PEOPLE often come up to me and ask, “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing with my wife?” To which I reply, “Well, if you do not recognise the act that I am performing with your wife, it is no wonder she has embarked ‘pon this affair with me, sir.” Ah, how foolish they feel thereafter, chums!

People also often ask me how one goes about publishing one’s journals ‘pon the inter-connected net-work of computation devices, to which I usually reply, “Bugger off, can you not see I am busy humping your wife?”

However, I thought I would take this opportunity today to reveal to you, my dear readers, the process involved in getting my Astonishing Adventures delivered to your eyeballs ev’ry week, so that you might fully appreciate the sheer magnitude of the work behind each episode, and maybe even pick up some handy hints for your own endeavours.

So, without further ado, let me present to you my Guide to Publishing a Webbed-Log for Distribution ‘Pon the Inter-Connected Net-Work of Computation Devices!

1. Do Something Worth Writing About.

THE FIRST step is to ensure that you have something sufficiently interesting and/or exciting to share with the globe. As an Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I am never short of thrilling tales to impart, but sadly not every one can be quite as damnably wondrous as I. If the highlight of your week is picking fluff from your naval, then you probably have nothing of interest to offer the masses, and I’d suggest that you keep such musings to yourself, or possibly publish them ‘pon the Book of Many Faces.

2. Ensure You Have the Correct Tools.

THEY SAY that it is a poor workman who blames his tools, but if ‘they’ had ever tried to build a house using nothing but a teaspoon and some glue, or repair a carriage using nothing more than a half-cooked sausage, I’d wager ‘they’ would quickly change their STUPID minds. Finding the right tool for the job is paramount to ensuring high-quality work, which is why I always insist on nothing but the VERY BEST for my Astonishing Adventures – tools such as:

PAPER, taken from trees in the ridiculously over-crowded rainforests of the Amazon.

QUILLS, made out from the feathers of the beautiful (if rather dangerous) Golden-Nibbed Eagle of the American west.

INK, extracted from the Giant Biro Octopus of the Adriatic.

Only the finest is good enough for you, dear readers!

3. Write, Or Find Someone to Write For You.

ONCE YOU have your tools, ’tis time to sit down and actually write the words themselves. Now, of course, as a busy socialite and man about town, I cannot be well expected to spend hours hunched over a desk, scribbling away into the small hours. Thankfully, that is where my scribe, Mr. Fanton, comes into play. Taking the notes I make on my adventures, it is Mr. Fanton’s job to string them together into episodic chapters, using only the very best adjectives, verbs and nouns money can buy…LEST I FLAY HIM TO WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS WRETCHED, WORTHLESS LIFE!

4. Feed The Words Into A Computational Device.

Once MR. Fanton has written up my adventures, I check over them to ensure they meet my exacting standards. If there is so much as one mis-placed apostrophe, the brute is clamped in stocks, and pelted with bricks as punishment. However, if all seems well, then the words are taken from him, and fed into a computation device, ready to be transmitted ‘cross the Empire. In my case, the device in question is called The Astonishizer Engine, a remarkable contraption developed by a Mr. Charles Babbage, which not only stores my documents and transforms my words into top-quality protons and electrons, but which also optimises them for absolute astonishment. Here is said device:

I confess I do not have an inkling as to how this machine works – I suspect some kind of supernatural influence, but Mr. Babbage assures me that it is pure science. But then, he would say that, being POSSESSED BY DEMONS.

5. Transmit Your Words.

AFTER THE Astonishizer Engine has finished its work, then the journal entry in question is ready to be TRANSMITTED across the GLOBE, and directly into the homes and eyeballs of my eager followers. Once again, how the transmission is achieved remains something of a mystery to me, but it has something to do with wires and electricity and a giant antennae atop Likely Towers. Either that, or tiny, near-invisible pigeons carry the words off across the planet, I am not entirely sure.

6. The World Rejoices!

And so, with another instalment of my Astonishing Adventures arriving in homes everywhere, all that is left to do is to bask in the glow which comes from knowing that men and women everywhere are thrilling to my latest escapades. Ah, a job well done – now onto the next chapter! Egad!

- Lord Likely.

PLEASE help us to continue funding this highly expensive and time-consuming process, by donating below, and let us continue to bring you more Astonishing Adventures for ever more!

“Here we are, Botter,” I boomed in a loud, steady voice, “This is…THE LOVE DUNGEON!”

“Crikey!” chirped Botter as he followed me out of the secret passageway, and into the new room.

‘Crikey’ was hardly a befitting exclamation with which to convey the required admiration and respect for this den of debauchery. ‘Holy Cocking Shit’, or ‘Fucking Twatting Hell’ would have been far more appropriate, I felt.

The Love Dungeon was installed beneath the Likely Mansion by Lord William Knott-Likely in the seventeenth century. Lord William is something of an embarrassment to the proud Likely name, as he was one of the few Likelys to have been born without the dashing good looks which befit our proud lineage; and to cap it all he was cursed with an incredibly tiny penis, leading to his unfortunate nickname ‘Little Willy’.

With the odds stacked so highly against him, Lord William found courtship somewhat difficult, with ladies repulsed by his vulgar features and complete lack of charm or girth. More often than not, ladies would flee from Lord William as soon as he approached them, sometimes taking the rather extreme measures of emigrating, lest they beheld his deformities any more.

Lord William became rather annoyed at this turn of events, and this annoyance led to anger, which in turn lead to a furious rage, leading him to full-on barking insanity, which set in motion the construction of the Love Dungeon, with William theorizing that women would not be able to run away from him if he kept them chained up in a dank cellar beneath his house.

The dungeon was completed within a month, and upon its completion Lord William sent out his man-servant to kidnap ladies in the middle of the night, and bring them back to the estate. Clearly holding something of a grudge against the female gender, Lord William filled the dungeon with terrible instruments of torture, and took great delight in meting out cruel and depraved punishments upon his petrified prisoners, which he found incredibly arousing.

Lord William’s awful deeds carried on for the best part of a year, until someone in the neighbouring village realised that there were a lot less women walking about, and set about trying to track them down. A group of locals followed Lord William’s man-servant on one of his kidnapping missions, and followed him back to the Likely Estate, where they were shocked to discover the Love Dungeon chock-full of less-than happy young ladies.

Lord William was driven from his home and spent his last days wandering the country, sticking his penis into anything he came across. As his mental state worsened, he wound up trying to have sex with a furnace, and died shortly thereafter.

Like I say, he was something of an embarrassment to the proud Likely name.

Since then, the Love Dungeon has remained closed off, until a few years ago when I reopened it, but refurnished it as a place for pleasure, and not pain (well, maybe a bit of pain, I confess). I destroyed Lord William’s awful instruments of torture, and replaced them with various elaborate sex-toys instead, such as The Spinning Fanny Slapper, The Spunk Cannon, The Hump-Hammock, The Whirling Titty Tickler, The Box of Delights, The Steam-Powered Flange Thudder and The Iron Maiden’s Mother-In-Law. And, naturally, I do not need to send Botter out to abduct local women either. If anything, ladies queue up to sample the delights of the Love Dungeon these days, and there is quite a waiting list for admissions.

“That is a surprisingly good question for one so naturally inclined towards idiocy,” I replied, straightening up a suit of armour sporting a rather hefty strap-on. “We cannot well stay hidden down here forever. Not without you getting some funny ideas.”

“I suppose not,” Botter said, running his hands across an anal battering ram.

“We need to do something, Botter!” I cried, sitting down on the edge of Dr. Ignoble Buttocks’ Patented Cock-Stretching Cock Rack. “We are so close to reclaiming the Likely Estate from those terrible Italian fellows. If only we were better equipped to overcome them…if only we were armed! What I wouldn’t give to have a sturdy weapon in my hand right this instant!”

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud crashing sound, as Botter knocked over a stand housing various sex-aids, sending the various implements of intercourse spilling onto the floor.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, as I picked up a Double-Ended Backdoor Invader from off of the ground.

“I…I’m sorry, milord,” Botter apologised profusely. “Please don’t hurt me!”

“Hurt you?” I beamed. “Why, I could kiss you if you weren’t so god-awfully grotesque! Botter, gather up as many of these wonderful tools as you can carry…I think I have a rather excellent plan!…”

- Lord Likely.

humor-blogs.com never leaves home without carrying a Clockwork Cock Tickler.

My increasingly inept scribe, Mr. A.D Fanton, has relaunched his comic strip-based inter-net web-site The Carrotty Kid this week, and urges you all to visit it and marvel at the wonders within. However, he has already run into a spot of bother with the new venture, which could also affect my fine journals themselves! If you can spare a moment, and maybe a ha’penny, visit The Digital Sickbag or www.thecarrottykid.co.uk and join in with Carrot Aid this instant! Many thanks!

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Botter and I arrived at the village hall moments later, to find the place swarming with awful commoners, out displaying their fruit and vegetable in a terribly tedious Fruit and Veg Contest.

I took a moment to rearrange one competitor’s display so that a carrot and two artfully-placed plums took on the appearance of the male genitalia (which amused me greatly), and then I complimented a lady on her wonderful melons, before we headed to one of the back-rooms of the hall.

“Right!” I said, slamming the door shut behind me to cut out the noise of the rabble outside. “Now to business!”

Botter looked around the small, unassuming room we now found ourselves in.

“Are…are you sure you have the right room, milord?” he asked. “There is nothing in this room but a small desk, a chair, and a large potted-plant. I can’t begin to fathom where this secret tunnel may be!”

“And that is just as it should be, my cretinous companion. Why, if the entrance to the tunnel was clear to see, it would not be much of a secret, would it now? Honestly, Botter. Do try and engage your brain from time to time.”

“Sorry milord,” Botter apologised.

“That you are, Botter. Very sorry indeed,” I said, as I strode over to the potted-plant in the corner of the room. “Now, let me just check…” I continued, as I read the name of the plant, written on a small sign stuck in the soil. “Hmmm…praeditus senior! Yes, this is definitely the one!”

“Pray-dit what?” Botter asked.

“Praeditus senior, Botter! It is Latin for ‘well-endowed lord’. Look at the plant, Botter. Just look at it! Standing tall and proud, it’s mighty stalk fully erect…this plant was named after my father, you see. Well, to be more specific, it was named after my father’s penis. It’s…rather a long story, to be honest. At any rate, this plant is the key…”

“I see,” said Botter, the vacant look in his eyes betraying this statement.

I smiled and pulled at the plant’s stalk, then pushed it back, then pulled it again. Suddenly there was a grinding sound, and a section of the wall behind the plant began to move aside, revealing a hitherto unseen entrance.

“Open sesame!” I beamed. “Come on, Botter! This will lead us back to the Likely Estate, and then we can give those filthy Italians what for!”

Botter ambled over, and peered cautiously into the tunnel.

“It looks rather tight, milord,” he observed.

“Indeed,” I said. “Maybe I should lubricate myself before forcing myself in?” Botter looked at me quizically. “No, you’re probably right,” I conceded. “We should just get going. Alright, then! You go first, just in case there is any long-dormant evil lurking in there, waiting to feast on the blood of any unsuspecting explorers.”

Botter’s face went white with fear.

“Don’t worry, you fool!” I grinned, grabbing a gaslight from atop the small desk. “It will be fine. Probably.”

Botter gulped. “Milord, I think…”

“Excellent!” I said, pushing Botter into the tunnel. “Simply excellent!”

We had been crawling through the tunnel for what seemed like an age, when Botter, (being the incredibly whinesome and wearying wank-stain that he is) began to complain.

“Are we nearly there yet, milord?” he wailed.

I stopped and sniffed the air. “Smell that?” I asked, holding my lantern up to Botter’s face. “It is the most wondrous scent of beer. I do believe we are right under the Cock and Balls Inn! I wonder if we have time to tunnel our way into the pub, and secure ourselves some booze for our journey?”

“I…I rather think we should press on, milord,” Botter replied, nervously scanning the area.

“Honestly, Botter. You are such a spoilsport sometimes. How the devil I wound up with such a
party-pooping pranny like yourself, I simply cannot fathom. It must have been – “

“What was that?” Botter asked suddenly, his head craned to the right.

“That was the sound of me berating you, you terrible anus.”

“No!” Botter cried. “I thought I heard something else. Like…like a scratching sound…”

“Nonsense, Botter. It is simply your over-active imagination. I dare say your imagination is the only active part of you.”

“SHUT UP!” snapped Botter, before quickly remembering his place. “Uh, I mean shut up, milord.“

“Botter! I would beat you completely and utterly senseless, if it was not for one thing.”

“And what is that, milord?” Botter enquired.

“There appears to be something heading straight for us, Botter,” I replied, pointing behind my man-servant. “And it appears to be entirely unfriendly…”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something Wicked This Way Comes!

humor-blogs.com lives underground, and as such is literally beneath us all.

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I know I have just commenced upon the recollection of another of my astonishing adventures, and I acknowledge that it is rather bad form to interrupt my latest tale so soon in proceedings, but I have some news to impart to you all which simply cannot wait.

At any rate, these are my journals and I shall do as I damned well please, so shut up.

You may recall me mentioning that my wondrous journals had been nominated for an award recently, in the Performancing Awards, in the category of ‘Best Blog You’ve Never Heard Of‘. You may also remember me asking for my loyal readers to support my good and excellent self in the voting for the award, in the hope that I may win and be crowned as the best, the title of which I do not only deserve, but amply personify.

Well, I am happy to report that I did indeed win the award in question, and by quite a considerable margin. This did leave me to wonder whether I was actually the best at being unheard of, as clearly plenty of people had heard of me in order to vote. Maybe the fellow with the least amount of votes should have one this particular prize? The mind quite literally boggles.

At any rate, I am victorious, and for that I am truly grateful. I wish to thank you all for your sterling support, and your excellent button-pressing skills. It is gratifying to know that my lovely, beautiful readership are blessed with such deft digits and furiously fast fingers.

A special Palmerston-sized thank you to Lord Fiar, who alerted me to my nomination in the first place. Many thanks indeed, good sir. Award yourself a shot of your favourite liquor as a reward!

You may peruse the article hailing my victory in this article, wherein the award organiser Mr. Ryan Caldwell cites my astonishing adventures as being “original” and “quirky.” Far be it for me to look a gift horse in the mouth, I do take slight umbrage with the choice of adjective, there. Quirky to me conjures up images of the sort of witless goon one may encounter in the office or workplace, who wears brightly-coloured shirts and spends all day long quoting his favourtie comic writers and performers, in lieu of having anything actually witty to say for himself. “Oh, that fellow is most quirky,” his colleagues may say, but then I’d wager he is never invited out to join them at the local public house or staff party. Quirky indeed!

I would have thought ‘sexy’ or ‘ridiculously fantastic’ would have been a better choice of words, myself.

Anyhow, I should not grumble. I tip my quirky hat to Mr. Caldwell, and I thank you all again from the bottom of my ball-sacks. I am honestly very, very pleased to have won. And most highly aroused.

Now I shall go and drink vast quantities of champagne to celebrate, and spend all night furiously polishing my award.

And yes, I am referring to masturbation there.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

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November 5th, 1856.

Remember, remember the fifth of November. Not because of that awful terrorist bastard Guy Fawkes, and his preposterous plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament. No, dear readers, the real reason to remember this historic day is that it is the very day that I, Lord Likely, celebrate my one-hundredth journal entry! Hurrah, and indeed, huzzah!

Who would have imagined that when I set out to transcribe my thrilling adventures in my trusted journals all those months ago, that I would still be writing them one-hundred entries later?

Well, I would have imagined it, of course, as I am cocking-well brilliant.

Naturally, to celebrate such a milestone I set about cracking open a fresh bottle of champagne – quite literally, infact, as Botter did a terrible job of opening the bottle himself, leaving me with little recourse but to smash the bottle open upon his wretched skull. Of course, he then whined and moaned and carried on about needing ‘several stitches’ to his head, but I was not going to let a bleeding man-servant ruin my celebrations, and so I carried on drinking while he passed out under the table in a pool of his own scarlet.

Happy times!

Feeling in such a reflective and celebratory mood, I thought I would re-read my journals and select my favourite moments. A surprising amount of these choice cuts seem to revolve around me injuring someone, which is why I refer to them as:

Horses, in which I give details about my collection of horses. In lesser hands, this would have been a dull entry, but I make it fascinating and fantastic, as is my way.

Aches and Pains, in which I list some of the injuries I have suffered whilst trying to remain so gloriously composed and ravishing.

Brawls I Have Known, where I recount some of my more violent sojourns to various drinking establishments around the country.

Fight to the End, in which I tackle a small army of bloodthirsty prostitutes.

The Astonishing Adventures of Lady Likely, where I recall some of the escapades of my dear mother, the errant Lady Likely.

Things I Have Stabbed, says it all, really.

Things I Have Stabbed – Part Two, also says it all, really.

Ladies I Have Loved and Lost, in which I recall a small selection of the many sexual conquests of my past.

Shopping Habits of a Lord, whereby I list some of the fine establishments I frequent when shopping.

A Wanted Man, in which I become a fugitive from the law, and have my handsome face plastered all over ‘Wanted’ posters across London Town.

Banquet and Wild, wherein I attend a party thrown in my honour, only to be forcibly ejected from said party not long after it has commenced.

Dealing with Aristocratic Anger, in which I demonstrate exactly what to expect should you find yourself disagreeing with my lordly self.

A Tidal Wave of Filth, wherein plans for my gloriously decadent Porn Library are exposed to the world.

All Rise for Her Majesty, in which I reveal my barely-concealed lust for the monarch, Queen Victoria. God Save Her!

The Likely Family Tree, in which I give a little bit of background on the Likely family.

Pounding the Palmerston, wherein I have a wank, or at least try to.

Loopy Lisa, in which I nearly wind up getting wed to something that closely resembles a man.

Lord Likely’s Schooldays, in which I recall some of my scholastic memories, some of which almost got me expelled.

If You Are Going to Party Then Party Hard, wherein I have one hell of a birthday party, and wind up many miles from home.

Quite a fine selection of wondrous writings from my incalculably incredible self there, I am sure you will agree. And I am sure you will not hesitate to join me in proposing a toast to the next one-hundred entries, and many more astonishing adventures. Especially as the booze is on me!

CHEERS!

- Lord Likely.

The Likely Centenary will continue apace for the rest of the week, where lucky readers can expect to bear witness to Lord Likely’s Birthday Honours, an all-new Likely Portrait, more recollections of his lordship’s schooldays and more besides. Chin-chin!

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