I am Professor Julian Syngen-Smythe, editor of these here astonishing journals that you have been enjoying. No, there’s no need to thank me!

I have crawled out of my dusty corner of the internet, at http://lordlikelystrippednude.blogspot.com, for a rare public appearance to tell you some things, and some other things. Listen carefully now!

Firstly, those of you expecting another thrilling chapter from the pen of Lord Likely, do not despair! Being the generous type, and eager to share the historical riches that are Lord Likely’s journals, I have kindly decided to donate today’s entry to the official blog of fuelmyblog, a fine blogging network dedicated to bringing the best blogs to the world’s attention. So, if you wish to read Likely’s latest jottings, head over there and behold Lord Likely’s Guide to Servants! It’s another outstanding piece of writing, I assure you.

Secondly, the Syngen-Smythes are on the move, relocating to a new house in the small village of Spaffton-Upon-Grime, a lovely rural location which should prove ideal for my historical writings. So, from now until early June, I may not be able to update Likely’s journals as often as I would like. I apologise for this in advance, and hope you will not all rise up and threaten to kill me. Normal, uninterrupted service should resume in a couple of weeks, but in the meantime I shall do my very best to sate your collective lusts for all things Likely!

A big thank you to everyone who has dropped by in these first three months, I truly appreciate your support and your kind words. I am pleased that you are finding as much joy in these fascinating old journals as I have. The overwhelmingly positive response has left me with a lump in my throat, and my trousers.

Anyway, that is enough waffling from this old fool. I shall bid you farewell for now, and leave you with this tantalising taste of the treat to come when we return to regular service. How does this sound?…

Good bye!

- Professor Julian Syngen-Smythe, editor of The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely, Lord Likely: Stripped Nude, and The Wild World of Lightnin’ Lance Liklely.

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Having roundly defeated Mrs. Dinklesuck and her killer prostitutes, my companions and I entered their house to ascertain exactly what terrible secrets lay within, and hopefully bring this whole awful affair to it’s conclusion.

A thorough search of the building proved fruitless. There seemed nothing remotely untoward about the house, save perhaps the offensively cheap furniture on display.

Inspector Spunkleford and I reconvened in the lounge, having both found nothing of any interest.

“Where’s Botter?” I inquired. “I swear, if he’s gone off to touch himself inappropriately again, I will thrash him to within an inch of his worthless life.”

Spunkleford opened his mouth to reply, when a blood-curdling scream interrupted him.

“Man alive!” I cried. “That was surely Botter himself! Only he could scream in such a womanly manner.”

“I think it came from the back garden, Likely!”

“Then we must make haste to the back garden, Inspector!” I said, and so we dashed off to see what all the commotion was about.

When we arrived at the garden, we saw nothing to pique our interest.

“Well, where is the little bastard?” I asked.

“Look, Likely! The door of that little out-house is ajar!”

We ran over to the smaller building, and opened the door. Botter fell at our feet, out cold. Spunkleford knelt down to inspect the comatose man-servant.

“I fear he has gone into a faint, your lordship.” Spunkleford informed me.

“Hmm. What would cause poor Botter to pass out like that, I wonder?” I said, cautiously edging into the out-house.

The room was dark, and damp. I fumbled in my coat-pockets, until I laid my hand upon a box of matches. I drew one out, and lit it, throwing some light on the situation.

There, on the ground beside me, was a bucket filled with ice. I peered closer, then reeled back in horror. Spunkleford appeared at my shoulder.

“What is it, Likely?” he asked.

I pointed, while covering my mouth and nose with a handkerchief.

“Holy fuck,” gasped Spunkleford.

Inside the bucket, encased in the ice, were dozens of perfectly preserved penises.

I was about to compose myself, and make a witty, off-the-cuff remark, when another voice intruded upon our discourse.

“Unfortunately, that bigger one, at the back there, is mine,” said the voice.

Spunkleford and I reeled round, to face a middle-aged man wearing a suit that had seen far better days.

“Good day, gentleman,” he intoned. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Marcus Chuffington-Fapps, and I have no cock.”

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