I’M NOT entirely convinced that this ‘telegram sex’ will really catch on, you know.

I may try Morse Code next. Must dash!

- Lord Likely. 

The short answer is: you cannot, for I am quite the one-off, and the chances of another such fine specimen of humanity e’er being forged is as remote as the chances of women ever getting the chance to vote. Pure fantastical folly.

However, if you are truly determined, then you may be able to fool others that you are at least a little bit trim by sporting one of the corsets illustrated above, which brings in your unsightly, bulging stomach while simultaneously denying the bearer the facility to breathe, which in turn could prove useful as eating whilst passed out is very difficult indeed. However, extreme caution is advised, as I have witnessed people tying these damned things so tightly that they have literally forced their skeletons out through their mouths as a result. Grim viewing indeed, though one cannot deny the weight-loss that ensues.

Aside from that, my personal fitness regime is threefold:

1. Adventuring. Whether I be leaping across train carriages in pursuit of some bounder or other, of fleeing for my life from irate husbands who have found me in bed with their wives (see point 3), I am constantly on the move and burning up calories like nobody’s business.  Not recommended for those with weak hearts, or weak bladders, mind.

2. Twatting beggars. Thrashing the filthy, wretched paupers that litter the streets of our fair capital keeps me remarkably trim, and has helped me to develop some rather formidable biceps. If you were to have tickets to come and see my personal gun show, you would not be disappointed (and if you were, I’d possibly shoot you with a real gun to stop the negative reviews from spreading).

3. Intercourse. My favourite part of my exercise plan. Leaping in and out of bed with a multitude of women has done wonders for my muscles (especially my love-muscle), and has given me the stamina of twenty men, which is why women often tell me that making love to me is a lot like making love with a one-man orgy.

So there you have it, my three-pronged guide to success! You shall never look as good as me, of course, but at least you might look rather less repulsive than you undoubtedly do at this moment.

Now drop down and give me twenty (guineas, this advice is not free, you know).

- Lord Likely. 

“You are, I fear, making the other First Class passengers feel quite inadequate, your lordship,” the conductor replied. “The vastly superior breeding and great wealth you possess are making them feel like Second Class travellers – or worse still, Economy.”

I shook my head sadly. This was hardly a surprise, no matter how inconvenient it was.

Lord Likely in his capacious mansion, itself a terrible burden.

“Furthermore, your incredibly handsome form, coupled with the rhythmic pounding of the train’s pistons, are rending the ladies on board quite insensible, and they are passing out all over the place. I fear our stock of smelling salts is now dangerously low, and we cannot risk more of these delicate creatures fainting in your presence, for we would soon be quite unable to revive them.”

I sighed loudly (causing another woman to faint away nearby) and was moved into a carriage of my own (the ‘Upper Class Carriage’, I was informed), where I was offered free champagne for the remainder of the journey, along with a proposed night of passionate sodomy from the locomotive’s driver. I gleefully accepted the former, and had to decline the latter, which lead to the poor, love-struck driver hurling himself from the train’s cabin later on, and causing quite an irksome delay to our journey.

This is just a taste of the immense struggles one has to face when one is as fabulously wealthy and impossibly handsome as I am.

Every waking moment of my incredible life presents yet more fresh challenges to my wondrous self. I can barely step outside of my opulent home without womenfolk (and, indeed, many menfolk) stopping to stare at me in all my glory, their jaws hanging open like a drawbridge to a castle, a castle long since vacated by sense and decency. It is getting to the point where I can no longer enjoy my humble, naked strolls through Hyde Park, the sunlight dancing off of my muscular, manly form, my tallywhacker swinging free like the pendulum on the world’s most desirable clock. What sort of society do we live in where a fellow cannot take such nude constitutionals unmolested by lecherous eyes?

Even when fully clothed in suits of the most expensive material, my journeys about town are no easier. Women fling themselves at my beautiful feet – quite literally, leaving me to negotiate an obstacle course of fallen female bodies if I am to ever hope of making it to my destination on time.

Ladies laden me with copious gifts, grab at my strong legs and plead with me to marry them, demand that I impregnate them with my noble seed so that they might give birth to someone almost as perfect as I. It is terribly wearying, I must say, and a simple trip to a high-class restaurant can turn into an epic quest at which even Odysseus would baulk.

Females cannot resist his lordship's charms, nor would he wish them to resist (unless it was part of some kinky charade).

If you are a gentleman reading this (or a working class man having it read to you by a learned friend) then I have no doubt you have formed your own opinion about me (unless you too have fallen madly in love with me as well, which would not surprise me in the least). Most men do not think very highly of me, and regard me with unkind eyes. Admittedly, sometimes this is because I am usually balls-deep in their wives, who have dragged me into their beds so overcome with lust, but even then I can tell that the real reason for the man’s ill-feelings is pure, unfettered jealousy at my incredible physique, and my unrivalled sexual prowess.

People are often all-too quick to assume that the life of a wealthy, handsome aristocrat must be a life of complete leisure and contentment, but these poor, deluded fools rarely stop to consider the daily trials and tribulations people like me (if, indeed, there ARE people like me, which I doubt) must face. Have you ever fallen over while carrying a huge, cash-stuffed wallet about your person? Your painful descent to the ground is greatly accelerated when you are so laden with money, let me assure you. Meanwhile a penniless orphan in the same situation  might fall – nay float – to the ground, and thus suffer less significant bruising. Yet still my existence is labelled as painless! Hah!

The challenges I have to overcome are myriad, and I do not think that it is an exaggeration to say that I am most definitely braver than any soldier, fireman or policeman alive today. I would wager that even those in the poorest corners of our world would concede that compared to my problems, their lack of clean water and proper nutrition are mere trifling quibbles.

Why do I stir such powerful feelings among the populace, I have to wonder. I have not set out to arouse or enrage people, I have merely had the splendid misfortune to have been born into money (quite literally, my mother gave birth in the family vault), and to have been blessed with unbelievably good looks. God above truly did break the mould when He made me, and then He had to rummage around in the back of His cupboard to find another mould with which to create the rest of humanity, finding only a cracked and dusty old thing that He had bought years ago and had quite forgotten about.

Is that a reason to despise me, I ask, for having merely been so fortunate to have been cast in such perfection? I think not, but sometimes I wonder if my blessings are not curses. Then I take a look at myself in my full-length mirror in the spacious bedroom of my expansive estate, and realise that no, they are not curses. Then I laugh at myself for having entertained such a ludicrous notion, and go off to roll about in money for a while and then to a lavish supper.

I cannot change who I am, nor would I want to. I am completely happy with my life, and with the cards Lady Fate has dealt me (whilst fantasising about straddling me on the table, I should not wonder!) I shall simply have to struggle on with the downsides such virility and riches bring with them, and shrug off the cheap jibes thrown my way by the eternally envious.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but even then I shall still be more gorgeous than any of my detractors.

- Lord Likely, as told to Mr. A.D Fanton (esq). 

AS THE fifth anniversary of my Astonishing Adventures continues unabated, I thought I would adhere to the ‘five’ theme, and present to you a list of ‘Top Fives’, detailing some of my favourite (and not-so-favourite) things. That way, not only will you gain to learn more about your noble narrator, but you shall also be able to use this knowledge when deciding which glorious gifts to purchase me for my Wooden Jubilee. Everybody wins, especially me. As it should be.

Anyhow, let us proceed without further ado!

Top Five Beverages.

5. Gin.
4. Wine.
3. Beer.
2. Whisky.
1. All of the above in a glass (without ice, thank you).

Top Five Sexual Positions.

5. ‘The Right Honourable Member’.
4. ‘The Spitting Cobra’.
3. ‘The Whirling Dervish’.
2. ‘An Altercation in the Balkans’.
1. ‘Inside A Lady’.

Top Five Uses For A Servant.

5. Servant.
4. Punching-bag.
3. Draught excluder.
2. Stunt-double.
1. Patsy willing to take the blame when large contributions are found to be missing from his master’s tax returns.

Top Five Things With Which To Beat A Beggar.

5. Fists (inadvisable, could get grubby).
4. Boots (see above).
3 . Convincing beggars that their existence is so futile and pointless that they should turn their own fists upon themselves, and beat themselves to a pulp.
2. A servant.
1. A trusty cane (with a nail in it).

Top Five Insults.

5. ‘You have all the wit and grace of a baboon’s colon’.
4. ‘If I was half as stupid as you are, I would still be ten times more intelligent.’
3. ‘You look like you fell out of the ugly tree, and were beaten with the entire ugly forest’.
2. ‘I am rubber, you are glue, what bounces off me, sticks to you.’
1. ‘You have my pity, but alas that is the only thing of mine you can ever hope to attain’.

Top Five Prostitutes.

5. ‘Dirty Gertie’.
4. ‘Easy Susie’.
3. ‘Queen Whore’.
2. ‘Randy Mandy’.
1. Your Mater.

Top Five Outdoor Sports.

5. Croquet.
4. Hunting.
3. Cricket.
2. Chasing a beggar.
1. Rutting with a slattern on the village green.

Top Five Hounds.

5. Sir Barksalot (above).
4. Jack Russell the Ripper.
3. Admiral Woofs.
2. The Growler.
1. Cerberus, The Hellhound.

Top Five Lines With Which To Attract A Lady.

5. ‘Did you fall from heaven? If so, shall we rut before you pass out or expire?’
4. ‘I’m a nobleman, don’t you know. Do you have any nob in you? Would you like some?’
3. ‘Get your coat, m’dear – we can lay it down here and hump on it.’
2. ‘If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me and then let me disrobe it, spread the legs and thrust myself deep inside it until I issued forth?’
1. ‘I am Lord Likely’.

Top Five Technological Wonders of the Modern Age.

5. The telephonic device.
4. The Daguerreotype.
3. The Automated Arse-Punter.
2. The Incredible Personal Orchestration Device (IPOD for short).
1. The Steam-Powered Novel.

Top Five People With Whom I Would Like To Have Intercourse.

5. You.
4. You.
3 You.
2. You.
1. Her Majesty The Queen.

Top Five Expletives.

5. ‘Arse-Biscuits!’
4. ‘You blithering cock-pipe!’
3. ‘Baste my balls!’
2. ‘By Satan’s Scarlet Scrotal Sack!’
1. ‘Commoner!’

Top Five Pornographic Pamphlets.

5. Maiden Heaven.
4. Reader’s Wives’ Fannies.
3. Playlord.
2. Ankles Ahoy!
1. Strumpets With Trumpets.

Top Five Racehorse.

5. Brunel’s Steam-Powered Stallion.
4. Filthy Slattern.
3. Indiscreet Faux-Pas.
2. The Futility of Existence and the Endless March Toward Death.
1. Mr. Cloppy.

Top Five Astonishing Adventures.

5. Lord Likely and the Lost Cat.
4. Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances.
3. Lord Likely’s General Twattery.
2. Lord Likely’s Extra-Ordinary Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama.
1. The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park.

Top Five Way To Sign Off.

5. ‘Cock off!’
4. ‘Cheerio, chums!’
3. ‘Get off my property or I shall release the hounds.’
2. ‘Begone!’
1. ‘Toodle-pip!’

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

YOU MAY well hear talk of some sort of diamond jubilee taking place this year, but I urge you all to dispel such nonsense from your minds immediately. There is only one jubilee worth celebrating and that, my dear readers, is MINE. For this year sees the fifth anniversary of my Astonishing Adventures, or my ‘Wooden Jubilee’, as I like to call it. Rather apt for a fellow who himself will often be found to be ‘sporting wood’.

It was upon this day, five years ago, that I took pen to hand and wrote the following wondrous words:

“Being a hard-working member of the aristocracy is tiresome fare indeed. When not deciding which hat to wear, or attending private functions, or stabbing a beggar, there are countless other tasks which all vie for my finite attention.

That was the opening of my first ever Astonishing Adventure, entitled ‘The Peculiar Prostitute Predicament’, a thrilling tale about murderous harlots which enraptured the globe, leaving people on the edge of their seats as the action unfolded. It also introduced the world to my glorious self – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action. From that day on, literature would ne’er again be the same, and society would be fundamentally altered for all time. And, of course, millions upon millions of ladies would begin to view their partners with acute disappointment, dismayed to find them failing to measure up in comparison to me. Quite literally, in most instances.

Since then, my adventures have gone from strength to strength, wowing more and more readers with each new fresh exploit. Admiring words have poured forth from my myriad readers, including the national press, when The Guardian newspaper declared my adventures to be one of the ‘best of the web’ three years ago (see the sidebar, left). Celebrated performers of the day have also stepped forth to heap praise upon my deserving shoulders, such as comic actorMr. Rob Riggle, who wrote to me stating, ‘I am a fan. Well done, sir….I throughly enjoyed reading your site and I look forward to reading more of your adventures!‘ A very astute chap indeed, that one.

I have also been drawn by modern artists, joined forces with talented authors such as Mr. Darren Craske and Mr. Jonathan Pinnock and formed an uneasy alliance with the bafflingly popular musician, Professor Elemental. I have even conquered the airwaves in the form of my own astonishing audio play, and I have made exemplary use of this new-fangled moving picture technology, as you can see below. There is no medium I cannot thrive in!

Truly, it has been a fantastic and formidable five years, and I am truly grateful for anyone who has stopped by to read my words, or who has left a comment, or who has befriended me ‘pon the Twittering Device or the Book of Many Faces. You are all superlative souls, and I should like to buy you all a drink. Just one between you all, mind. You shall have to pass it around. I am not made of money (unlike the suit I am currently wearing, I hasten to add).

Despite such a delectable half-decade of dazzlement, I am not going to rest upon my laurels, no matter how comfortable they may be. The next couple of months shall be a veritable whirlwind of activity based around my Wooden Jubilee, including all sorts of wonders. There shall be laughter. There shall be highly-charged eroticism. There shall be special prizes, and – most importantly – an all-new Astonishing Adventure. EGAD!

So do be sure to keep coming back, for I would hate you all to miss anything. But I do ask that you bring a bottle, for above all else, I intend to get blind, roaringly DRUNK in celebration.

Let the party commence!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

AS A reader of my journals, you are already well aware that they are the most thrilling, exciting, arousing and most downright hilarious writings that have e’er seen print, or indeed that will e’er see print.

Now, finally, it seems that the rest of the world are also becoming aware of this indisputable fact, as The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely has been short-listed as a nominee for The Funniest Web-Log in Great Britain And Her Colonies, by The Dog’s Doodahs, a fine emporium specialising in personalised cards and gifts. HUZZAH!

In such instances, it is customary for the nominee to remain humble and say what an honour it is to be nominated, and how overwhelming it is to be among such good company, but as you all know ‘humble’ is not a word in my dictionary (which, it has to be said, is a cocking FANTASTIC leather-bound dictionary, which is easily better than all other dictionaries put together).

Instead, I urge you to ignore the so-called ‘competition’, and do the only sensible thing and vote for my Astonishing Adventures to win this contest.

So, without further ado, please do click ‘pon these words here, and cast your vote for lordlikely.com! It only takes a few mere seconds to vote, so there really is no ruddy excuse. Also, there are chances for voters to win a ten-pound voucher for personalised cards, should the knowledge that you’ve done the right thing not be enough to prompt you into voting. Voting closes at midnight on the 31st of January.

VOTE LIKELY! Or I shall have to break out the riding-crop and flay you ALL.

Many thanks indeed.

- Lord Likely.

Like the ‘Grope’ poster above? Buy it as a print or a t-shaped shirt to-day!

I am a fountain of knowledge. Come, drink from my spout.

A

Aardvark: the aroused form of a softvark.

Abound: the act of a bounder.

Absinthe: a magical green liquid which can make days simply VANISH.

Abundance: a jig or a waltz performed by bakers.

Agent: singular form of gentlemen.

Analogue: a ledger for cataloguing anal sex acts.

Angler: one who constructs protractors, set squares etc.

Antelope: what occurs when two ants love each other very much, and wish to flee from their disapproving parents.

Anticlimax: the result of a particular awful bout of sexual intercourse.

Antwerp: An stupid person.

Archangel: the most condescending of all the heavenly host.

Artichoke: to throttle someone in a particularly creative manner.

Avast – something rather large. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

B

Backgammon: pork eaten off of a servant masquerading as a table.

Badger: one who makes badges.

Badminton: the exact opposite of goodminton.

Baguette: a very small container or receptacle, favoured by French ladies.

Bassoon: a musical ape.

Bicycle: a two-wheeled vehicle which may be used by either ladies or gentleman, as it has no preference to either gender.

Bonfire: French exclamation upon witnessing a particularly good blaze.

Bratwurst: the very nastiest of children. (Submitted by Mr. Scott Huber.)

Bungalow: a buffalo that can’t get it right. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

C

Carbuncle: Your mother’s pasta loving brother. (Submitted by @jcodfishpie).

Censorship: a boat charged with hunting down pirates, but which ends up just spoiling the sea for everyone.

Champignon: the winner of a French mushroom-eating contest.

Chancellor: person employed to gamble with an entire nation’s finances.

Colony: an adjective used to describe the colon, e.g ‘I’m not sure what this is, but it looks a bit colon-y’.

Comeback: one of the results of a particularly messy orgy.

Comatose: what you get when your foot falls asleep.

Comeuppance: an accidental discharge of fluid, most frequently associated with overexcitement and the inexperience of youth. (Submitted by Mr. Mark Hooper.)

Contraband: A musical group who steadfastly refuse to play any of the songs requested.

Contribute: eulogy given at the funeral of a felon.

Crestfallen: Crestfallen: when one’s coat of arms falls off the mantelpiece. (Submitted by @DaddyP).

Crouton: a unit of measurement used to weigh bread, e.g ‘this giant loaf weighs approximately one metric crouton’.

Custard: a cowardly bastard with a yellow streak a mile long.

D

Damage: a wizard from South London. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

Decrease: what you get when you iron de pants. (Submitted by @Darien_Mason)

Deliberate: to deny something freedom, e.g: ‘following the screams of horror from the clergy, I decided to deliberate my todger’.

Diarrhoea: A Welsh man who is unable to pay his mortgage. (Submitted by @mr_andy_fereday)

Dinosaur: a fictional beast created by scientists in an attempt to disprove the undoubted existence of an all-powerful deity who lives in the sky.

Discuss: a conversation or debate pertaining exclusively to an Olympic throwing event.

Dogma: the mother of the dog. (Submitted by @Vampcat66)

E

Eton: Yorkshire exclamation upon seeing a heavy weight. (Submitted by @mr_andy_fereday)

Everest: dead. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

G

Germination: where the Kaiser resides and sows his seed. (Submitted by Mr. Mark Hooper.)

Gravy: Like a grave. (Suggested by @Mr.Whaite).

H

Hippocrates: Ancient Greek who invented a means of storing hippopotamuses ready for transport.

Huzzah: a bazaar for the (h)upper classes. (Submitted by Lord Matt).

I

Internet: The opposite of Outernet. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

Inundated: to ‘enjoy’ a woman who has never been out on a date. (Submitted by @moggiesinforest).

Irrelevant: having nothing whatsoever to do with elephants. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

L

Leotard: an astrologer prone to incorrect readings. (Submitted by @jcodfishpie).

License: An ability to tell when someone is not telling the truth. (Submitted by @jim_linder.)

N

Nightmare: a nocturnal female horse. (Submitted by @jim_linder.)

O

Obesity: a city wherein the citizen are somewhat overweight. (Submitted by @jcodfishpie).

P

Paedophile: a folder for small children to keep their paperwork in. (Submitted by @xpd259).

Pencil: window ledge for keeping pens. (Submitted by @mr_andy_fereday)

Penis. What a pen is. (Submitted by @JackPurling).

Problematic: An asbestos filled loft. (Suggested by @Mr.Whaite).

Professorship: a boat used for the deportation of unsavoury scientists, e.g Professor Elemental.

Q

Quince: a female prince. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

R

Repercussions: Death’s soft furnishings. (Suggested by @Mr.Whaite).

S

Socrates: ancient greek who invented prices for cloth foot coverings. (Submitted by @moggiesinforest).

Spatula: A heated arguement between two or more vampires. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

T

Taxidermy: the process whereby one is stuffed by the Inland Revenue.

Testimony: the delighted, groaning sound a gentleman makes when a lady fondles his ball-bags.

U

Uvula: a foolish vampire who decides to go out in harmful UV rays, despite warnings and no sunblock. (Submitted by Ms. Jenn Thorson).

W

Wombat: a mythical creature that hangs around on Wimbledon common with a bat. (Submitted by @Vampcat66).

Keep your eyes peeled for I shall be updating the Likelypedia as and when more pearls of wisdom drop forth. Of course, YOU can contribute to – either comment below, or use the Twittering Device or the Book of Many Faces.

In the meantime, do not forget to read up about the awful SOPA legislation – a form of soap that will only wash away the good.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

A VERY Merry Christmas to all of my loyal readers and ardent admirers! May you all eat, drink and be so merry that you pass out comatose beneath the Christmas tree.

Be sure to return hither soon, for I have something BIG coming up next year. And this time I am not referring to my penis (though I should state for clarity that it too is big, and well worth celebrating).

I am off to go and enjoy some of this festive spirit – several glasses of it, in fact! Bottoms up!

Toodle-pip, chums!

- Lord Likely.

AS A RICH, powerful, incredibly handsome and overwhelmingly male human being, I enjoy exclusive membership of London’s notorious ‘Bullion Club’ (motto: NIL PAUPERUM). ‘Tis a lovely, luxurious and opulent environment, where I can take time out from a busy day battering my man-servant (not a euphemism) or polishing my cane (a euphemism) and indulge in some raucous banter with my fellow millionaires, while lighting our fat cigars on unused bank-notes and mortgage deeds. Truly, it is like a home away from home to me, except with better service.

It was a balmy autumnal afternoon, and I was enjoying a few drinks with the chaps at the club, while reminiscing about one of my many astonishing adventures.

“And so there I was, surrounded by a dozen female pirates, with the captain demanding that I draw my weapon.” I paused, and thoughtfully swirled the whisky about in my glass, while simultaneously becoming faintly aware of some sort of dull, thudding noise emanating from the main hall down the corridor. “So, what else could I do, but drop my trousers…” Another pause. More noise. I pressed on with my story. “Needless to say, the entire crew were really quite amazed at the sight of my gargantuan…COCK IT!” I roared, unable to concentrate for the infernal racket nearby. “What in the name of Beelzebub’s blistering ball-bag is that unholy din?”

“Oh, that? I think it’s the new chap,” replied one of my companions, Colonel Avery Mann-Phorrimself. “He joined the club recently, don’t you know? Believe he’s some sort of singer, rather popular in the music halls.”

I pulled a face. “Ugh. An entertainer, eh? Heavens, they’ll let any old riff-raff in here these days,” I grimaced, rising up out of my seat. “Well, I simply am not standing for it any more!”

“Yes you are, old bean, you’re standing right now!” the Colonel pointed out. I chose to ignore his entirely accurate observation, however, and made my way towards the main hall to give this bounder a piece of my mind; specifically the piece that said SHUT UP OR I SHALL PLANT MY FOOT FIRMLY IN YOUR BALLBAG.

As I advanced nearer the main hall, the cacophony grew louder, sounding very much like a man yelling at a dustbin that was being kicked down some stairs. I nodded sadly. If this was modern music, then I’d rather have rusty needles thrust into my ears.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GREEK BUGGERY IS GOING ON IN HERE?” I bellowed into the room, as I flung open the doors in a most dramatic (and rather impressive) manner.

Alas, no-one could hear me above the tumultuous caterwauling that was coming from a rather scruffy-looking oik in a shabby safari suit and pith helmet, who was prancing about at the back of the hall singing (and I use the word in the loosest and wrongest sense possible) a dirgesome ditty entitled ‘Cup of Brown Joy’ to a group of rapt onlookers:

Once the performance had finished, and the (quite undeserved) applause had subsided, the only sound that could be heard in the hall was my slow clapping.

“Oh, bravo, sir. BRAVO,” I said, sarcasm not merely dripping from my voice, but positively gushing forth in a sarcastic waterfall. “I have not seen such a diverting show since I last visited the zoological gardens.”

The singer – let us call him that for want of a better and much more apt word – smiled. “Ah, you must be Lord Likely. I have heard much about you.”

“I wish I could say I had heard anything about you at all, Mister?…”

“Professor. Professor Elemental, at your service,” said the man, doffing his ludicrous-looking pith helmet in greeting.

“And what precisely are you a professor of, professor?” I enquired. “Perhaps you have a doctorate in Dressing Up Like A Giant Breast And Dancing About The Place As If Undergoing Electrolysis?”

A shocked gasp rose from the assembled crowd. Elemental simply smiled again. ” I sir, am professor of the potent punchline and powerful, punchy pugilism.” He paused thoughtfully. “And alliteration. But what are you lord of sir? Have you a title and no purpose? Like an owl with no beak; very decorative but essentially useless.”

More gasps from the crowd, as a dozen heads swivelled around in my direction, waiting for my riposte.

“I am going to ruddy bash your teeth down your scrawny throat,” I rejoined. Possibly not the wittiest of retorts, but by golly I had an overwhelming urge to batter this arse-pipe.

The crowd dutifully parted as I made my way toward the oaf, the smell of combat gleefully filling their nostrils.

“Oh, so it is a scrap you want, eh?” Elemental said, lighting his pipe. “Well, in that case I shall need to don my fighting trousers!”

“Fighting trousers?”

“FIGHTING TROUSERS!” affirmed the professor, and then the bounder burst into song again:

“Well, sir,” I said, removing my topper. “In that case, allow me to put on my ‘pummelling hat’.”

“I’d put up your dukes, if I were you, sir!” said Elemental, circling me with his fists raised.

“Oh, you’d better be ready, sir, for I shall bring forth the pain!”

But as we squared up to each other, our duel was brought to a standstill by a voice out from the doorway. And that voice said the following words:

“Nobody move! I have a gun!”

The voice belonged to a rather dishevelled looking chap, who was indeed brandishing a pistol which he held with shaking hands. His eyes looked wild and frantic, like those of a rabid dog.

“Everybody put your hands up! And no funny business!” the man shrieked loudly.

“I think he must have heard your act,” I whispered to Elemental, as everybody raised their arms, filling the room with a forest of self-preservation.

“Well, well, well,” sneered the man, rubbing his grubby chin in contemplation, with an equally grubby hand. “Look what we ‘ave ‘ere. A room full of well-to-do gents, with wallets just ripe for pinchin’, I reckon! Yes, yes, I could make a pretty packet robbin’ this room! Heh-heh!”

And so the fiend began walking through the crowd, prodding people with his gun and demanding they empty their valuables into his grubby sack. I was practically shaking with rage.

“Don’t worry, your lordship,” whispered Elemental. “As well as being a most excellent musician, I am also an explorer and an inventor. I do believe I have the perfect contraption with which to disarm this scoundrel and…no, wait. I’m wearing my fighting trousers. The device is in my incapacitating felons trousers. Confound it!”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, luckily, as an aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action, I have formulated a plan to apprehend this swine. All I need to do is to pretend I am going for my wallet, and then swiftly deploy a quick judo chop to the blighter’s gun-hand, and then -”

But before I could reveal the full splendour of my amazing plan, there was a loud screeching noise and some unidentified creature dashed forth from the back of the hall. On closer inspection, the creature appeared to be an orangutan in a tuxedo, and I watched with amazement as the beast leapt onto the robber, and began clawing at the criminal’s countenance whilst shrieking wildly.

“What the -?” I began.

“Ah-ha!” beamed Elemental. “That is Geoffrey, my monkey butler! As punctual as ever – remarkably good time-keeping for an ape, you know.”

“You have a monkey for a butler?” I said, somewhat surprised.

“Absolutely!” grinned Elemental, proudly.

“That is rather impressive, I have to admit,” I admitted. “And you mentioned that you are an explorer and an inventor, too?”

“Indeed I am,” the professor nodded. “I have had quite some adventures, let me tell you!”

“As have I,” I said. “You know, there is a possibility that I may have misjudged you, Elemental. I’m willing to take back at least two-thirds of the things I said about you.”

“Likewise, your lordship,” beamed the professor, holding out a hand. “I like a fellow who’s not afraid to step up and get scrapping if needs must.”

“Perhaps we should adjourn to the lounge for a few brandies, eh, and share a few tales?” I smiled, shaking Elemental firmly by the hand.

“Splendid!”, said Elemental.

“Splendid!” said I.

“SPLENDID!“, we said in unison.

- Lord Likely.

For more from Professor Elemental, why not visit his webbed-site HITHER, where one may listen to more of his ditties, purchase his recordings and keep up-to-date with his latest exploits.

This tale is based on actual, real-life exchanges betwixt professor and lord, as originated on the Twitter device by @lordlikely @prof_elemental

Splendid!

The horse and carriage hurriedly swung through the gates of the estate, and quickly rattled on up the driveway of a large and impressive estate, which lead to a suitably large and impressive manor house with large and impressive windows, and a large and impressive door at which stood a distinctly small and less-than-impressive man, who seemed to be waiting anxiously for the carriage to arrive.

With a loud and slightly over-theatrical ‘woooooah!’, the cabbie drew the vehicle to a halt outside the doors of the house (both of which were large and impressive, lest we forget) and touched the brim of his hat in greeting to the concerned man in the doorway.

“How is he?” enquired the small man, nervously toying with a bowler hat in his hands.

“Not good, I’m afraid mate,” the cabbie replied, hopping down from his seat. “‘E seems delirious, frankly, mumblin’ and mutterin’ away to himself, so ‘e was. An’ he’s been sick at least three times on the way ‘ere.”

“Oh dear,” the worried man replied, running a shaky hand through a mess of blonde curls atop his head. “That does not sound good at all. Not at all.” He put his bowler hat back on his head, and a look of grim determination crept over his face. “Well,” he sighed, “let’s get him out of there, then.”

The cabbie nodded solemnly, and pulled open the door of his cab to allow its passenger to alight. No-one emerged. The two men exchanged worried glances, and just as they stepped forward to investigate further, the passenger suddenly sprung forth from within the carriage, loudly proclaimed something about aliens, before completely missing the steps of the cab and landing in a heap on the stony ground below. The two men looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“It is as I feared,” observed the small, blonde man sadly. “His lordship is completely and utterly drunk again.”

“I demand the immediate execution of both the cabbie and his ruddy unfriendly cab,” I mumbled from my undignified position on the floor, for it had been my handsome form which had sprung forth from the hansom cab.

The blonde man hurried to my side. “Are you quite alright, milord?” he enquired, trying to help me up.

“Unhand me, Botter!” I roared at my man-servant (for it was he). “I am not incapapapapable, you know.”

“Yes, milord,” Botter replied, stepping back and watching as I slowly and shakily got to my feet.

“There,” I beamed triumphantly, swaying slightly in the moonlight. “A cake of piss.”

And then I’m afraid to say, dear reader, that your noble and entirely humpable narrator lost his footing and fell to the ground once more.

Botter rolled his eyes, and came to my side once more.

“Good night, was it milord?” he asked as he helped me back to a state of absolute verticality. “It certainly seems like there was plentiful alcohol on supply, at any rate.”

I disentangled myself from my man-servant’s grasp, teetered slightly, but thankfully remained as gloriously erect as my mighty manhood in the company of a room full of harlots.

“I may have partaken of a tipple or twenty-three,” I finally replied. “But I am not pished.” I added. “By God, Botter, you truly do have a face like a horse’s arse, you know.”

“That’d be because that IS a horse’s arse, milord. I’m over here.” Botter responded. I rubbed my eyes and saw that I was indeed addressing the backside of one of the cabby’s horses. I tipped my hat and turned back to face my man-servant.

“Are you sure everything is alright, milord?” the oik continued. “Only you were shouting something about ‘aliens’ as you stepped out of the cab a moment ago.”

“Aliens!” I repeated, my eyes widening in terror. “Egad, yes! I was surrounded by them! Dozens upon dozens of aliens!”

“Aliens, milord? Really?” Botter asked.

“Yes, Botter! Aliens! You know….foreign types. Foreigners. Everywhere, they were. Everywhere!”

“Oh, I see. Well, you were at a party at the Indian Embassy, milord. I’d imagine there would be some foreign faces there.”

“And foreign bodies!” I remarked. “Some rather delectable foreign bodies, now that I think about it,” I recalled, stroking my luxurious moustache as I reminisced. “Although that damned ambassador seemed to take umbrage with me when I asked his wife to demonstrate all the positions from the Karma Sutra upon my person. Quite a humourless cove, that one.”

“I see, milord,” Botter nodded.

“PISS!” I bellowed suddenly, lurching forward.

“Pardon?”

“Piss! I desperately need to piss, Botter!”

“Oh, well if you just wait a moment, milord, we shall get you inside and – “

“Buggeration!” I roared. “There’s no time for all that flim-flam. I’ll simply relieve myself in a bush over there,” I said, pointing a shaky finger.

“Milord, you have a perfectly serviceable toilet, you know…” Botter began.

“Arse gravy!” I interrupted, staggering over to the bushes. “What is the point of me having this large and impressive estate if I can’t relieve myself in it once in a while, eh?”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed. “I shall just pay for the cab and meet you back in the house when you’re done.”

I grunted in response and continued to make my way falteringly to my makeshift lavatory. Once there, I spent a good few minutes wrestling with the damned buttons on my trousers, but as I went to unsheath my Lord Palmerston I was stopped in my tracks by something apparently moving through the soil below.

“What in the name of Satan’s scarlet scrotum is that?” I asked myself, peering closer into the dark. At once, I saw it move again, and this time got a glimpse of the mystery interloper. It was long and green, and looked to all intents and purposes like a large snake, wriggling through the soil of my flowerbed.

“Well I’ll be damnmnmned,” I slurred, as I peered closer. “Some sort of pervert snake hoping to get a peek at my tally whacker, I’d wager. Well, we shall see about that!” I exclaimed, searching about for a rake or a hoe I might deploy in the disposal of said invertebrate. But my quick search revealed nothing, and upon turning back to the garden I noticed the creature had vanished. I shrugged my shoulders and resumed my efforts to urinate, at which point the snake-like beast shot out from the ground, wrapped itself around my neck, and lifted me a good thirty feet into the air.

I could tell then that this was no common or garden snake with which I was dealing.

“Unhand me, sir!” I shouted at the foul creature. However, my request fell on deaf ears, for the beast possessed neither hands nor – as it subsequently transpired – ears.

From my vantage point, I saw my man-servant dash over to assist me, but another tentacle shot out from the bushes and caught him square in the stomach, sending him flying backwards into a distinctly unconscious heap. Ruddy good help, I noted sadly, is so hard to find.

I could feel the creature’s tentacular grip around my neck tightening as it thrashed me around like an overenthusiastic dominatrix (the best sort, I find) but to my alarm I now found myself being reeled in towards its gaping maw. Truly this time I was heading for the French kiss of death: the petite mort of oblivion.

But then: salvation! There was a sudden rustling in the bushes and a cry of “Take that!” With a dreadful howl, the creature released me and I plummeted to the ground, landing on my arse in a pile of compost. From my undignified vantage point I watched in admiration as my rescuer proceeded to despatch my alien assailant with clinically efficient swordsmanship.

Then my saviour stepped forward into the moonlight and to my utter astonishment she was revealed to be a woman!

“Great heavens, ma’am,” I cried, “How can I ever thank you?” (Although I have to say my mind was already considering the possibilities – now that I could get a glimpse, I could see she was a most becoming filly.)

However, she would not meet my eye.

“Sir,” she said, “Your pistol appears to be cocked.”

I was nonplussed at this, for I had no weapon on my person.

“The meat is … on the counter,” she continued. “The worm is out of its lair. Jack is out of his box. Master Willy is waving hello – ”

At last I understood. She was, in her elegant way, referring to my penis, which was still on display and treating her to a sneak preview. I reluctantly tucked it away again, for the time being at least, and hauled myself to my feet. I bowed to her and attempted to recommence intercourse.

“So to whom do I owe this lucky escape from almost certain death?” I said.

“My name is Elizabeth Darcy, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.”

Great heavens, I realised, this must be the wife of that old fart Fitzwilliam Darcy! Which would make her one of the notorious Bennet sisters! Five-in-a-bed, here we come, I thought. But I had to make conversation first.

“How did you come to be so adept with a weapon?” I said “Surely that is man’s work, is it not?”

“I have been trained by a Mr Wickham,” she explained. “He is a Lieutenant seconded to the Department of Unusual Affairs. He hunts aliens. Like this one.”

She looked down at the mass of severed tentacles.

“By jingo!” I ejaculated. “Are there more of these things?”

“I fear ’tis true. We have won a battle or two, but the war is not yet over. One day, someone will write a great book about our adventures so far, but there may yet be many sequels. As well as vignettes such as this one – although no doubt there will be debates amongst the aficionados as to whether it is a true part of the canon.”

“Madam, you talk in riddles!” I exclaimed. This was getting needlessly post- modern.

Elizabeth sheathed her weapon and looked about her consiprationally. “I fear I have said too much, sir,” she whispered. “If I tell you any more, I fear I may have to kill you.”

“Ha-ha!” I chuckled, enjoying what I thought had been a rather witty bit of banter, but the deadly serious look on the pretty woman’s face quickly told me that this had been no joke. I coughed and swiftly changed the subject. “Madam, I could not help but notice the energy and verve with which you tackled the giant, thrashing tendril. If you would be kind enough to join me in the house, I am sure I could offer you a similar experience with my very own ‘trouser tendril’, if I may be so blunt.”

The woman’s jaw dropped, not in amazement at the generosity of the offer, alas, but in disbelief that I had even chosen to breach the subject of possible intercourse. “Sir!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “I am betrothed to another, in case you were not aware!”

“I am well aware, m’dear,” I smiled. “You can bring him along, if you must. I am always game for what the French call….wait, what is it? Ah, yes – ‘three people humping’.”

*You filthy brute!” rejoined Elizabeth, before punctuating her displeasure with a swift boot to my nether regions. I fell to my knees, my hands clutched to my battered ball-bag.

Elizabeth grunted satisfactorily, then turned sharply on her heels and stalked off, muttering under her breath something about men and how they were worse than any foul being from outer space, and then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived.

My man-servant Botter, having by now regained consciousness, hastened over to me once again. “Milord?” he said, somehow managing to turn a single word into an enquiry with the ruthless degree of economy so typical of his class.

“First the tentacles,” I squeaked, “and now my testicles. What a woman! I do believe I am quite, quite smitten.”

“Who is she? What did you say to her? What happened, exactly?” asked Botter, helping me to my feet.

“Let us just say this,” I said, as we hobbled back to the house. “I have my pride, and that dear lady suffers no prejudice…”

Fin.

Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy features in the new paperback novel ‘Mrs. Darcy versus the Aliens’, penned by the scurrilous scribe of the age, Mr. Jonathan Pinnock. For further information about the book, and to read an extract, do please visit the webbed-page at www.mrsdarcyvsthealiens.com

Finally, you may purchase her new adventure from the British and American tendrils of the almighty Amazon corporation. Huzzah!