Oh, the agony.

My poor, noble noggin feels like it has been viciously pummeled by a drunken boxer this morning.

Inspector Albert Spunkleford had organised a massive banquet for me, in recognition of my tireless work in solving the riddle of the runaway Romanov, and thereby saving the entire world. I daresay he was also still feeling guilty about accusing me of murder, and wanted to make amends. Whatever his motives, I gratefully received his invitation as there is nothing I enjoy more than a good banquet. (Except, possibly, intercourse with a lady). I even allowed my man-servant Botter to accompany me. Not only had he been extraordinarily useful on our last adventure, but I would also need someone to keep watch over my hat and coat, and to drive me back home should I become too roaring drunk to even stand.

So, at half-past seven, yesterday evening, Botter and I arrived at Hungwell Hall, a fine venue located in the country. The cream of society were there, lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses and even his Royal Highness, the Prince of Norfolk.

The meal itself was sumptuous. We ate cow legs stuffed with duck’s bills, fried otter on a bed of rice, soused squirrel in a gin sauce, and pineapple and shrew chunks on little cocktail sticks. Absolutely delicious.

Alas, that is about as far as my recollections of the evening go. Beyond that, I fear I drunk rather too much whisky, washed down with generous helpings of more whisky. Suffice to say, ‘drunk’ does not begin to describe the extent of inebriation I found myself in.

Reports on what actually occurred at the party vary, but so far I have been able to martial these following facts from some reliable sources:

1. I urinated into a punch bowl, then drank from the same bowl moments later, having forgotten that I had pissed in it.

2. I vomited over the Prince of Norfolk on no less than three separate occasions.

3. I ruined a valuable portrait of Lord Hungwell’s mother, by adding some crudely drawn breasts upon her person, and a speech bubble saying, “I am a massive slut with a massive vagina” above her head.

3. I picked a fight with the Duke of Kent, resulting in me tipping a rather priceless grandfather clock upon the Duke’s head. Both the clock and the Duke were broken in the melee.

4. I swung from a chandelier, with my trousers around my ankles, while screaming, “I am the swinging Lord!” at the top of my voice.

5. I threw Spunkleford into a fireplace. While the fire was lit. I allegedly joked that he was “a flaming bastard” shortly thereafter.

6. I was introduced to the Count and Countess des Pantalons, a charming French couple visiting with the Hungwells. I was also introduced to their three lovely daughters, who I later engaged in a vigorous bout of intercourse. On the dining table. In the main hall. In full view of everyone in attendance.

Suffice to say, I was soon forcibly ejected from the house, and told never to return. Dear, faithful Botter tried his best to get me back in the carriage, and safely back to the Likely estate, but apparently I spent half the journey claiming that I hated him, and trying to force my fist into his ear. Then, I spent the other half of the journey claiming that I loved him, and trying to force my penis into his ear.

All in all, it seems I had an excellent night, and I eagerly await the next function.

Now, however, I am going to have a nice, relaxing bath and a cool glass of whisky. Just as soon as Botter has successfully tended to his bloodied and spunk-filled ear.

- Lord Likely.

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