“Aye,” said Harry Flashman, leaning in to get a closer look at the Koh-i-Noor Diamond, now believed to be a fake. “I’ll say we have a mystery on our hands. This one is definitely not the real thing.”

“Now, Mr. Flashman, are you absolutely certain? I need you to be totally and utterly, one hundred per-cent sure of this, before we commence our investigations. I do so hate going into anything half-cocked.”

“Listen, your lordship,” Flashman replied, swivelling around to face me. “I’ll never forget the Koh-i-Noor diamond. You can’t easily forget such a gem when you’ve seen it passed around an orgy as a highly-expensive sex-toy¹.”

“That’s good enough for me, ” I mused, stroking my beautiful moustache in deep contemplation. “Sex-toy, you say? That rather piques my interest, I must say.”

“Oh, you should have seen it, your lordship! That diamond has been up more mimsies than our two todgers combined, I’d warrant.”

“Blimey!” I exclaimed. “So it is true what they say – diamonds really are a girl’s best friend.”

Flashman laughed. “Aye, milord! You could say that!”

“Right, enough of that! Let us focus on the mystery at hand!” I snapped. “Where should we begin our investigation, hmm? I wonder who…” I paused. “Did anyone place that diamond up their anus, perchance?”

“Every orifice, your lordship!”

“Jesus Christ, that makes me as randy as hell, I can tell you. Do you think I might be permitted to go and have a quick one off the wrist before we continue, to clear my head, as it were?”

Flashman looked at me like I was a crazy person, but nodded his acquiescence. I tipped my hat, and darted off around behind some nearby curtains to begin pounding my Palmerston.

“So, Mr. Flashman,” I shouted out from my secluded spanking spot. “Who do you think would crave the diamond so badly that they would steal it from under everyone’s nose at such a very public event as the Great Exhibition? And, more to the point, how in the name of Jupiter’s jizz-bags did they achieve such a feat?”

“Well, as I recall, the Indians weren’t too keen on giving the diamond up,” Flashman offered. “And the Afghans have always maintained that they have a legitimate claim on the damned stone, too. I wouldn’t be too surprised to find one of them lot behind this theft.”

“Yes!” I agreed. “Oh, yes. Ohhhhh, yes, that’s the trick. Ohhhh, yes!”

Flashman cleared his throat noisily. “I could go around and talk to some of the Afghan and Indian delegates at the exhibition,” he volunteered.

“Marvelous!” I shouted back. “Absolutely fucking-well marvelous! Oh yes!”

“Is that an agreement to my plan, your lordship, or are you just in the throes of sexual ecstasy?”

“Pardon?” I asked, as I exited my makeshift tossing-chamber, adjusting my trousers. “You shall have to repeat that, Mr. Flashman, as I am afraid I was not really paying attention.” I turned to my man-servant. “Here, Botter, dispose of this, will you?” I said, handing him a large wad of slightly-sopping, screwed-up tissues.

“Thank you, milord,” Botter grimaced, gingerly taking the crumpled-up bundle into his own hands.

“You are quite welcome,” I said. “Now, Mr. Flashman, as you were saying?…”

Before Flashman could repeat his articulations, we were once again interrupted by the arrival of the two police-officers who had been chasing us earlier, along with the wretched, bothersome old coot, the latter of whom pointed a boney finger in our direction, and shrieked at the top of his ghastly lungs.

“There they are! Apprehend them at once, officers!”

“Shit the bed,” I cried. “Will that twat-stick not let us be?”

“Halt, in the name of the law!” shouted one of the Bobbies, somewhat unnecessarily. I sighed wearily, and then snatched the pile of recently-used tissues from my man-servant’s hands, and threw them with not inconsiderable force at the approaching police-men. The spaff-filled sheets found their targets with ease, and landed with a satisfying squelching sound upon the police-men’s faces.

“Huzzah!” I cheered, as the officers ground to a halt whilst attempting to disentangle themselves from the recently-soiled rags. “Come, chaps, let us run like cockery!”

We took to our collective heels once more, and ran on through the crowded corridors of the Crystal Palace. “Get out of my cocking way, you slack-jawed bastards!” I roared, as we pushed through the teeming halls filled with doe-eyed proles, bustling about the place like cretinous cattle. “Vacate the area, lest I twat thee with my mighty cane!”

We continued to dash away at full pelt, until we were forced to a stop when we found ourselves at rather a dead end. There were no exits, no entrances, just walls of glass.

“Oh, excellent work, your lordship,” Flashman said, his words positively dripping with sarcasm. “Now we are cornered like foxes on the hunt! Bravo! Bravo indeed!“

“We’re trapped!” Botter added, unhelpfully. “There’s no way out!”

“Nonsense. There is always a way out!” I grinned, and then I hoisted my man-servant up by his collar and belt, and flung him at the great, glass windows. The panes shattered upon impact, and fell away.

“The thing about foxes, Mr. Flashman, is that they are incredibly cunning. Shall we?” I said, patting the dumb-struck fellow on the shoulder, then I made my way through the freshly-made exit.

“Good show,” Flashman said, and followed after me.

“Come on, Botter,” I said curtly as we stepped out into the gardens of the palace, upon which lay my simpering servant, in among some shards of glass. “There is no time to lie down. And do try and keep that sniveling down to a minimum, there’s a good chap.”

- Lord Likely.

Lord Likely’s Thought for the Day: In a bid to encourage greater discourse amongst his loyal readers, his lordship has decided to pose a question to one and all, which may be discussed in the comments section of his journals. Today’s poser is as follows:

As you have all witnessed, Lord Likely pounded his Palmerston in a booth inside the glorious Crystal Palace, during a massive public exhibition. But where is the strangest location wherein you have indulged in a spot of onanism? Ever cracked one out while enjoying the cricket? Touched yourself up at a tea-party? Fondled your fleshy friend at a fun-fair? Feel free to unburden yourself here, it shall be our little secret.

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Mr. Harry Flashman, my man-servant Botter and my fantastically fabulous self made quick on our collective legs, and dashed off to try and escape the oncoming police, who had been alerted to our presence by our fantastically furious bout of fisticuffs just moments before.

As we sprinted through the bustling aisles of the Crystal Palace, I mused upon the fact that I seemed to spend a great deal of my time fleeing from the police, more often than may be expected of a man in my exalted position. I wondered if one day I would be rewarded for my services to the police force, in keeping them so fit and healthy throughout the years.

“Look! Over there!” cried Flashman, pointing to a large crowd assembled around one of the many exhibits in this Great Exhibition. “I reckon we can shake off the peelers if we join that crowd! What do you think, your lordship?”

“Capital idea!” I found myself agreeing. Sometimes, moments of great peril can somewhat cloud one’s judgment, it would seem.

Nevertheless, we dove into the throng of gawking faces, and made our way to the front of the crowd to better avoid detection. As Botter and Flashman faked interest in the nearby exhibit, I kept an eye out for our pursuers. Surely enough, mere moments later, a couple of police-officers appeared. They came to a stop rather too close for comfort to our present location, and stood looking this way and that in complete befuddlement.

“I’m sure they went this way, sarge,” said one of the officers, scratching his head.

“Well, where did they go then, Hopkins?” asked the sergeant, evidently frustrated with his lack of progress in apprehending us. “Did they disappear into thin air, Hopkins? Maybe they slipped between the grills of one of the drains, hmmm?”

“That’s a thought, sarge,” replied Hopkins. “They could be down in the sewers underneath right now, making their escape!”

“I was being sarcastic, you dolt!” cried the sergeant, slapping Hopkins about the body with his hat. “Bleedin’ hell, how on Earth did you ever become a copper, Hopkins? Was everyone else out of the country at the time, eh?”

“Officers! Please!” interjected a third man, whom I instantly recognised as being the Queen’s personal assistant, the self same toss-rag who had been instrumental in seeing my noble form carted off to the cells earlier in the day. “We must find these felons right away! Her Majesty’s Great Exhibition must not be disturbed! Get to it at once, or mark my words I’ll have your badges for this!”

The weaselly old coot prodded the officers back into action, and I watched with growing satisfaction as the three fellows scurried off in freezing cold-pursuit of their men. I let out an audible sigh of relief as they left.

“‘Ere, mister. What d’ya reckon to this diamond? It isn’t as good as I was ‘oping,” piped up an awful, common old crone standing next to me.

“What?” I snapped, then I realised that we had come to a stop by a diamond being exhibited for the first time on these shores, hence the fevered excitement among the assembled proletariat.

“I mean, it’s quite big, I suppose, but it ain’t all that shiny and sparkly, is it?” continued the woman.

“Oh?” I scoffed. “And I suppose you have a bountiful array of diamonds back in your wretched hovel, have you? Do you perchance own dozens of unique gems pertained from the far-flung reaches of the globe, proudly on show in your filth-sodden mud-hut? Maybe you’ve got the Regent Diamond on display upon an upturned crate in the middle of your rat-infested lounge, next to your other treasured, priceless artifacts? Hmmm? Does the Orlov sit atop your grubby little mantle, next to a shockingly tacky porcelain clown and a poor-quality photograph of your slab-faced mother? Honestly. You commoners are such a frightfully ungrateful bunch, you know. I mean, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert put on this fine exhibition for you all, and all you can do is waltz in here, reeking of piss and cheap cider, picking holes in everything you see. Well, madam, in light of your beguiling lack of respect for Her Majesty, I should like to take my belt off to you, and lash you firmly about the -”

“She’s got a point, your lordship,” Flashman interrupted, just as I was approaching the apex of my furious rage. “This diamond is a bit…shoddy, you know. “

“What?” I barked. “What is all of this talk about shoddy diamonds? Here, let me see it!”

I elbowed my way through the assembled wretches, as I made my way to the front. There I found Botter, regarding the diamond much like one might regard a dog-dropping smeared on a sandwich. I pushed him out of the way, and beheld the gem on display before me.

I have seen a lot of diamonds in my time, as you would expect of one who lives in such opulence and luxury as I do. Indeed, I did, for a while, posses a diamond-studded cock ring, until the ring itself snapped during a particularly vigourous bout of intercourse with Lady Muphdyver, back in ’45. Alas, I lost the ring for ever more up milady’s quim, but on the plus side I was able to auction off Lady Muphdyver at Sotheby’s for tens of thousands of pounds. I believe that even to this day, she still has the most valuable vagina in the entire Empire, excluding Her Majesty, of course.

On a curious side-note, I believe the practice of having one’s cock-end pierced in such a manner has become known colloquially as having a ‘Prince Albert’, after His Royal Highness. Whether getting a cock-ring is named after him because he has one or is one, I cannot say. If he does indeed own such an article, then it a wonder that Her Majesty can sit on the throne at all.

Anyway, I digress. Upon clasping my eyes upon this particular diamond, I had to concur with the vile old bag and Mr. Flashman; the gem did not seem to have any fire in it, no shine. It was possibly the dullest rock on the planet, not including Guernsey.

“It says it’s the Koh-i-Noor Diamond,” said Flashman, indicating to a sign affixed to the display. “I”ve seen the Koh-i-Noor many a time¹, your lordship, in all sorts of unexpected places, believe me. An’ that, that ain’t it, or my name’s not Harry Flashman.”

“Are you trying to say that this is…a fake?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Well slap my todger and call me madam, then we have a mystery!” I cheered, my mood brightening. “I must say, it is about cocking time.”

- Lord Likely.

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From the report of Captain Dick Jerker, of the New York City Police Department:

I ordered my men to continue firing upon the pirate ship ‘The Hairy Clam‘ that was advancing onto US shores, until I saw the vessel rocked with explosions and saw it sink beneath the waves, no doubt taking it’s criminal pirate crew with it.

As we celebrated a job well done, I suddenly noticed two figures appearing from the smoking wreckage, astride two large wooden barrels. One was a tall man, sporting a top hat and who seemed to be contentedly sipping on a glass of alcohol, stopping every so often to refill his glass from a tap on the barrel he was sat upon. The other, smaller man, meanwhile, was frantically paddling trying to keep himself afloat. Naturally, we were rather taken aback by this sight, and I ordered my men to stand down as the two men approached dry land, as I was eager to question them.

Once they came into shallow waters, I sent two men to escort them up to me. I introduced myself, and asked what business they had on United States waters. The taller man declared that he was in fact an aristocrat from England, and called himself ‘Lord Likely‘. While he did indeed sport a top hat and a striking moustache, his clothes were so tattered and he was so clearly drunk that I doubted the legitimacy of his claims, and accused him of being nothing more than villainous, pirate scum, here to steal from our fine city. At this, Mr. Likely became furiously angry, yelling at me and screaming, “don’t you know who I am?!” before attempting to take a swing at me, but only succeeding in falling flat on his face. His associate, a Mr. Botter, rolled his eyes and remained silent.

We searched both men, and removed a fencing sword, a pistol, a hip-flask of whiskey and a bottle of perfume from Mr. Likely. It was thought he was concealing another weapon in his trousers, but it transpired that it was not a weapon, but his fully erect penis instead. I then arrested the pair on suspicion of piracy, and also charged the so-called lord with attacking a police officer. I ordered they be handcuffed and taken to the nearest jail, but as they were loaded up into the police wagon, Likely was violently sick upon two of my men, so I added ‘vomiting upon the police in the course of their duty’ to his list of charges. Mr. Likely mumbled something about ‘removing my testicles with a rusty blade’, then passed out.

The two men were dispatched to the county jail, where they are currently being kept in a cell awaiting further action. Mr. Botter has been highly co-operative with our inquiries, while Mr. Likely has done nothing but complain, and has continually made outrageous demands, such as silk sheets for his bed, a freshly-pressed suit, meals of swan-meat and caviar, and the finest wines we have to offer. He also asked that the cell be re-designed with gold trimmings, a chandelier and classical artwork. Unable to meet his ludicrous demands, we gave him a few scraps of beef and a cotton bed-sheet, which incensed him further.

Proceedings against the pair will resume tomorrow morning, when Mr. Likely has had ample time to compose himself and sober up.

Report filed by Cpt. Dick Jerker, July 2nd 1856, 19.36pm.

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