(Illustration skillfully and sexily drawn by Mr. Sheldon Goodman. Further examples of his astonishing artistry may be found by going hither.)

THEY SAY that you should never judge a book by its cover. This is blatantly BALLS. I am sorry, but if I am browsing in a bookshop and  see one book with a cover featuring a semi-naked woman firing peanuts from her mimsy, next to a book showing a man with a beard pointing at a cocking graph or some such toss, I am BOUND – nay, OBLIGED! – to go for the book bearing the nut-firing nob-nook cover . It is common sense, really.

This is something of a controversial opinion, especially in literary circles, which is why I am not oft asked to review works of literature for book clubs or the press. But, as I have my own journals, I can do as I RUDDY PLEASE, and so I present to you now three short reviews of some books which I have read recently.

First off the shelf is The Eleventh Plague, by Mr. Darren Craske. Now, you may recall Mr. Craske joined forces with my glorious self earlier this year, to pen the Astonishing Adventure entitled ‘The Bloody Baffling Buckingham Bluff’. Does this close cooperation thus make me a biased reviewer? Yes, it does, and yes, I do think this book is EXCELLENT.

BUT – ask yourself this, dear reader – WHY did I invite Mr. Craske to work with me in the first place? It was because I had read the first book in this Cornelius Quaint series, The Equivoque Principle and found it to be a thrilling and rollickingly good adventure, and having read it immediately decided that I wished to collaborate with such a skilled wordsmith. Only the finest for my fine readers, you know!

And so to The Eleventh Plague, the sequel to The Equivoque Principle. Picking up where the first book left off, we find master conjurer Cornelius Quaint embarking on a hazardous trip to Egypt, accompanied by the fortune-teller Madame Destine. And so the sand-filled stage is set for yet more thrilling adventure, as the pair try to foil the mysterious Hades Consortium’s plans to poison the River Nile.

Happily, everything excellent about the Equivoque Principle is here in even MORE abundance, as the tale romps along with myriad twists and turns. Cornelius Quaint is a most amiable lead (and you do not know how much it pains me to say that, having met the cad) and Destine makes for a fascinating companion. Boasting action, adventure and erm… Arabs? – The Eleventh Plague is a book that shall thrill and delight in equal measures! Perfect reading for the summer holidays, especially if you are on a sandy beach.

And also, the cover is rather good too. BONUS POINTS!

The Eleventh Plague may be purchased from the Amazon, hither: The Eleventh Plague (Cornelius Quaint Chronicles), alongside the prequel, The Equivoque Principle (Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) Mr. Craske also has his very own webbed-site HITHER, and a webbed-log THITHER. He may also be found ‘pon The Twittering Device.

NEXT we have Moustache Man and the Deadly Whiskers, by Mr. Rick Senley. Now, it cannot have passed your notice that I a) have a moustache and b) am a man, but I regret to inform that this book is NOT about me. But despite that obvious shortcoming, this is a still a jolly entertaining book nonetheless.

Moustache Man chronicles the terrible fall from (dis)grace of one dashing man-about town, as his appetites for whores, opium and lashings of booze (hmmm, I’m not so sure this ISN’T about me now) lead our hero to tumble from his privileged perch to join the damned wretches in the London slums.

Part murder-mystery, part social satire, part bawdy comedy, with all parts adding up to a truly satisfying whole. The titular character is quite the cad (one scene where he masturbates on a bus sums up his lusty nature very succinctly) but a cad whom you cannot help but warm to, no matter how depraved his fancies. And, as such, the book is filled with filth and sleaze, which is probably why I enjoyed it so much.

And, by clocking in at nearly 400 pages, the tome is also sufficiently weighty enough to cause serious damage if hurled at one’s man-servant with enough force. BONUS POINTS!

Moustache Man and the Deadly Whiskers may be purchased from the Moustache Man webbed-site, or via the Amazon, here: Moustache Man: The Deadly Whiskers.

FINALLY, we come to Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death, by Mr. Chris Wood.

Regular readers will know of my complete and utter disdain for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and how I find him to be a pompous, puffed-up cock-bag who seems to get by on a lot of damned guesswork, if you ask me. And so it was with a sinking feeling in my chest (and a drooping feeling in my trousers) that I began to read yet MORE of his adventures.

HOWEVER! My dismay quickly turned to joy as I quickly realised that these were far from your typical, dour Holmes adventures, but were in fact a very funny parody of such tales, revealing the so-called ‘great detective’ to be, in fact, a rather inept and clueless buffoon instead.

Aided, as ever, by Dr. Watson, Holmes embarks ‘pon cases as varied as ‘The Adventure of the Lingering Stench’, and ‘The Conundrum of the Missing…’, each one filled with scatological humour, plentiful punnery, and spoofery. And the fourth wall is not only broken, but on many instances is shattered into a million tiny pieces.

All in all, a very entertaining read, for both the deranged sort who enjoy Sherlock Holmes, and those (like me) who think he is a bumbling twat-stick .

PLUS! There are illustrations within. BONUS POINTS!

Purchase this tittersome tome at the Amazon, hither: Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death And why not drop by Mr. Wood’s web-log, as well? He’s a nice chap, you know!

So, there you have it, plenty of fresh reads for you to enjoy, dear readers! If YOU have penned or published a Victorian-set book, and would like me to cast my critical eye over it, please contact me at hislordship@lordlikely.com and perhaps YOU could find your work gracing these ASTONISHING pages!

NEXT:

LORD LIKELY’S CORKING CONTEST WINNERS! You may remember me holding a contest a couple of weeks ago, wherein three lucky readers could win some FABULOUS Likely-themed prizes (including prints, cards and stickers, all from my new virtual emporium of excellence). After much grovelling and toadying from the masses, I am now pleased to announce that the winners are:

FIRST PLACE (bagging a print, card AND sticker): Mrs. S. Vashti Rennacker, who said:

‘Dear Lord Likely if I were fortunate enough to be granted your delightful bounty, then at last my husband and son would have constant reminders of what they should be aspiring to. It would have the added benefit of saving on heating bills as I would be able to get hot and bothered just by gazing on your handsome features.’

RUNNERS-UP (bagging cards and stickers): Purplemontart (‘Your “Grope” poster would look much better on the wall in my bedroom than that blasted wife of mine’) and Corcoran, who offered me his daughter (‘In short, sir, she’s more valuable than a goat, but less valuable than a ‘dead posh’ sticker for my wife’s rotund bottom.’)

Congratulations, chums! Please send me your addresses (via email, or the Book of Faces, or the Twittering Device) and then the pulse-poundingly pleasing prizes shall be dispatched! HUZZAH!

And thank you to everyone who entered, it really was a tricky choice. But you have ALL won, in a way, as you all get to read my wondrous words ev’ry week! DOUBLE HUZZAH!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

MY ASTONISHING ADVENTURES have led me to meet more than my fair share of reprehensible human beings; from filthy beggars rolling about in their own effluence, to dead-eyed murderers with souls as black as night and hearts made out of ice. But none of them – NONE! – have filled me with as much revulsion, disgust and sheer HATRED as one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

EGAD! Even writing his name makes me want to vomit profusely ‘pon the page, and jab this quill into my eyeballs, such is my intense dislike for this blasted cove. Ne’er before has such a smug being strode so smugly ‘pon the earth, drawing smug breath through his smug mouth into his doubtlessly smug lungs. Heavens, I detest him so.

And how people seem to fall at his feet, heralding him as some sort of crime-solving genius! Genius? Geni-ARSE, more like. He simply ponces about the place, speaking a tremendous amount of cock, before stumbling across the solution quite by accident, whereupon he declares the whole affair as being ‘elementary’ and then flounces off to puff upon his pipe or have a quick fiddle. PAH! Has HE ever had to contend with an army of gun-toting prostitutes? Has he ever found himself at the mercy of a sex-mad beast with a todger the size of a man? Has he ever had to fend off a blood-thirsty boot-black intent on sawing one’s feet off? NO. More often than not he simply swans into a large house in the country, looks about a bit, and then buggers off again. The man is a CHARLATAN.

I quite like Dr. Watson, however. Now there is a good egg.

Anyway, I have had the great misfortune to run into this supreme toss-bag on no less than two separate occasions, of which only the second encounter concluded in a satisfactory manner, more of which in a moment.

The other occurrence occurred whilst I was investigating a rather intriguing mystery, involving a group known as ‘The Red-Headed League’, who had recently welcomed a Mr. Jabez Wilson into their fold, before swiftly disbanding in rather curious circumstances. This had troubled Mr. Wilson, who had naturally contacted me to help him get to the bottom of this matter. Upon hearing his baffling tale, I swiftly decided that the best course of action would be to go out into the streets, and thrash the living hell out of any person with copper-coloured locks until they revealed to me the details of this sinister-sounding organisation. It was while I was following this route of enquiry that I had my first run-in with the smarmy sleuth himself.

“Ahem,” Holmes said. “Excuse me, sir – may I ask exactly what it is that you are doing?”

“And who, pray tell, is asking?” I replied, as I continued beating a red-headed rapscallion with my cane.

“Sherlock Holmes!” boomed Sherlock Holmes. “Now answer me – what are you doing, sir?”

“Well, you are supposed to be the ‘great detective’,” I answered. “So deduce!”

Holmes went quiet, and puffed upon his ridiculous, bendy pipe. “It looks to me as if you are needlessly battering this poor chap about the head, in what I can only assume is a misguided attempt to elicit information about the shadowy ‘Red-Headed League’, of which there has been much conjecture in the press of late.”

I stopped mid-twat, and pulled myself up to my full height. “That is precisely what I am doing,” I confirmed, turning around to face the gaunt, thin face of this ‘legendary’ detective. “Am I supposed to be impressed by the fact that you knew as much?”

“Not at all,” Holmes said, allowing a small, smug grin to creep across his hawk-like countenance. “But if I may say so, I rather fear that you have grasped the wrong end of the stick.”

“Nonsense!” I retorted. “This end is most definitely the right end of the stick, for the other end has a large knob on the end which is proving exceptionally effective for battering this cad.”

With that, Holmes shook his head in a terribly dismissive manner, and strode off. Later on, I was apprehended by police for assaulting several members of the public, while Holmes went on to ‘solve’ the mystery. I remain convinced to this day that Holmes had put the police onto me, probably because he had seen that I was making excellent progress in my investigation, and wanted me out of the way so that he could complete my hard work and claim all the glory. The SWINE.

Nevertheless, an opportunity for revenge presented itself a few years later, when I was holidaying in Switzerland with two delightful Swiss au-pairs whom I had befriended back in England. On one afternoon, we decided to pay a visit to a nearby natural wonder called the Reichenbach Falls, which to my great disappointment turned out to be nothing more wonderful than some water tumbling over some rocks. However, my disappointment turned to joy as my two companions began to frolic in the waters, making their clothing entirely drenched and fantastically see-through, leading to me becoming incredibly aroused, which in turn led to us all partaking in a particularly erotic threesome beneath the mighty falls.

It was as I was wildly hammering away at the backside of one of the girls that I happened to look up and notice a figure hovering about on one of the ledges above. Reasoning that some blighter was attempting to get a free show out of us, I vowed to go and confront the cad and register my great displeasure with my fists upon his face.

And so I promptly made my way up the nearby cliff, until I found myself on the ledge where the figure had been. Surely enough, there he was, still skulking about in the shadows.

“Oh-ho!” I cried, startling the figure. “So, thought you might enjoy a live peep-show, hmmm? Well, let us see how much peeping you can do if I punch out your peepers, sir! Have at ye, you cove!”

The figure spun around, revealing himself to be none other than that blasted arse-cavity, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, looking somewhat more haggard than when I had last seen him. “You!” he exclaimed. “I recognise you…you’re that scoundrel who ran amok on the streets of London attacking innocents with your cane!”

“Ha!” I snorted. “They were hardly innocents, sir. They were all red-heads, and as we all know, red-heads only have such oddly-coloured locks because the Devil himself has possessed their follicles. Thus, with Satan himself sewn into their scalps, they are all destined for a life of villainy and crime, and must be subdued at any cost.”

“What imaginative poppycock,” Holmes smarmed. “Now please, be gone from here, for I am in the midst of another investigation, one which is of a particularly perilous nature, and I do not wish harm to come to you.”

“PAH!” I roared. “I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! Harm does not come to me, sir – I go to harm! And then…” I paused briefly. “…I harm it.”

“I know full well who you are, your lordship,” Holmes said. “I have followed your career with great interest. But you must believe me when I say that this investigation is particularly dangerous, for I am on the trail of Professor Moriarty, a man of such twisted cunning and terrible evil that he would not think twice of dispatching you in an instant.”

“BALLS!” I bellowed. “You are just afraid that I shall best him in a trice, and reveal you to be the useless pranny you so clearly are, Mr. ‘Shortcock’ Holmes. Well, you may have taken me out of the picture once before, but this time you shall not be so lucky!”

“Please, your lordship!” Holmes whined. “You MUST heed my words, for your own safety. I believe Moriarty is headed my way, and he shall not allow anything or anyone to get between him and my demise! A great battle between two intellectual heavy-weights is about to commence, a titanic struggle betwixt good and evil which – ”

“Oh, do push off,” I sighed, and with that I quickly pushed Mr. Sherlock Holmes off of the ledge. “Honestly,” I muttered as I watched the man disappear into the misty spray below. “What a simpering, whiny old sap. No spine! No sense of excitement! I can only wonder which school he attended in order to learn the fine art of adventure…”

The answer, of course, was elementary.

- Lord Likely.

DESPITE his wild ineptitude, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is the subject of a new dramatic production, wherein a group of jobbing actors do the utmost to portray the wretch as some sort of heroic figure. I believe it may be viewed in a theatre near you now, if you like that sort of thing.

FOR A far more accurate depiction of the alleged ‘super-sleuth’, may I suggest picking up a copy of Mr. Chris Woods’ most chuklesome tome, ‘Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death‘, which does a fabulous job of showing Holmes to be the wholly incompetent dick-tube we all know him to be. HUZZAH!

February the Sixteenth, Eighteen Fifty-Eight.

08:00am.

After days of searching every house, outhouse and whore-house, I am still no closer to finding the ever-elusive Lord Likely.

Maybe it is time I faced the awful truth – that Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, is completely and utterly deceased.

I muse upon this over a delicious breakfast of jam and muffins, provided by my delightful wife, Mrs. Spunkleford. It is almost delicious enough to forgive her for her earlier indiscretion.

09:30am.

Arrive at Scotland Yard to some excited commotion. I am summoned to Chief Inspector Wiltwick’s office, whereupon it is explained that a mysterious envelope containing a selection of equally mysterious photographic images was delivered to the Yard this morning, by persons unknown.

The contents of this mysterious package have caused a great deal of hubbub and hoo-ha at the station, for each of the picture-graphs enclosed seemed to show what appears to be Lord Likely in various guises.

I present the images below, along with my comments.

The circled figure in this picture does seem to be his lordship, getting his shoes shined by a street-urchin. However, after having recently put a vicious boot-black behind bars, would Likely really employ the services of these untrustworthy miscreants so quickly?

There had been fairly recent twitterings that Lord Likely recently got in a fight with a bear, or at least a man in a bear-skin coat. Could this be his lordship with the creature, now fully tamed and under his control?

While the attire is distinctly un-lordly, the proud smile, the luxurious moustache and the fact he has a lovely lady on each arm seem to suggest that this could quite possibly be his lordship in disguise.

I have no idea why Lord Likely would be parading through a park with an elephant. Unless he was drunk. Which, to be fair, he usually is.

I am still quite unsure what to make of all this, but it is the first positive lead I have had this week, and my spirits have been considerably buoyed by this breakthrough. Could it be Likely has slipped out of the public eye, to set up a new home for himself somewhere else? Did he fake his own death just to witness the great outpouring of grief first-hand? Has he become wed to an elephant?

I do not know the answers to these questions. But I do feel quietly confident that his lordship is not, in fact, deceased, and shall be walking among us all again very soon…

- by Inspector A.R Spunkleford.

February the Ninth, Eighteen Fifty-Eight
07:15am.

WAKE UP to terrible, shocking news – Mrs. Spunkleford had forgotten to purchase jam yesterday, so I have to forgo my usual breakfast of jam and muffins. Mrs. Spunkleford offers to fix me a breakfast of marmalade and muffins instead, but I refuse the offer, explaining that she cannot palm me off with marmalade.

Mrs. Spunkleford finds this terribly amusing for some reason, and breaks down in fits of laughter. I swear the woman is becoming demented.

08:00am.

Arrive at Scotland Yard dead on the hour, despite my lack of nourishment. However, before I have time to take my hat and coat off, I am informed by Chief Inspector Wiltwick that Lord Likely is dead.

At first I laugh, much to the Chief Inspector’s surprise. I explain my outburst, saying that I find the very notion that Likely has just gone and died to be completely and utterly preposterous. Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action would not go quietly into the night, I continue, but would expire at the hands of some dashed cunning fellon, or possibly syphilis. I suggest that this is probably Likely’s very bad idea of a joke or a jape, and that it shouldn’t be taken seriously.

Chief Inspector Wiltwick disagrees with my assertion, and counters with a brief summary of the events thus far:

It appears that a young prostitute was visiting the Likely Estate last evening, for reasons unknown (although I am sure I could hazard a guess, and that guess disgusts me to my very breeches). When she arrived, she found Likely’s mansion cloaked in darkness, which she considered to be rather odd as her arrival had been fully expected by his lordship.

Luckily, the girl had a gas-lantern with her, and so she pressed on, and found the front-door to be unlocked. This young strumpet then proceeded to enter the building in a North-Easterly direction, and called out to Likely in the hope that he might answer from somewhere within his darkened home.

He did not.

The girl cautiously entered the building, and found herself standing in some sort of slightly goopy, sticky liquid. She held her lantern to the ground, and saw that she was standing in a pool of what appeared to be blood. Furthermore, it quickly became apparent to her that one of Lord Likely’s top-hats was sat in the substance which was apparently blood, apparently.

The harlot, naturally unnerved by such a sight, screamed and took to her heels, turning up at Scotland Yard in the early hours of this morning, looking rather bedraggled after her considerable journey from the Likely Estate to the Yard. She was currently being looked after by a great many concerned police-officers.

Upon hearing the account of the night’s events, I had to sit down, so rapidly was my head spinning. Could it really be? Was Lord Likely really dead? And if so, by who’s hand? And if it was not a hand, which appendage was it? And where in the name of Dickens’ beard was the body? Truly, this was a mystery of extraordinary magnitude, equal to the mystery of the Pyramids, the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster or even the mystery of the female orgasm…

10:15am.

Arrive at the Likely Estate. The place is already swarming with police-officers. I cannot tell if they are here out of an overriding sense of duty, or to say they were there on the day that Lord Likely died.

I take a while to conduct a thorough search of the premises, being sure to check everywhere – including all eighteen bedrooms, the Pornographic Library and even the Love Dungeon. My search turns up nothing, not even his lordship’s long-suffering man-servant, Botter. Have they both been killed, I wonder to myself. It seems unlikely…or rather, un-Likely.

My search of the Estate thus completed, I find myself no closer to a satisfying resolution. It is at times like this – when police-work draws a blank and we find ourselves utterly stumped – that we’d usually turn to Lord Likely to help us out. Of course, this time I cannot make use of his lordship’s excellent deductive skills, so I head back into London to discuss the case with the second-greatest detective – Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

12:42pm.

Visit Mr. Holmes at his home in 221b Baker Street. Very nice place, well-decorated. The housekeeper, a Mrs. Hudson, is quick to offer me refreshments. I ask if she has any jam and muffins, but she tells me she only has jam and crumpets. I send her away almost immediately.

I run the details of the case past Mr. Sherlock Holmes, making sure not to leave any detail out, no matter how insignificant it may seem. The great man sits silently in his chair, his eyes closed, his thin lips puffing on his pipe. Clearly, he is lost in deep thought. His friend, Dr. Watson, sits beside him, eager anticipation marked upon his face as clearly as if someone had painted the words ‘eager anticipation’ upon his countenance with a particularly large brush.

Suddenly, Holmes leaps to his feet, his angular frame suddenly animated with life.

“I have it!” he exclaims.

“What?” say I.

“Cramp. I have a terrible cramp. That chair really is frightfully uncomfortable, you know.”

“Oh,” I say, slightly crestfallen. “And what of my mystery?…”

“Ah, that,” Holmes says, taking the pipe from his mouth. “I am afraid I do not have a fucking clue.”

I sink in my chair, despondent, as Mr. Holmes exits the room. Watson leans over to me and apologises, explaining that Holmes is having ‘a bit of an off-day.’

Fat lot of good that is to me. I make my excuses and leave.

14:09pm.

R>eturn back to the Yard, thoroughly disheartened. I run a few questions past the young prostitute, but she has nothing further to add. No doubt at this point, Lord Likely would have had his wicked way with the slatternly lass, but I merely give her some money for a cab, and send her on her way.

16:52pm.

Having read and reread the case notes over and over, I decide to return home. I am thoroughly exhausted and terribly distressed – as much of a bugger as Likely was, he was a thoroughly good detective, a terribly fine swordsman and – dare I say it – a jolly good friend. I am beginning to miss the old blaggard.

Get in the house, only to discover that Mrs. Spunkleford still has not bought any jam. I collapse into my armchair. No Likely, no leads, no jam…truly, this was proving to be the most trying of days.

Blast it, Likely! Where the devil are you, you wretched cove?

- by Inspector A.R. Spunkleford.

Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, is missing, presumed deaded. He is an impeccably dressed fellow of good stock, with a well-built frame and a handsome moustache. If anyone should see his lordship, or has any information regarding his possible whereabouts, please contact Scotland Yard IMMEDIATELY.

You can also leave a comment below, or send an electrical mail to hislordship@lordlikely.com

Thank you in advance for any help you may provide in helping us to solve this terrible mystery.