2:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

WHILE PANDEMONIUM reigned around me, I took the opportunity to have a sneaky drink from an open bottle of wine that happened to be on a table beside me. I thirstily knocked back its contents, which, happily, turned out to be most of a bottle’s worth.

It was bloody LOVELY, and just what I ruddy needed. Ah, alcohol, I thought as I felt its warmth fill my body. Let us never be apart again.

Now, back to the problem at hand…whose hat had the bomb ‘neath it? Mr. Spitts, or Mr. Swallows?

THINK, Likely…THINK…just need to come up with a plan, then shpring into action. Spring. Spring into action, I thought, correcting myself.

Hic.

- Lord Likely.

*SO: which chap has the bomb hat? Vote SPITTS or SWALLOWS, friends! Leave a comment below, or on Twitter (using the #1score4 tag), and/or Facebook – quick, time is of the essence!

8:00pm, 28th of January, 1891.

“Ah, inspector,” I smiled, as I strode into the rather bleak building which housed Scotland Yard. “You may cease panicking and flailing about like headless chickens now – I am here!”

“Oh dear,” said Inspector Spunkleford.

“I…beg your pardon?” I gasped.

“Oh, sorry Likely, that was not directed at you, I assure you,” Spunkleford replied. “I have just taken delivery of this message…I think you had better read it, old boy.”

I raised an inquisitive eyebrow, swiftly followed by a speculative eyebrow as I took the letter from Spunkleford and perused it:

“Dear Inspektor and the koppers,

Did ya hear about the posh man who got exploded? You musta larfed yer heads off, eh me old mates? Har har!

Well, we hope yer ready fer more because that woz only the beginnnning and their will be more to come, mark my words. You all better watch yer cock and balls, that’s all we’ll say fer now, har har.

All the best,

The Anti-Hat League.”

I lowered the letter slowly. “The Anti-Hat League?” I echoed. “Who the ARSE are they? And why are they so terribly illiterate? Who gave you this note, inspector?”

“Flying squad,” Spunkleford replied, matter-of-factly.

“FLYING squad? What flying squad?”

“Pigeons!” Spunkleford beamed, pointing upwards, as if I could not possibly imagine where one would find pigeons. “We send out special police pigeons, you see, and our informants in the city attach little messages to their legs and send them back, all very discreet and hush-hush. We’ve got loads of them up on the roof, some coming in, some going out again…we’ve built this great big contraption for housing them all, you know. Very state-of-the-art. We call it the ‘Twittering Device.‘”

“What in the name of feathered fuckery are you babbling on about, Spunkleford? Honestly, I’ve never heard anything quite so ridiculous in all my years! ‘Twittering Device’! Pah! The very notion!”

Spunkleford looked rather crestfallen at my dismissal of what he clearly thought to be a truly wondrous idea, but I had more pressing concerns on my mind, like what the writer of this letter meant by watching our ‘cock and balls’…what did this all MEAN? My ever-eager eyes scanned the page quickly, my mind churning over like a thing churning things over. Like a churner, if you will.

“By Satan’s Steam-Powered Scrotal Sack!” I suddenly exclaimed, as an idea popped into my (admittedly brilliant) brain. “I think I have it!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, the way you put yourself about, Likely,” mumbled Spunkleford.

“I think I know where these bounders are going to strike next!” I continued, choosing to ignore that terrible slur upon my character. “Clearly, they are after upper-class gents such as myself, see how they delight in the death of the so-called’ posh-man’…so, where will you find many more members of high-society?”

“On the roof?” Spunkleford answered.

“BALLS!”

“It was only a suggestion,” muttered the inspector.

“No, inspector – BALLS! Social functions! THAT is where you shall find the upper classes at this time of day!” I paused. “Although I do concede that youe answer was also balls.”

“So…where do the cocks come in?”

“At these sort of gatherings, all over the ruddy place!” I winked. “Unless….EGAD! Of course! Heavens, my mind is pumping on all pistons to-day, inspector!” I jabbered excitedly. “Mr. Cockduster, the milliner of choice for the well-to-do gent! Why, I myself have purchased many a fine topper from his reputable store!”

“So…so these louts are going to strike at either Mr. Cockduster’s shop, or at a ball of some sort?” Spunkleford said, finally grasping the concept with at least one good hand.

“Precisely! There is a spectacular gala ball taking place in town tonight, as I recall…but do I go there, or do I go to Mr. Cockduster’s place? Where will the gang strike NEXT, confound it?”

There was a dramatic pause.

“I shall just go and re-tweet this to my informants,” said Spunkleford, venturing off. I sighed.

- Lord Likely.

* Where should Likely go next? To mR. Cockduster’s shop (Vote COCK), or to the gala ball (Vote BALLS)? Which is it to be? COCK or BALLS? Leave a comment here, or on his lordship’s Twitter page (using the #1score4 tag) and/or Facebook – quick! The clock is TICKING!

I HAVE had many a strange adventure in my time, but there are few stranger than the tale of The Man With the Improbable Leg, which sees me working alongside some sort of gentleman DUCK, and a telekinetic FISH.

I swear, I was not even drunk on this occasion. Well, not initially, at any rate.

Anyhow: this THRILLING TALE of MURDER, MYSTERY and MALLARDS  comes courtesy of the improbably excellent Mr. MCM, with added scrawls by my excellently improbable scribe, Mr. Fanton, Esquire. Huzzah!

And so, without further ado, may I present to you The Man with the Improbable Leg. Read it, cherish it, and even purchase it for use on your steam-powered book-reading device of choice. ‘Tis truly wondrous, and I am NOT pulling your leg!

Ha-ha! Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, very good.

IN OTHER NEWS: do not forget that my twenty-four hour adventure, ‘One Score and Four’ commences this very Thursday! Click ‘pon the banner below to learn more about the MOST THRILLING INTER-ACTIVE ADVENTURE YET!

Heavens, you are being DOUBLY SPOILED with my presence this week!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

AS AN Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I face bounders and ne’er-do-wells on an almost daily basis, and each and every time I emerge victorious, triumphing over the forces of evil in spectacular fashion – and just in time for tiffing. Hooray for me!

I am naturally very proud of my unbeaten track record, but one cad continues to elude me, slipping through my noble fingers time and time again. That cad, ladies and gentlemen, is CANCER.

Despite my best efforts, this vile villain seems unstoppable, no matter how many bullets I fire at it (and believe me, I have tried, and have been thrown out of many a hospital as a result, the ungrateful heathens). To add further insult, this cancerous fiend absolutely refuses to engage me in a bout of hand-to-hand combat, possibly because it knows I shall drub the fluid excrement from its wretched form.

So what is a heroic figure like myself to do in such a situation? Lesser men would give up and walk away – but not I! Instead, I have decided to fight cancer using my secret weapon – my glorious MOUSTACHE.

You see, dear readers, November is the month when hirsute gents such as myself use our fine face-fuzz to help combat the diabolical disease, in a month-long event known as ‘MOVEMBER’. Over the course of the month, chaps around the world grow the most magnificent moustaches possible, in exchange for which people donate money to those who are trying their best to combat prostate cancer, as well as tackling various other issues related to men’s health.

Of course, I am already in possession of a supremely sublime soup-strainer, one which is the envy of men (and quite possibly women) the world over. You only need cast your eyes up the page, and gaze upon mine wondrous whiskers to revel in its glory! See how bushy, luxuriant and proud it is! Ne’er before has an upper-lip looked quite so handsome!

Furthermore, I often like to style my moustache in a variety of different ways, be it the ‘Bugger’s Grips‘ or the ever popular ‘Chuff Duster‘, as evidence by my Incredible Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama, a wonderful contraption which allows YOU to play with my face, and adorn it with any one of a myriad of moustache styles. Some of you will already be familiar with this device, while the rest of you may tweak my hairs by launching the Incredible Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama below:

As you can see, my moustache is particularly mighty, and now I would like to use its awesome power for GOOD (aside from the great good it already does, tickling many a lady’s fancy, as ’twere.)  So, if you have been suitably awed by my fantastic follicles (as you will have), perhaps you might care to donate any spare shillings, farthings or groats to the charitable Movember event, and help us vanquish prostate cancer ONCE and for ruddy ALL?

If so, please click upon the banner below! It shall only take a jiffy, and all funds go to The Prostate Cancer Charity, so do please give graciously, if you can!

Many thanks, chums – now let us kick cancer RIGHT in the BALLS. HARD.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

- Lord Likely.

Prepare for the big day by reading the previous, thrilling chapters of Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances!