one indeed!”

“HA!” I echoed, slapping Botter on the back of the head for good measure.

Captain Anchor laughed heartily, and then withdrew, his laughter echoing down the long, dull corridors.

“Well, Botter, begin unpacking and sorting my cases. I am going to bathe myself in champagne for a while, then I shall possibly venture out and explore this fine vessel and, with any luck, I shall also get round to exploring some lucky lady’s intimate areas with my highly tensile tongue.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Botter said, his face white with fear.

“Nonsense, Botter. My cunnilingustic skills are renowned throughout the continents, and besides which I also – “

“No, sir. I was not referring to that. I meant this voyage. I have a bad feeling about this entire voyage.”

“Botter, Botter, Botter, Botter,” I sighed. “Botter. We are heading to the United States of America, from Southampton, in the biggest ship ever built by man, on it’s maiden voyage, no less. Now what could possibly go wrong with that? Hmmmm? Nothing. Nothing can go wrong, that’s what. Now, let us hear no more of your nonsense, or I shall beat you.”

As the ship’s whistle blew loudly, and the HMS Bastard finally pulled away from the docks of Southampton, little could I know just how wrong my words were going to prove to be…

- Lord Likely.

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We made good progress on our journey to Southampton, with only one minor inconvenience when Botter asked that we stop for lunch. I naturally refused him permission, and instead told him to keep his mouth wide open as we rode, and with any luck he might accidentally swallow a fly or two, thereby providing him with all the nourishment he required. Botter thanked me for providing him with such a good idea, and then resumed his position at the reigns. Meanwhile, I returned to my delicious steak and caviar sandwich which I was eating at the time.

Thanks to my ingenuity, we made good time on our journey and finally rolled into Southampton in the early evening, and were met at the docks by a smartly dressed man.

“Your lordship,” the man said, saluting sharply, “I am the captain, Huw Anchor.”

“Did you just call me a wanker?” I asked, incredulously.

“No, your lordship. You misunderstand me. That is my name: Huw Anchor.”

“Egads!” I cried. “You have done it again! Do you not realise to whom you are referring?”

“My name is Huw Anchor, milord,” the man repeated.

“Your name is ‘You Wanker’? I find that very hard to believe…”

“HUW ANCHOR!” the sailor yelled, his face reddening with rage.

“RIGHT!” I snapped, reaching for my trusty fencing sword. “You shall pay for your insolence, you blaggard!”

“Uh, milord?” Botter whispered, stepping forward and resting his hand on the handle of my sword. “I believe that this man is the captain of the boat that will ferry us to America. It seems his first name is Huw, and his surname is Anchor. He is not belittling you at all, milord.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see. Well, why did he not just say that in the first place? The man is clearly an arse.”

“Very good, milord.”

“Oh – and Botter, should you ever touch my sword again, I will literally shit on you.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Captain,” I said, extending my hand to the man. “Wonderful to meet you.”

“Lord Likely,” the captain replied, shaking my hand firmly. “We received your telegram, and have prepared our most luxurious cabin for your journey. We trust it will be sufficient.”

“Excellent, excellent.” I said. “Now, where is this fine vessel in question, Captain?”

“You are standing in it’s presence, your lordship.”

I looked up, and realised that what I had assumed to be a very large building, was in fact an enormous ship that seemed to stretch ever upwards into the sky, like a big, metal monolith. It was really big.

“The HMS Bastard,” Anchor beamed proudly. “The biggest ship in the entire world.”

I stood agog.

“That,” I said slowly, “is a load of ship.”

- Lord Likely.

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