I AWOKE with a start, which was just as well, for had I awoken with a finish, I would undoubtedly have been dead.

I woke to find myself in a large, dank cellar – hardly an auspicious location for one as noble as I. Furthermore, I was strapped to a conveyor belt which seemed to be slowly conveying me towards a large, open, bake oven at the other end of the room. I turned my head to find that Inspector Spunkleford was similarly restrained beside me, and was completely out cold.

“Good heavens!” I cried. “She didn’t dupe you too, did she, Spunkleford? My word, what a cunning harlot she must be, to outwit a police inspector in her very own – ”

“Sorry?” said Spunkleford, stirring from his slumber. “What’s going on? I must have nodded off back there…probably wore myself out with all that vomiting, you know. Where on earth am I?”

I sighed and nodded my head sadly. It really was a wonder that London was not completely overrun with criminals, with imbecilic inspectors like Spunkleford on the force.

“Well, Spunkleford, in answer to your question: it rather looks like we are being ferried into a large oven, wherein I assume we are to be baked in our own jackets.”

“Egads!” exclaimed Spunkleford. “I…I cannot move, Likely!”

“No. Irritating, isn’t it?”

“So…so what are we going to do, Likely? Come on, man! You’ve been in tighter spots than this!”

“I dare say I have…there were those delightful young twins from the village, for example…” I replied, my eyes glazing over as I recalled the most arousing memory.

“That…that is not what I meant, and you know it!” Spunkleford wailed, panic filling his portly form. “You must have an escape plan, eh? An…an astonishing escape plan?”

“I am afraid not, Spunkleford. I really cannot see a way out of this one, old boy…”

Spunkleford gulped. “Then…then we’re done for?”

“We shall be well-done, at any rate,” I deadpanned.

Just as I was enjoying my own spectacular wit, the door to the cellar creaked open and Mrs. Bapps herself entered.

“Alright, gents?” she said in a deceptively cheery tone, belying her evil intentions.

“I have been rather better, to be honest,” I answered.

“I am sorry to hear that,” she grinned as she descended the steps into the cellar. “Still, it will all be over soon, sir, and then you will find a new lease of life as a delicious treat for my customers! Won’t that be marvellous?”

“Not really. In fact, I think I’d rather be…well, not cooked, to be quite frank.”

“Nonsense, sir! I am going to make you into quite a special dish indeed! I am going to call it ‘The Upper Crust‘…isn’t that clever, sir? I came up with that name all by myself, you know. And I know you will be simply delicious! I have, after all…tasted you already…” she smiled, running her tongue suggestively around her luscious lips. I felt my todger twitch with excitement. She may have been a twisted fiend, but she was a ruddy gorgeous twisted fiend.

“What about me?” blurted Spunkleford. “What will become of me?”

“You,” sniffed Mrs. Bapps, “will become some lardy cake.”

I chuckled. “That is actually rather witty, you know…” I began, but thought better of continuing my praise upon catching sight of Spunkleford’s furious gaze. “Ahem…anyway…you are quite clearly insane, woman! You shall not get away with this!” I bellowed, whilst secretly thinking that she actually probably would.

It was then that I noticed we had stopped moving. For whatever reason, the conveyor belt was no longer conveying.

Mrs. Bapps noticed this as well, and looked around in an utterly bewildered fashion, until her eyes rested on a large lever next to the oven, besides which stood…my man-servant, Botter. Never before had I been so pleased to see his wretched, stinking form.

“Sorry I was late, milord,” Botter apologised.

“Better late than never, Botter! Although I may have to…”

“Dock my wages?”

“You know me so well, Botter.” I grinned. “Oh, and Botter?”

“Yes, milord?”

“If I were you I would duck, for it seems there is a rather mad baker headed towards you with a staggeringly large bread-knife.”

“Righto, milord,” Botter replied, and swiftly ducked just as Mrs. Bapps swung at his head with the bread-knife. Botter rolled across the floor and scooped up a rolling pin from nearby, then jumped to his feet and turned just in time to block another attack from Mrs. Bapps.

What followed was a rather surreal duel betwixt man-servant and baker; one armed with a bread-knife, the other wielding a rolling-pin. Botter proved surprisingly nimble and elegant, which was remarkable considering the number of broken bones he has had to endure over the years.

Mrs. Bapps slashed and hacked at my man-servant with frenzied aplomb, but Botter coolly deflected each blow with his rolling-pin. It was almost enough to make me feel proud of the chap, if he was not so terribly repugnant and smelt of urine all the time.

After about five minutes of this action, Botter finally knocked the knife from Mrs. Bapps hand, and had her pressed up against the wall, his rolling-pin pushed firmly against her throat.

“Bravo, Botter!” roared Spunkleford, very much relieved.

“Huzzah!” I cheered. “Just what we kneaded, Botter! Haha! Kneaded! Come on, Mrs. Bapps, you must appreciate that baking-based pun, surely?”

Mrs. Bapps could only manage a gargled moan in return.

“What shall I do with her, milord?” Botter asked, keeping his captive firmly in place.

That was an uncommonly good question from my typically moronic man-servant. What should be done with Mrs. Bapps?

– Lord Likely.

What Should Be Done With Mrs. Bapps?

What Should Be Done With Mrs. Bapps?
( polls)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote’ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: Dear Olga, The Travelling Bra – surely the inspiration behind (or should that be in front) the boob-shaped cake. Lord bless you, m’dear!

ATTENTION! His Lordship’s newest enterprise, Lord Likely’s Emporium of Excellent Things, is still open for business! So why not treat your torsos to a terrific t-shaped shirt, or purchase fine beverage holders or pin-badges bearing his lordship’s rugged features? Double-quick, now!

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Read on, dear readers…

“YOU had better not be lying to me, Swishbuckle,” I growled, training the blade of my origami cutlass at the bootblack’s neck. “Or next time, I shall bring a real cutlass and slice off your balls, and force feed them down your awful throat.”

“I ain’t lying, sir! Honest! Mrs. Bapps is deranged, sir! She’s a sick and twisted individual!”

“Hmmm,” I said, lowering my paper sword. “So what is in this for you, Swishbuckle? Why are you working for Mrs. Bapps?”

Mr. Swishbuckle lowered his head meekly. “She…she lets me keep the shoes, sir.”

“What?”

“I…I love shoes, sir. I mean…I really love shoes, if you get my meaning…”

I paused a moment to try and get Mr. Swishbuckle’s meaning, and then got it, and instantly regretted getting it.

“Are you trying to tell me that you are a shoe-fucker, Swishbuckle?”

Mr. Swishbuckle nodded slowly. “Aye, sir. I…I cannot help myself, sir. That is why I became a bootblack. I just love shoes. I love the smell of the leather, the feel of their tongues against my skin…”

“Good God, man!” I exclaimed. “And you claim Mrs. Bapps is the sick and twisted one? Talking of which, I had better go and pay Mrs. Bapps a visit, I feel. I shall deal with you later, Swishbuckle….Swishbuckle?”

I looked down to see Mr. Swishbuckle gently licking the top of my boot, his hands straying perilously close to his groin.

“Argh! Shoo, shoo!” I cried.

“That’s it, sir!” the bastard bootblack panted. “Keep talking dirty!”

“Gah! Get away, your depraved hound!” I yelled, kicking Mr. Swishbuckle square in the mouth, dislodging a couple of teeth in the process. The swine thus subdued, I made a hasty exit.

There are some truly disgusting perverts out there, you know.

I STRODE into Mrs. Bapps’ bakery once more, my heroic return rather diminished somewhat by the cheery tring of the shop’s bell. Mrs. Bapps looked up and flashed a rather saucy smile at me, which almost made me want to bend her over the counter and roger her senseless. But, somehow, my sense of justice prevailed.

“Mrs. Bapps! The game is up, you sexy fiend!”

“Game? What game?” asked another voice. I turned around to find Inspector Spunkleford innocently chomping on a sandwich, containing a mystery meat which I could only assume to be the flesh from some poor swine’s feet.

“Inspector, this woman is a lunatic, and has been using the hacked-off feet of the bootblack’s victims in her baked goods!”

“Really?” said Spunkleford, taking another bite from his sandwich.

“Really,” I repeated.

“Good heavens!” Spunkleford gasped, still chewing upon his food. I watched patiently as my grizzly news was processed by Spunkleford’s rather sluggish brain. His eyes widened in horror. “Then that means…”

I nodded. Spunkleford grimaced, then spun around and proceeded to be violently sick all over a nearby table. I left Spunkleford to empty the contents of his stomach in peace, while I went to apprehend Mrs. Bapps.

“As for you, m’dear,” I said, as Mrs. Bapps continued about her work. “I am afraid you shall have to accompany me to the police-station…”

“And what if I refuse?” purred Mrs. Bapps.

“Then I shall have to take you by force!”

“I rather like the sound of that,” whispered Mrs. Bapps.

“Fine!” I snapped striding back over to Spunkleford who had, by now, managed to regain his composure. “Spunkleford, your handcuffs, if I may.”

Spunkleford nodded and groggily handed me the handcuffs. I muttered a ‘thank you’ and marched back over to Mrs. Bapps.

“That’s it, Likely! Handcuff that harlot at once!” Spunkleford cheered as he watched me go about my duty. “Yes, yes, chain her to the stove – capital idea! Oh yes, you had better frisk her as well, check she has no weapons about her person, eh? Good show! Yes…yes…I must say, you are doing a rather thorough job there, Likely….Good God, man! I don’t think she will be hiding any weapons up there! My word! Now what are you doing? Is that your pistol you have taken out of your trousers, there? Wait a moment! That is not a pistol at all! Why, that’s your…goddammit, Likely! Stop that! Don’t put it in there! Stop it! Stop it at once!”

Naturally, I ignored Spunkleford’s demands and continued thrusting wildly at Mrs. Bapps’ hindquarters, until I came to an explosive climax which nearly wrenched the very stove from the wall. Thus relieved, I was able to think with a slightly clearer mind, and could refocus on the case in hand.

“Right then, my dear, while you are manacled to the stove in such a fashion, I think you might be able to answer some questions pertaining to the…great big knockers!“

“Sorry?”

“This cake!” I continued, pointing out a cake which was cooling on a tray on the counter beside me. “It looks exactly like a pair of breasts!”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Bapps. “I made it for you, your lordship. Thought you might like it! Go on, have a taste! I promise there are no feet in that particular cake.”

“Hmmm…I shall just have a nipple,” I answered, breaking off a piece and putting it in my mouth. “Mmmm. yes, very delicious indeeed, I must say. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, your crrrrime. Crime. Oh my, I do feel peculiar…” I said, as my vision began to blur.

“Oh, silly me,” Mrs. Bapps smiled. “I forgot to tell you! While there are indeed no feet in that cake, there were rather a lot of sleeping pills baked into it. How stupid of me! It must have slipped my mind, sir…”

“You whorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-” I began, before I completely blacked out, and crashed to the floor.

– Lord Likely.

What Should Lord Likely Do Now?
( polls)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote’ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: Mr. Max, he of the brilliant British Speak web-log, who has seen fit to carry out a full and thorough investigation of Lord Palmerston…click here to discover more!

Toodle-pip!

“RIGHT then, Squire,” said the brutish oaf in front of me, waving his hacksaw menacingly in my face. “You’re going to sit still and let me relieve you of your feet.”

“I am afraid that simply will not happen,” I eventually replied. “I have grown rather attached to my feet. In fact, you might say that they have become a part of me.”

“Pffft. Whacha going to do, read me to death?”

It should be noted at this point that I am something of an expert in the Japanese art of paper-folding – or origami, as it is known. I meant to mention this a while ago, but it had somehow slipped my mind. Possibly due to booze.

It was whilst travelling that I met Master Ai-Phor, a wise and learned old man who was a teacher in the art of origami. Naturally, he sensed something special in me, and so begun my careful tutelage under Master Ai-Phor’s watchful eye, and his other slightly-less watchful eye.

I started with the basics – folding a piece of paper in half, then in four – but I was clearly a gifted student, for in no time at all I was able to create far more complex paper sculptures, from swans and doves; to intricate, finely-detailed models of Buckingham Palace, including an anatomically-correct figure of Her Majesty, the Queen.

Despite my undeniable flair with paper, I was eventually banished from Master Ai-Phor’s school. I had gotten completely and utterly rat-arsed on some Saki, which – along with a particularly heavy meal I had eaten that night – conspired to give me a severe case of the shits. I headed straight for the lavatory, but after having expelled the contents of my colon, I realised that there was no toilet paper to be found. Luckily, using my incredible paper-manipulation skills, I managed to locate a couple of old scrolls which I swiftly transformed into paper with which to wipe my poop-splattered posterior. Master Ai-Phor was far from impressed with my incredible initiative, revealing that the old scrolls were, in fact, hundreds of centuries old and had been passed down from generation to generation of his family. He was not terribly pleased to find them now smeared with effluence, no matter how noble and prestigious it may have been

Anyhow, despite being unceremoniously expelled from Master Ai-Phor’s school, I had not forgotten those paper-folding skills, and thus I was able to quickly turn my copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News into an thoroughly convincing cutlass.

“Stand back, you blaggard!” I roared, waving my makeshift weapon in the bounder’s face.

“‘S very impressive,” the fellow noted, entirely correctly. “But that ain’t gonna stop me!”

The cad advanced upon me, and so I had no choice but to slice at him with my creased-sheet cutlass. The swine staggered back in shock, clutching his arm.

“Ya…ya bloody cut me!” he whimpered.

“Oh, don’t be such a ponce,” I retorted. “‘Tis just a paper-cut, I’ll warrant.”

“Some paper-cut!” the man replied, moving his hand so that I could see the wound. Surely enough, there was now quite a deep gash in his limb. Good lord, I thought. I am even better at this origami lark than I had first thought.

“Well…quite. Now, unless you want more of the same, you skank-infected carbuncle, I suggest you cooperate with me fully, understand?”

“U-understood!” the man whined.

“Good. Now who are you? What is your name?”

“Isn’t…isn’t that just the same question twice?” the man replied.

“Ah-hem!” I coughed, holding my slightly crumpled cutlass.

“Alright, alright!” the fellow bleated. “My name is William Swishbuckle. I’m…I’m a bootblack by trade, sir. And this,” he gestured to the small boy by his side. “This is me apprentice, Jack.”

“I see, I see. And what, prey tell, are the two of you doing stalking the streets of London, stealing people’s feet, hmmm?”

“I…I…I…”

“Out with it, man!” I yelled, thrusting my cutlass at the wretch’s neck, letting the point come to a rest by his throat.

“She made me do it! She made me do it!” the pathetic creature wailed.

“She? She? She who, exactly?”

“That baking lady, sir. Mrs. Bapps. She made me do it!”

“Mrs. Bapps?” I repeated, recalling the comely lass and her heaving bosom, which instantly gave me a ferocious hard-on. “But why? What has she got to do with this sorry affair?”

“She’s demented, sir,” the bootblack whimpered. “She demanded we get her human feet for her bakin’…said they was a ‘special ingredient.’“

I felt my stomach churn at the very notion. Could it be possible? Was Mrs. Bapps really a foot-baking fellon? Or was Mr. Swishbuckle telling lies? I would have to probe deeper…

– Lord Likely.

How Should Likely Further His Investigations?
( surveys)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote’ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: Mr. Scaryduck, who is a thoroughly good egg (or was, at any rate) and has alerted me to a terrible injustice which may well be rectified soon. Well done, that duck!

Toodle-pip!

Having been summoned to investigate a startlingly dull case involving the theft of a gentleman’s shoes by a tiny, cockney bootblack, Lord Likely quickly gets to work by visiting a nearby bakery and having a raunchy, pudding-based threesome with the owner, Mrs. Bapps, and one of her customers – much to Inspector Spunkleford’s chagrin.

After having had some delicious crumpet, Likely decides to finally make his way to the crime scene, where he finds the victim – a Mr. Poots – not only deprived of his footwear, but also of any feet upon which to wear any footwear. Clearly intrigued by such an unusual turn of events, his lordship is almost ready to take the case, until his demands to be paid in whores and whisky are denied by Spunkleford.

In a rage, Likely storms off, only to wind up stepping into a large pile of horse dung, enraging the aristocratic adventurer further. Having taken his anger out on the horse’s owner, Likely proceeds to look for somewhere to clean his shoes…and then inadvertently runs into a tiny, cockney bootblack who offers to shine his lordship’s shoes…

Will Likely take the lad up on his offer, or will he tell him to sod off? Is our hero to be the next victim of the grubby, foot-stealing urchin? And will his lordship ever get a chance to go back to Mrs. Bapps’ bakery for a nice, juicy tart?

Some of these questions may well be answered in the next thrilling chapter of ‘The Bastard Bootblack of Bilgecranny Lane’ – which commences….now.

“SHINE your shoes, guv?” the filthy child repeated.

I eyed the boy with some suspicion and both my eyeballs, and despite his repellent appearance and complete lack of personal hygiene, I decided to take the wretch up on his offer. After all, it did not do for a man of my standing to be currently standing in shoes caked with horse dung.

“What a stupid question, boy!” I snapped. “Of course I want my ruddy shoes shined! Look at all this shit!” I said, raising my foot up so that the child could get a better view of my sullied sole.

“Shine your shoes, guv!” the boy exclaimed, and beckoned me to follow him. I hesitated briefly, then squelched after him.

We finally came to a stop in a rather dingy alley-way, with a single chair propped up against the wall, a small box of brushes and polish ensconced beneath. The ragamuffin gestured me to take a seat, but I decided to leave the seat precisely where it was, and chose to simply sit upon it instead.

“Right then, my lad,” I said, unfurling my copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News from my coat pocket. “You had better do a good job! I want these shoes to be so shiny that I can see my face in them, else you will see them in your face!”

The boy quickly and silently got to work, while I took time to peruse my news-paper. As my eyes flitted across the various articles, I suddenly chanced upon a piece about Mr. Poots and his recent mugging, which saw him deprived of both his shoes and his feet. Poor, portly Mr. Poots, I thought. Fancy being robbed by a small child…

I froze. Small child?

I lowered my newspaper, to find myself staring into the eyes of a rather burly, dark-haired man, who was grinning wildly, clutching a hacksaw in his dirty, giant fist. The bootblack, meanwhile, continued his work, seemingly unaware or uninterested in my sudden plight.

Clearly, the time for shoe-shining had passed. Now, ’twas the time for some ruddy action.

– Lord Likely.

What Action Should Lord Likely Action?
( polls)

November, 1857

“Well then, sir,” purred the beautiful, buxom baker Mrs. Bapps as she leant forward, giving me another glorious glimpse of her heaving bosom. “Do you see anything you would like?”

“Rather!” I beamed.

“Yes?” she continued, scooping up some cream from off of the top of a nearby cake with her finger, and then licking it suggestively as she eyed me hungrily, almost as if I were one of the many creamy desserts lining her shop’s shelves .

“Yes! I think I should like…a cake!” I said, finally.

Mrs. Bapps‘ expression changed to one of sheer disappointment. “Pardon me, sir?”

“I would like a cake, m’dear! All this adventuring gives one a frightful appetite, you know! Thus, I would rather like a delicious cake!”

“Are…are you sure, sir?”

“Definitely and absolutely!” I confirmed. “I demand delicious cake this instance!” I boomed, banging my fist upon the counter-top for added emphasis.

“Certainly sir, certainly!” Mrs. Bapps exclaimed. “I must say, you are very forceful, sir!”

“I simply know what I want, and demand that I get it!” I answered casually.

“Oh, you’re going to get it, sir!” gasped Mrs. Bapps, and then before I knew what was happening, she was up on the counter and forcing her mouth upon mine.

“This is all well and good,” I said, between long, passionate kisses. “But this does not get me a delicious cake now, does it?”

Needless to say, my protest went unheard, and it was not long before I too found myself up on the counter, with Mrs. Bapps sitting astride me, her tongue rammed so far down my throat I thought she might be attempting to lick my anus clean at the same time.

“Damnation, Likely! Control yourself!” Inspector Spunkleford spluttered indignantly, spraying crumbs from his own delicious cake all over the place.

“I did not even do anything this time, you ruddy fool!” I responded, as Mrs. Bapps tore open my shirt. “I am afraid it is one of the perils of being so ridiculously handsome and so completely desirable!”

“Hmph!” snorted the inspector. “Well, we are going, aren’t we Botter?“

“Are we?” my bewildered man-servant replied, no doubt hoping to catch a brief glimpse of Mrs. Bapps’ silken thighs or peachy buttocks.

“Yes! Yes we are! Right this very instant!” And with that – having first ensured that he had finished his cake – the inspector stormed off, dragging Botter behind him, which left me with no other alternative but to focus all my attentions on the delightful dough-kneading damsel currently sat atop me.

I grabbed the totty by her hips and pulled her off me, and then I proceeded to clamber atop her, whereupon I set about the act of foreplay, being the highly considerate gentle-man I am.

“Good heavens, my dear, you are very wet indeed!” I observed.

“That’s because you have your fingers in my sticky pudding!” Mrs. Bapps answered.

“I’ll say I have!” I grinned.

“No, really, sir – you seem to have inadvertently thrust your hand into one of my sticky puddings!”

“What?” I asked, looking down to see my honourable hand was indeed currently resting inside one of the aforementioned puddings. “Oh! Oh I see,” I said, somewhat sheepishly.

“Well, then, sir,” the big-breasted beauty cooed as I extracted my hand from the baked confection. “What would you like to do to me next?”

– Lord Likely.

What Should Likely Do Next?
( polls)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote‘ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: That scoundrel and cad, Reverend Qelqoth, now residing at his new virtual abode Pwn Greenland. Good work, you devil! Huzzah and hurrah!

So do not delay, dear readers…his lordship awaits your instruction! Make him do your bidding!

An Astonishing Announcement! Lord Likely is thoroughly pleased to have had his web-log approved by those esteemed (if drunk) fellows at the World Blog Council. Not only have these fine, upstanding gents approved of his lordship’s journals, but they have also deemed them to be ‘excellent’, an opinion which his lordship shares totally and completely. Furthermore, the council have also bestowed this fine certificate upon this very web-log, which is not only very special indeed, but will also come in very handy in covering a rather curious stain on the ceiling of his lordship’s drawing-room.

Many thanks indeed, sirs! I tip my hat and lower my trousers in your honour, even in light of your scandalous aspersions upon my noble lineage!

Fellow readers may peruse the full verdict hither, where they may also vote upon the fabulousness of my diaries, as you will all undoubtedly wish to do! It is your duty!

November, 1857.

AS I stood contemplating my next move, my ponderings were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, who bounded across the road toward me, huffing and puffing as he put his sizeable frame through such clearly untypical exertions.

“Ah! Likely!” he wheezed. “Jolly good to see you, old boy!”

“I imagine it would be,” I replied.

“Thank you for responding to my telegram quite so promptly, Likely!” Spunkleford continued. “I dare say you are all fired up and ready for another rip-roaring adventure, eh?”

“Well actually, dear inspector, I was about to go and sample some delicious, hot buns over at that bakery over there,” I said, pointing to the shop on the other side of the street.

“What? But why?” Spunkleford asked, then his face fell when he saw that I was pointing at Mrs. Bapps’ Bakery. “Oh heavens, no, Likely! Can we not have one investigation wherein you do not wind up underneath some poor woman or other?”

“Of course, inspector!” I brightened. “This time I shall make certain that I am on top!”

With that I strode across the street, with Spunkleford grumbling on behind me.

The shop’s bell gave a rather pathetic little tring as I entered Mrs. Bapps’ Bakery – hardly a fanfare befitting the entrance of one as utterly fabulous as I. Nevertheless, the bell seemed to do the trick, and no sooner had we entered the establishment then did Mrs. Bapps herself emerge from a back-room with a cheery, “Good day, gentlemen!”

I took a moment to behold the woman, and found her most pleasing to the eye, and indeed the other eye. She was a well-built, blonde lady, with lovely, smiling green eyes. She also looked rather dirty – not physically, you understand, although her face and apron were covered with flour as would be expected from one in her trade – but she had an air about her that suggested she certainly knew how to butter a gentleman’s baguette, if you follow my meaning.

“So, how can I help you fine gentlemen?” Mrs. Bapps continued as she dried her hands on a towel. “Can I interest you in a nice hot bun, maybe?” she continued, as she turned around and bent over to open up the door of the oven behind her, revealing a rather shapely derrière in the process.

“Mmmm,” I said approvingly. “Those buns certainly do look quite, quite appetising!”

“Rather! They smell delicious!” exclaimed Spunkleford, whose thoughts rarely strayed further south than his stomach.

“There you go then, gents!” chirped Mrs. Bapps, as she laid a tray of buns on the counter before her. “Fresh out of the oven!”

Botter and Spunkleford hungrily tucked in to the piping-hot food, while I refrained. I never eat on the job, you know.

“Are you not having any, sir?” Mrs. Bapps enquired.

“Not yet,” I grinned.

“Oh?’

“You see, m’dear, I am afraid to say that I have precisely no interest in your baked goods. I think I should instead like to order something rather more…delectable.”

Mrs. Bapps smiled and leant over the counter, which gave me a fantastic view of her considerable cleavage, the sort of cleavage one could lose one’s wallet in, and then possibly one’s hand as well.

“So, sir…what would you like, then?”

“Well…” I began.

– Lord Likely.

Vote Now!

Well…What, Precisely?
( surveys)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote‘ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: The entirely lovely Nurse Myra! Huzzah and hurrah!

So do not delay, dear readers…his lordship awaits your instruction! Make him do your bidding!

And also: a very happy Thanksgiving Day to all of Lord Likely’s loyal American readers! Have a jolly good day, you all! Or something like that.

THE fog hung about the streets of London like an unwanted guest at a party, getting in everyone’s way and generally souring the mood somewhat. Unlike an unwanted guest at a party, however, the fog was considerably harder to eject, being as it was a formless cloud of minute water droplets.

“Blasted fog!” snapped a rather irritated gentle-man as he fumbled his way through Nubstraddle Road and onto Bilgecranny Lane. “Bugger it, where the hell am I now?”

As the fellow peered through the fog around him in an attempt to gain his bearings, a small voice suddenly piped up behind him.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?”

The man turned around and strained his eyes through the murky darkness, until he picked out the small figure of a scruffily dressed urchin a few feet away.

“What, boy?” the man asked angrily.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?” the child repeated.

“What? Why on earth would I want my shoes shined at this time of night, in this sort of weather? I can barely see the road before me, let alone behold the cleanliness of my shoes, you blasted wretch!”

There was a pause, and then, rather innevitably, the question was repeated.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?”

“No, I said! No! Bugger off with you, lad!” cried the increasingly irate gent. “Confound it! I shall never find my way home at this rate…” the man continued, turning his back on the boy and moving off in the direction he had come. But, no sooner had he taken a few short steps, then he suddenly found himself confronted by the the boy once more, his pale, grey face raised up.

“Shine yer shoes, guv?”

“READ ALL ABOUT IT! GENTLEMAN’S SHOES STOLEN! REEEAAAD ALL ABAAAHHHHT IT!”

That was the cacophonous racket which assaulted my delicate ears as I stepped out of my carriage and onto the filth-caked streets of London Town. Really, it was enough to make a man wish he could vomit into his own earholes.

I strode up to the newspaper vendor responsible for the noise, and snatched a copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News from his hand.

“Will you keep that bloody noise down, you disgusting oaf! I am feeling rather fragile to-day, on account of my terrible, terrible hang-over. It feels like a herd of wilderbeast are stampeding through my head, and then having sex with each other,” I said.

“Well, excuse me sir, but people must hear the news!” the vendor replied.

“I am sure people are more than capable of reading the newspapers for themselves, without you screaming the headlines at them,” I parried.

“Don’t be too sure, sir,” the cockney continued. “In this increasingly busy and industrious time we live in, people are finding themselves with less time to peruse the newspapers. While I do not disagree that print is still very much a valid medium for dispensing such information, I firmly believe that new delivery methods will be developed as we find ourselves with further constraints upon our time. You mark my words, sir, one day there shall be people like me in every street, ‘ollering the news at people for their own convenience.”

What a curiously eloquent and forward-thinking newspaper-vendor, I thought to myself. But while those were indeed my thoughts, what I actually said was: “Oh shut up, you fanny.”

“Milord!” said my useless man-servant Botter, who had followed me out of the carriage and who had then picked up a copy of the newspaper for himself. “Isn’t this the very mystery we’ve been called to investiage?”

Botter held up the newspaper and pointed at the shoe-theft story about which the newspaper vendor had been yelling. While I desperately wanted to chide Botter for being woefully incorrect and inept, the bastard was actually completely spot-on. I had, just an hour previously, received an urgent communication from Inspector Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, asking me to help him investigate the theft of a gentleman’s shoes. While I initially dismissed such a case as far beneath my considerable talents, a twenty pound fee and the promise of free whisky had soon won me over. As well as an overwhelming urge to see justice prevail, of course.

“Yes, I do believe it is, Botter,” I concurred, reading the news article. “You little shit,” I added, not wanting to miss an opportunity to ridicule Botter anyway.

“Well, shall we move on to Bilgecranny Lane, then milord?” Botter asked.

“I suppose so,” I mumbled, surveying the area. I immediately noticed a small baker’s shop on the other side of the road, which belonged to the tantalisingly-named Mrs. Bapps, and which made the incredibly erotic promise of ‘hot buns‘ on a poster in the shop’s window. Food would be good, I thought. And maybe some intercourse, too.

Further down the street, there was a public house called The Rutting Stag, which also appealed. There really is nothing like chasing away the ill-efects of an all-night drinking session than by drinking more alcohol the following morning. And maybe some intercourse, too.

Both these establishments sounded much more alluring than the prospect of hunting for some misplaced footwear, and I found myself rather torn between them.

Oh, what is a lord to do?

– Lord Likely.

Vote Now!

What Is A Lord To Do?
( polls)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote‘ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

So do not delay, dear readers…his lordship awaits your instruction! Make him do your bidding!