1st of May, 1851.

As Mr. Harry Flashman and I dashed off to find my missing man-servant, I took the time to explain precisely how my stinking servant had become an integral part of our latest mystery, the disappearance of the Koh-i-Noor Diamond.

“Here is what I believe occurred,” I said as we pelted along the corridors of the Crystal Palace, doing our best to make our way through the teeming masses who had come to witness the Great Exhibition. “This fellow – the Queen’s aide – was placed in charge of the Koh-i-Noor Diamond, and its display here at the exhibition. This was to prove to be a terrible mistake on behalf of Her Majesty, for this wretch had desires upon the diamond. He wanted it badly for himself, and would do anything to get it. Oh, how he must have counted his lucky stars when the gem was placed in his care. He was in the perfect position to – GET OUT OF THE WAY, YOU FAT SOW,” I roared as a portly woman made herself an unwitting obstacle in our path. “He was in the perfect position to swipe the diamond. However he needed a plan, for he could not just take the diamond and run, that would be too obvious.”

“Aye, he’d be the prime suspect if that stone disappeared,” concurred Mr. Flashman.

“Correct. So he took the diamond away, claiming he was going to get it cleaned up for the exhibition,” I continued.

“Like that lady with the lovely tits told us!” Mr. Flashman cried.

“Indeed. However, this rogue did not take the Koh-i-Noor Diamond to be cleaned. He took it and – WIIL YOU GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!” I yelled to a dopey chap who was standing in our way. “No, this fellow took the gem to one of the stands selling various cheap nick-nacks, and switched it with a large crystal, taken from the body of one of those awful crystal pigs, while manipulating the diamond to make it resemble one of those porcine trinkets. I suspect the Queen’s aide had planned to return to the same stand later that day, purchase the pig which now had the diamond as its body, and make his exit. It was a cunning and ingenious plan, but with one fatal flaw.”

“Your man Botter bought the pig with the diamond in it!” exclaimed Flashman.

“Spot on, my fellow. That is why this awful arse-nugget of a man has been pursuing us. He aims to retrieve the diamond pig from my man-servant, and I fear he will not stop at anything to do so. WILL YOU MOVE YOUR STINKING CARCASS, YOU TEDIOUS LITTLE PRICK!” I bellowed as another idiotic prole blocked our path.

We continued on in silence, weaving our way through the buzzing crowds, until I stopped abruptly almost causing Mr. Flashman to become rather intimate with my posterior. I sniffed the air.

“What is it?” said Flashman, as I continued to sniff loudly.

“Do you smell that, sir? That smell of faeces and god-awful body-odour?”

“Eurgh,” Flashman recoiled. “Aye, I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“That’s Botter. He’s near.” I sniffed some more. “I think he is down this way,” I said, indicating to a small door to the right of us. “Come, let us hurry!”

We burst through the door and found ourselves in a dimly-lit store-room, where various artifacts due for display were being kept. And there, sat on a chair in the centre of this room, was Botter, forlornly stroking his wretched crystal pig.

“Botter, you cretinous cock-shaft!” I barked. “Why must you insist on running off like this? I swear, I shall have to put a ruddy great bell around your neck in the future…”

“Um, your lordship,” said Flashman, tapping me on the shoulder.

“What? Can’t you see I admonishing my man-servant? I do so hate…oh. Shit.”

There, lurking in the shadows behind us, was the Queen’s aide, pointing a pistol right at us.

“Welcome, gentlemen. You are…” the cad consulted his pocket-watch. “Yes, you are right on time for having your brains shot out of the back of your head.”

“How very fortuitous,” I muttered. “Truly, we are blessed, Mr?…”

“Mr. Reginald Spankswood, at your service. But you probably know me better as…The Brown Mist!”

Flashman and I exchanged puzzled looks, then collapsed into fits of laughter.

“SILENCE!” screamed the fellon. “Show some respect for The Brown Mist!”

“I…I cannot say I am familiar with the name, Mr. Mist,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “But you may want to consider changing it, for it is quite blatantly ridiculous, and quite shit-awful.”

“Shut up. SHUT UP!” screamed The Brown Mist, waving his pistol about frantically. “Soon, you shall all tremble before the fearsome might of The Brown Mist!”

More helpless laughter erupted from Flashman and I, as The Brown Mist became more and more frustrated.

“SILENCE! I am a notorious diamond thief, you know! You are in the presence of criminal nobility!”

“Oh really?” said Flashman, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “And how many diamonds have you stolen, Mr. Brown Mist?”

“Well,” said The Brown Mist, scuffing his shoes against the ground. “The Koh-i-Noor Diamond will be my first, admittedly…but oh!” he suddenly brightened, a mad glint in his eye. “Oh! What a first! Taking this valuable gem from right under the Queen’s nose! I shall become a legend in my own lifetime! Soon, The Brown Mist will be on everybody’s lips!“

Upon hearing that ludicrous statement, Mr. Flashman and I burst into further uncontrollable gales of laughter.

“Shut up! Both of you! SHUT UP!” screeched The Brown Mist. “I will shoot you both, you know! With my gun! So shut the HELL up, and drop your weapons!”

Flashman quickly tossed his own pistol over to the Mist, and then thrust his hands in the air.

“What in the name of the Sodomites are you doing?” I hissed. “This man is clearly a buffoon, and probably does not even know how to handle a ruddy gun!”

The subsequent shot from The Brown Mist’s pistol, and the bullet hitting my right arm, soon put paid to that theory, however.

“YOU BASTARD!” I roared as my arm began to seep my noble claret. “You absolute dick-rag! Christ! That is my masturbating arm, as well. Fuck it!“

“Now maybe you shall take me more seriously,” The Brown Mist said, training his pistol on me. “I will have this diamond, and you will not stop me. You!” He nodded towards Mr. Flashman. “Get the diamond off of that filthy creature.”

“Certainly,” said Flashman, strolling over to Botter and wrenching the diamond pig from my man-servant’s firm grasp.

“Glyn!” cried Botter, reaching out for his pretend pet.

“You know, you would not believe the trouble the Koh-i-Noor Diamond has caused me.” Flashman continued, ignoring my man-servant’s pathetic pleadings. “You would not believe what I had to go through just to get it here in the first place¹. But if you want it, Mr. Mist, then I suppose I have no option to give it to you.”

With that, Flashman spun round and launched the diamond with tremendous ferocity at The Brown Mist. Before he could react, the Mist found the gem embedded firmly in his forehead.

“Oh. Oh bollocks.” said The Mist. ” The Brown Mist…is…defeated!” Then the rapscallion fell to the floor, utterly dead.

“Marvellous work, Mr. Flashman!” I said as I attempted to staunch the flow of blood from my arm. “For a moment there, I was worried that my assessment of you as a no-good coward was spot-on.”

“Never!” beamed Flashman.

His lordship may be seen to the right of this picture, waving his hat in the air. Mr. Harry Flashman is stood behind him.

“You two have done me a great service to-day,” said Queen Victoria, as Mr. Flashman and I were presented to her in the main hall of the Crystal Palace. “You have spared me a great deal of embarrassment, and guaranteed that the Koh-i-Noor Diamond shall forever more be in my collection. I shall see to it that you are both amply rewarded. Anything you desire, speak of it now, and I shall see to it that it is bestowed upon you.”

I desperately wanted to say that I would very much like to ejaculate upon her heaving breasts, but I somehow managed to restrain myself, and instead I said: “Not at all, Your Majesty. The greatest reward is the appreciation of a grateful Monarch, and her glorious Empire.”

The Queen smiled. “Very good, Lord Likely. You are a true gentle-man, and a true hero of the Empire. Thank you both for your fearless dedication to your sovereign, and long may you continue.”

Her Majesty turned to Prince Albert, who had also arrived upon the scene, and together they made their way out from the exhibition, to hearty cheers from the assembled crowd.

“God Save the Queen!” I roared, joining in the chorused cries of celebration. “And God Save Her Magnificent Knockers!”

“Why did you have to go and say all that rot about not needing a reward, you old coot?” hissed Flashman, angrily elbowing me in the ribs. “We could have been set up for life!”

“Well, I did get to catch the briefest of glimpses at her considerable cleavage,” I replied as I watched the royal couple depart from the hall. “And that is an image I shall carry with me always, and which I shall contemplate at great length later on. Just as soon as my arm as healed.”

Flashman grinned and slapped me on the back heartily.

“What say we go for a drink?” he said. “I’m sure you would appreciate a stiff one.”

“You know me too well,” I nodded.

So, there you have it, dear reader. A tale of daring-do, diamonds and desire. I cannot quite recall what happened after we went to the local ale-house, as we both got completely and utterly pissed-up. I recall learning that Mr. Flashman was arrested later that night for drunk and disorderly conduct, while I wound up being fellated by the three ravishing Indian beauties I had met earlier that day.

I never saw Mr. Flashman again, but I hear talk that he is currently back in India himself, getting embroiled in the mutiny in that country². I am sure it will all blow over soon, however.

Botter, meanwhile, is still mourning the loss of his beloved crystal pig. I try to keep his mind of it by keeping him busy about the mansion, and by thrashing him once every hour.

The Koh-i-Noor Diamond remained one of the highlights of the Great Exhibition, and afterwards Prince Albert ordered that the gem be recut. Probably to get rid of some of the dried blood from its time spent crammed in The Brown Mist’s forehead.

Speaking of the brown mist, I must excuse myself now. I really do need a shit something chronic.

– Lord Likely.

Those of you who have not masturbated so regularly so as to diminish your eye-sight completely, will have noticed that there have been a few aesthetic changes around here, as well as the introduction of an astonishing new About Page. Please do take a moment to admire the fresh decor, and do let us know what you think. As long as your thoughts are firmly in the positive, that is.

The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely has been the recipient of a rather nice review from Manic’s Tasty Bites of the Day. Despite not awarding his lordship the perfect ten he so richly deserves, it is nonetheless a fair and honest review. Many thanks indeed!

There is a sexual position well-practiced among a small tribe in deepest, darkest Africa, called ‘The Flaming Blow-Pipe‘. Not much is known about the position, except for one very important thing: out of those who practice it, only a handful survive to live to tell the tale. And even then, those poor damned fools are left either permanently crippled, or psychologically scarred, for the rest of their natural-born life. Not for nothing is The Flaming Blow-Pipe known as the most dangerous sexual position in the entire world.

Despite this, I was more than wiling to attempt this most perilous of positions with the Indian beauty I had shacked up with at the Great Exhibition, but just as I was getting ready to roughly enter the girl’s crystal palace, Mr. Harry Flashman appeared, looking decidedly out-of-breath.

“Ah, yer lordship!” exclaimed the rogue as he beheld my bare buttocks. “I…I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“Confound it, you scurrilous simpleton!” I snapped. “This is the second time you have precluded me from getting my noble nob-end away to-day! I must say it is a habit of which I am tiring rather rapidly.”

“Well, you can carry on, if you like,” Flashman replied. “I certainly ain’t going to stop you!”

“Gah! It’s no good now,” I snapped, hauling my trousers back up. “You have ruined the mood. I was trying to build up some tension, you know. Some suspense. I was going to try…The Flaming Blow-Pipe on this delectable damsel.”

“The Flaming Blow-Pipe?” Flashman repeated. “That old move, eh? It’s really not as big a deal as they like to make out, you know. I’ve done it before. I think I chipped a tooth, but really nothing more serious than that…”

How I wanted this cock-sure cretin to suddenly spontaneously combust. But, alas, no such event occurred, and so I had to endure the cad’s company for a while longer yet.

“Well, what in the name of Adonis’ gaping anus are you doing here?” I muttered. “Why are you not under arrest? I saw you being pursued by police-officers moments ago – you looked like you were destined for a stint in a cell once more, last I noticed.”

“Well, that’s the queerest thing,” Flashman said. “The ol’ rozzers caught up with me an’ all, but as they were getting ready to cart me off to chokey, that old, thin buzzard-like fellow comes out and tells ’em to let me go. He goes on about how I’m ‘not the one he wants’ and that these poor old flat-foots should be chasing ‘the small, scruffy chap’…damned if I could figure out what the hell he was on about.”

“‘Small, scruffy chap?‘” I mused. “I don’t suppose he was referring to your rather pathetic todger, was he?”

Flashman swiftly held up two defiant fingers in a terribly rude gesture at my good self, as I tried to piece together the pieces of this mystery. I knew that the ‘old buzzard’ who worked for the Queen was involved in the Koh-i-Noor Diamond‘s disappearance somehow, but what had he done with the damn gem? And why was he so intent on getting hold of this ‘small, scruffy chap’? And where in the name of blue blazes was my interminably wretched man-servant, Botter?

Botter.

Suddenly, the pieces of this particular puzzle began to slot into place, like…well, like pieces of a puzzle, funnily enough.

“Botter!” I cried out. “This old git is after Botter!”

“Botter? Y’mean your little twit of a man-servant? What does he want with that little bleeder?”

“I’m…I’m not sure,” I answered, my mind still working furiously to get that last little piece slotted into my imaginary jigsaw. “What has that cocking arse-pump done now? Why has he caught the attentions of this ruddy man? Blast it all! We shall have to track Botter down. As much as I hate to admit it, my soap-dodging man-servant may be vital to this entire case. Good heavens, I never imagined he would ever amount to any real importance, no matter how fleeting. Mr. Flashman, where did you last see Botter? Any ideas?”

Flashman shrugged his shoulders absently, as he became transfixed by the half-naked form of the Indian woman I had been so close to penetrating moments beforehand. She was still lying on the floor; her fine, firm breasts fully exposed to the lecherous eyes of Mr. Flashman, who was eyeing her up as one might see a dog eyeing up a particularly tasty bone. A tasty bone with breasts. I coughed loudly.

“Oh! What?” burbled Flashman as he snapped out of his tit-induced trance.

“Botter.” I said firmly. “Where did you see Botter last, Mr. Flashman?”

“I…I can’t rightly say. I don’t think I’ve clapped eyes on the devil since you hurled him through that window earlier, when he was sobbing like a school-boy because that stupid pig-thing of his had gotten damaged…”

I smiled. It always made me chuckle to dwell upon any misfortunes that befell my servant. As I guffawed at Botter’s earlier mishap, however, that final piece of that infernal imaginary jigsaw puzzle suddenly slotted into place. And it made a picture of that ruddy crystal pig.

“The crystal pig!” I exclaimed, grabbing Flashman by the shoulders. “That ruddy, cocking crystal pig! OF COURSE!”

“What?” Flashman asked. “What about it?”

“I shall explain on the way. But we must hurry and find that ball-bag, Botter. I fear he has unwittingly become embroiled in a diamond heist, and could well wind up completely dead in a matter of minutes. Ordinarily I wouldn’t give a tinker’s toss, but good help is extraordinarily hard to find these days. Come on!”

I pelted off down the corridors of the Crystal Palace, but was only a few feet away when I noticed I was travelling alone. I looked back the way I had come, and saw Flashman taking the time to ogle the young lady’s (admittedly spectacular) breasts once more. I sighed, and traipsed back down to my errant companion.

“Excuse me, my dear,” I said, as I pulled Flashman away from the girl. “I mean no offence to either you or your magnificent mammaries, but we really must be getting along. Keep them warmed up for us, though, m’dear. I dare say we shall be back later.”

With that I tipped my hat, and dragged the reluctant Flashman away.

“I’ll tell you something, yer lordship,” Flashman said as we dashed off to find Botter. “This had better be more impressive than those tits, or I’m going to be really angry.”

“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”

– Lord Likely.

Those of you who have not masturbated so regularly so as to diminish your eye-sight completely, will have noticed that there have been a few aesthetic changes around here, as well as the introduction of an astonishing new About Page. Please do take a moment to admire the fresh decor, and do let us know what you think. As long as your thoughts are firmly in the positive, that is.

Many thanks to the eminently-pumpable Claire for promoting his lordship’s short moving picture on her very own web-log. Likewise, we would also like to express our gratitude to Lord Andrew of Goulding for not only sharing his lordship’s cinematic masterpiece with the world on his own web-page, but for also publishing some excellent pictures of a guitar that looks like a cock. Good work you two, and many thanks indeed.

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Mr. Harry Flashman and I picked Botter up off the floor, where he was lying, sobbing, in among hundreds of shards of broken glass; and then the three of us dashed off until we were a safe distance away from the Crystal Palace and our three pursuers.

“Bloody hell, I fear I may be getting to old for this excrement,” I puffed, as I disentangled myself form my moping man-servant, at which point I noticed that the wretched urchin had bled upon my finest suit, an act I felt to be entirely discourteous.

“Botter, you have bled all over me!” I shouted. “Look! Look at this! I shall have to get this professionally cleaned, now, you useless cock-end!” To further reiterate my great displeasure, I twatted the blubbering bastard firmly across the head with my cane.

“My God!” roared Flashman. “The little toad has gotten some of his blood on me, as well! You swine!” Flashman cried, booting Botter up the backside.

“Honestly Botter, this is the very height of bad manners, you know!” I said, sternly. “Oh, come man, do stop weeping so. Pull yourself together!”

“I…I’m sorry, milords,” Botter whimpered. “I didn’t mean you no disrespect. I’m just too preoccupied at the moment…I…I think Glyn has lost an ear!” Botter held up his tawdry crystal pig which he had purchased earlier, and which was now, indeed, missing an ear.

“Oh, will you forget about your wretched swine, you wretched swine!” I yelled. “I am extremely close to shoving that stupid pig so far up your arse you shall be shitting crystals for a month.”

“Sorry, milord,” Botter murmured, cradling the pig in his arms mournfully.

“So what do we do now, yer lordship?” Flashman inquired. “We can’t show our faces back in the palace again, or else we’ll be tossed in jail.”

“Please, do refrain from putting the words ‘tossed’ and ‘jail’ in quite such close proximity,” I replied, peeking around the corner of the building behind which we had taken refuge. I could plainly see the entrance to the Crystal Palace, now guarded by four rather burly-looking police-men. I pondered upon our predicament awhile, until an idea popped up in my magnificent brain.

“Mr. Flashman,” I said, turning to the captain. “How good are you at play-acting?”

“GOD BLESH THE QUEEEEN, SHE LIKES TO KEEP ‘EM KEEN!
SHE ONLY DOES IT ONCE A YEEEEAR,
AN’ SHHHE TAKESH IT UP THE REEEEEAR!”

This was the awfully ribald singing of Mr. Flashman, as he sauntered up to the entrance of the Crystal Palace, pretending to be completely under the influence of alcohol. While I could not condone his terribly disrespectful lyrics, I did watch his act, whilst safely secluded behind a nearby hedge, with much admiration. The fellow staggered about convincingly, swinging his arms around wildly in a show so believable I almost forget he was pretending. Clearly, Mr. Flashman had some quite considerable experience at adopting a guise.

The act succeeded in completely fooling the police-men, who pounced upon Mr. Flashman with some gusto, demanding he be silent. A tussle ensued as Mr. Flashman tried to resist arrest, at which point I snuck back into the palace while the officers were otherwise preoccupied.

Once back inside, my first point of call was to re-examine the crime-scene, to see if I could find any clues as to who stole the Koh-i-Noor Diamond. I examined the display, where the fake diamond was still on show, but could not find so much as a hint regarding this new mystery. I sighed. This was turning out to be a very long and exhausting day.

“Can I help you, sir?” spoke a female voice. I looked up from my investigations to be greeted with the beautiful sight of a gorgeous Indian woman, one of the three beauties who had eluded my grasp earlier that day. I went stiff with delight.

“I am quite certain you can, my dear,” I smiled. “I take it you are with the Indian contingent here at the exhibition to-day?”

“That is correct, sir,” the lady said, nodding gently. “I have come here with my husband, who has helped to set up the display for the diamond.”

“I see, I see,” I said, trying to look thoughtful but in truth my thoughts were elsewhere – in particular they were busily contemplating the woman’s heaving bosom. “So, ahem, you have been here all day, have you?”

“Yes, sir,” the woman smiled, her ruby-red lips parting softly as she did so.

“I see, I see,” I said, while my mind decided to consider the woman’s exquisite curves. “Did you perchance witness anything unusual; say this morning, before the exhibition opened its doors?”

The woman looked furtively about, and then leaned in closer and whispered to me in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

“I did see something a bit unusual, yes!” she hissed, as I took in her intoxicating scent and inviting cleavage.

“What tit…what was it?” I stammered.

“I dare not say, sir, for it is not my place to spread such rumours!”

“Nonsense! You can tell me! I shall make it worth your while…”

The woman seemed to perk up at this. “Really?”

“Really. I trust you are acquainted with the Kama Sutra?…” I grinned mischievously.

“So, what was this unusual event which you bore witness to earlier then, my dear?” I asked again, minutes later.

“Mmmmfffggh, ggggrrffffghh, mmmggggrrrhh,” came the muffled reply, as the Indian beauty busily tended to my tumescent todger with her mouth.

“Honestly, my dear, has no-one ever told you that talking with your mouthful is a most disgusting habit?” I asked.

“Sorry, sir,” the lady replied, withdrawing my Lord Palmerston from within her mouth.

“Luckily for you, I do not hold truck with such antiquated notions of etiquette. Please, proceed.”

I felt those soft, sensuous lips wrap around the end of my mighty member once more, and my eyeballs rolled upwards to the heavens.

“My word, that really is first-rate fellatio, you know. So, as you were saying, my dear?…”

“Mmmmnggggh mmmmrrrggggn, rrr hhhhw rrrt wwwrnnn hhhhrrrvvvvn rrrrn rrrr rrrrmnrr“, the filly continued as she nosily slurped upon my manhood.

“You saw a man hovering around the diamond exhibit?” I repeated, proving to be rather adroit at deciphering the muffled attempts at conversation. “And pray tell, who was this cad?”

“I hnnk rrt wsss rrrrt rrrrntlrrrn rrr rrrrks hrrr rrrr mmmmrrrggggssste,” the lady replied.

“That fellow who works for Her Majesty?” I said. “Do you mean that cad who looks like a rather unpleasant crow? The bounder who has been trying to arrest me all day?”

“Rrrs.“

“Well, he was probably just checking over the display, to make sure it was all ship-shape for Her Majesty to visit,” I reasoned.

“Rrrs, rrrrt mmmg rrrskd rrrrrf he cuud mayyyyk rrrr rrrryyymmnn orrrrf phrrrr crrrrngn. RRRRT mmmms grrrrrn fffrrrrr arrrn hurrrr.“

“Well, bugger me!” I said. “That’s not an instruction, by the way, madam. You carry on with what you’re doing. He took the diamond off to be cleaned, you say? And it was gone for an hour? That is most interesting, most interesting indeed! Thank you my dear!” I added, as I finally shot my lordly load into the back of the female’s throat. “I think you may well have set me on the trail of the culprit. I am much obliged to you!”

“My pleasure, sir,” said the delightful creature, as she daintily dabbed at her chin with a handkerchief.

“No, no, the pleasure was all mine,” I winked, doffing my hat. “Now, if you shall excuse me, I must away, for I must apprehend this scandalous cur!”

“Are you sure there shall be nothing more?” the Indian beauty asked. I stopped and turned around, stroking my magnificent moustache.

“Well, I should like to offer you a very generous tip,” I beamed, “but you have already had one firmly lodged between your lips.”

The woman smiled weakly, but was clearly crestfallen. I could not blame her, really. A mere taste of my wondrous self is never really enough, after all.

“Well,” I said, removing my coat. “It would be rude not to explore the rest of the Kama Sutra together, would it not? Besides which, I have a few additions to that fine tome I have been meaning to try out. Have you ever tried the Slippery Eel, or the Harlot’s Spinning Top, I wonder?…”

– 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:

Which is your preferred sexual position? The Lewd Butler? The Saucy Raincoat? The Australian Sheep-Dip? Share your preference with his lordship, in the comments section below.

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“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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With nothing but revenge filling my heart and my thoughts, I marched on after Mr. Harry Flashman, and the three Indian beauties he had just swiped from under my noble nose. I fully intended to show the swaggering cock-end exactly what happens to the man foolish enough to interfere with my amourous advances. To this end, my man-servant Botter had swiped a large, heavy golden statuette of Buddha from a nearby display, with which I hoped to further illustrate my misgivings with Mr. Flashman, in no uncertain terms.

Botter and I rounded the corner and saw Flashman strolling along, his arms draped across the three Indian girls as if he owned them. The group were chatting loudly, with Flashman cracking jokes in their native tongue and laughing uproariously, punctuating every guffaw by slapping one of the girls firmly across the buttocks. This raucous, coarse display made my blood boil further, and so I angrily stalked up to the fat-headed swine and firmly grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Oh! Yer lordship,” Flashman beamed as he turned to face me. “I trust you have come to graciously admit defeat at the hands of far superior competition?”

“You cunt,” I snapped, my usual gracious verbosity abandoning me in the heat of the moment. “You utter, utter cunt.”

Flashman seemed rather taken aback by my outburst, but before he could respond in kind, I took the statuette of Buddha from Botter, and with it I smashed the smug-faced poltroon across the head. Flashman fell to the floor, dazed and confused, blood trickling from his nose.

“What goes around comes around, you know,” I quipped, tossing the bloodied figurine back to my man-servant. “Let that be a lesson to you, Mr. Flashman. Never, ever meddle in the affairs of the heart, or indeed, the penis.”

“Bastard!” roared Flashman, wiping the blood from his nose. Then he lunged towards me, and together we fell noisily into a nearby stall displaying very fine Indian vases. Precisely the sort of vases that I thought would sit splendidly upon the mantle of my living room.

As bone-china and porcelain shattered around us, we furiously exchanged punches and kicks to each other’s torsos and faces. At one point, Flashman grabbed a miraculously unscathed vase from the stand, and held it above his head, ready to bring it down with great force upon my noble noggin.

“STOP!” I yelled, holding out a hand.

“What now?” sighed Flashman.

“I implore you, don’t break that vase. I have one just like that at home, and they would make for a beautiful pair indeed.”

“Yer having me on,” said Flashman.

“No, really, I do. Here,” I said, picking up an incredibly dull-looking vase from the table-top. “Use this one. This one is simply awful. Lifeless and unimaginative, don’t you think? I wouldn’t dignify it by pissing into it, to be frank.”

I handed the vile vase to Flashman, who looked at me with an expression of great bemusement. He shrugged his shoulders and swapped the vases around, and then he bought the drably designed artifact crashing down upon my head. Fortuitously, my top hat absorbed most of the damage, although I was momentarily stunned.

“Thank you madam,” I burbled.

As I tried to regain my composure, Flashman took to his heels and fled, but did not get very far before I snapped to my senses and made after him. The cad suddenly came to a stop, however, and then with a grin he firmly yanked the rug from beneath my feet, sending me hurtling backwards onto a counter showcasing some exquisitely crafted silken scarves. I made a mental note to come back and purchase some of these delightful items later on, as I felt they would compliment my wardrobe most satisfactorily indeed, but I did not get to admire the apparel for much longer before Botter alerted me to the fact that my rival was preparing for another attack.

Surely enough, Mr. Flashman was raiding another stall where various items of armoury and weaponry were being displayed. He ran his fingers over the various weapons, before triumphantly holding up a small, metal quoit. I made it clear that I was not really feeling up to a game of quoits at this precise moment, but it quickly became apparent that sport was the furthest thing from Flashman’s mind, as he hurled the disc towards me. I flung myself behind the counter as the quoit thudded into the desk, causing irreparable damage to one particularly exquisitely embroidered scarf that had been carefully laid out upon it. This man is a savage, I thought to myself.

Flashman continued to chuck more of the damned discs towards me, cackling aloud as he did so. I scanned my surroundings for something to use to parry his continued attacks, when my eyes fell upon a railing up ahead. I quickly pulled it down and held it firmly in front of me, just as another quoit flew at me, and embedded itself into the railing with a satisfying thunk.

“You fight like a coward, sir,” I sneered.

“Aye,” Flashman agreed, grabbing another quoit from the table top. “But then I believe it is better to fight like a coward and live, than fight like a hero and die.”

“Pity,” I said, as I deflected a second disc with the railing. “I think you would make for an entirely adequate dead hero.” Then I ran at Flashman with my railing-come-makeshift lance, and drove it into the devil’s gut. Flashman wheezed loudly, and fell to the floor, winded.

Suddenly our exertions were halted by the sound of a police-officer’s whistle being blown in the distance. So occupied had we been with the matter of pummeling each other to a pulp, we had quite forgotten to consider the fact that there were other people around, and that some of those people were policemen who had already thrown us both in gaol once before, and would not hesitate to repeat their duty.

“Buh-buh-blasted bluebottles!” Flashman coughed.

“Time for a rather hasty exit,” I reasoned, and turned to run, but found my departure delayed by Flashman firmly gripping my ankle. “Unhand me, you bloody arse-crack!” I yelled as I tried to shake the man off of my leg.

“Y-you ain’t leaving without me, yer lordship,” Flashman spluttered. “You ain’t getting rid of ol’ Flashy that easily!”

I rolled my eyes and sighed. I desperately wanted to leave the blighter behind, and let the police toss him into a cell and leave him there to rot for all infinity. But I had no doubt in my mind that this underhand, cowardly popinjay would most assuredly inform the police of my involvement in this fracas, which would make my escape from the Crystal Palace all the more difficult. So, begrudgingly, I helped Flashman to his feet.

“Well, come on then, man,” I snapped as Flashman recovered his breath. “Let us make like the ruddy wind, unless you wish receive a truncheon up your jacksie!”

“No fear o’ that,” Flashman said. “Running away happens to be one of the very things at which I excel.”

As if to demonstrate this point, Flashman darted past me, hollering for me to follow. Botter and I exchanged disapproving looks, and then followed on.

There was little to lead either of us to suspect exactly what we were letting ourselves in for.

– Lord Likely.

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After being released from gaol by Inspector Albert Spunkleford, I made it my first point of business to put as much distance between myself and my detestable former cell-mate, Mr. Harry Flashman. I hailed a passing hansom cab, and headed back to the Crystal Palace, leaving Flash Harry to be fawned and drooled over by the awe-struck Spunkleford. Had I stayed in their company any longer, I fear I would have vomited upon them both.

I arrived back at the Great Exhibition later that afternoon. I made sure to pull my hat down over my face, lest I be discovered by any of the police officers patrolling the area, and be recognised as the bum-flashing deviant who so offended the Queen. I did not particularly relish the idea of returning to gaol so soon after my recent liberation, nor did I relish the fresh chance of any anal penetration from sex-starved prisoners. It is not that I hold any great disgust towards those fellows who partake in the love that dare not speak its name, but if someone wishes to use my elegant sphincter for such means, I would rather it was with my full consent, preferably in writing. I am not a piece of meat, you know.

I ducked and dived through the crowds, keeping an eye open for any police officers nearby. As I glanced furtively about me, I crashed into another fellow, and loudly cursed myself for not keeping both my eyes open.

“Buggeration!” I roared. “Why don’t you look where I am going, you bumbling twat-hole?”

“Oh! Hello, milord!” came the chirpy reply. It was my shambolic excuse for a man-servant, Botter, who had been notably absent during my recent travails.

“Botter! Where in the name of Napoleon’s nut-batter have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve just been enjoying the Great Exhibition, milord,” he said. “It’s really…um…uh…great! Look! I even treated myself to a little something!”

Botter unwrapped a package he was clutching, to reveal a glittering crystal pig.

“Am I to understand that while I have been holed up in gaol, listening to the wafflings of the most tiresome bore known to history, and all the time fearing for my anal safety, you have been out shopping for trinkets?”

“It’s…it’s a very shiny pig though, milord,” Botter replied.

“I don’t care if it is fashioned from the brightest star in the cosmos, Botter. You should have been at my side. Or at the very least my backside, fending off unwanted advances.”

“I…I’m sorry, milord,” Botter apologised.

“I mean look at this, Botter,” I scoffed, grabbing his porcine purchase and holding it up to the light. “It is just cheap tat, you know. Someone surely saw you coming.”

“Hey! Don’t be mean about Glyn!” Yelped Botter, snatching his crystal pig back and clutching him to his chest like a child with a teddy bear.

“Glyn?” I repeated. “Who on earth is Glyn?”

“The pig,” Botter explained. “I…I call him Glyn. Glyn the Glinting Pig.”

“I see. You are quite clearly demented, Botter. Now come along, and stick with me this time. If there is a repeat of your earlier performance, then you will find yourself enjoying a meal of crystal sausages before the day is out, mark my words.”

Botter nodded, and so we headed off to explore the rest of the exhibition; Botter, myself, and Glyn the Glinting Pig.

There was no doubt that the exhibition was a triumph; the place was adorned with fine art, beautiful furnishings, stunning jewels and astonishing feats of engineering drawn from all four corners of the globe. What it did lack, however, were any ladies worthy of my aristocratic attentions. As the exhibition was open to all, the palace was heaving with wretched commoners, with their wonky teeth, bad hair and grating voices. Whenever one of these paupers addressed me, it sounded like someone was slowly drawing their nails across a black-board. Whilst screaming into a bin, and shitting through a funnel. It made me feel quite nauseous, I can tell you.

However, my prospects picked up considerably when we chanced upon the display from India. Among their fine fabrics, sculptures and works of art were three stunningly attractive Indian ladies, each more divine than the last.

“I must say, you three lovely ladies are surely the finest exhibits here today,” I said as I tipped my hat in greeting. “I wonder if I could see what else you have to display before me?”

The ladies giggled softly behind their silk veils, their gorgeous dark eyes glinting with endless promise.

“Sir, you are most forward,” said one of them, in a beautiful sing-song cadence that only served to make me want to pump her harder than before. “I always thought you British gentleman were supposed to be more reserved!”

“The only reservation I have right now is that I was not born with three penises.”

More giggling. My charm offensive (or offensive charm, depending on how you look at it) was working a treat, and I felt that this conversation was heading to its inevitable, sweaty climax. I straightened my tie, and continued with my attack.

“You know, ladies, I had been hoping to purchase an Indian rug here today…”

“Ha! I cannot believe you seriously expect that old ‘Indian rug’ line to work, your lordship! I had hoped you might be more sophisticated than that!”

I did not need to turn around to identify the source of this brusque interruption, for I had spent far too long listening to that voice lately to forget it.

“Mr. Flashman,” I said, for it was he. “What an unexpected and distinctly undesired surprise.”

“Please, call me Flashy,” the rogue beamed.

“I would rather have my tongue pecked out by hens,” I rejoined curtly.

“Suit yourself. Whatever floats your boat, you know,” Flashman said, as he eyed up the three Indian girls. “You know, for a miserable old duffer, you have a pretty good choice in women, I’ll give you that.”

“I ought to cut your balls right off, right this instance!” I spluttered, enraged by the uncouth swine’s remarks. Flashman, however, was not paying any heed to my threats, and was busily introducing himself to the ladies in question. Furthermore, to rub metaphorical salt into the equally metaphorical wound, he was doing so in their native tongue.

“You speak our language!” cooed one of the women, evidently highly impressed.

“Aye, indeed I do,” Flashman beamed. “I have a gift for languages, you see. It is just a natural skill I am blessed with. If you’d like, girls, I’d be happy to demonstrate a few more of my natural skills in the bedroom, if you know what I mean.”

The girls giggled again, and chattered excitedly between themselves.

“We’d be very happy for you to do us that honour,” said one of the ladies, to my horror.

“Excellent!” Flashman grinned, putting his arms around the ladies, and strolling off. As he walked away, he turned to me and winked, then laughed out loud.

I watched the bounder depart, every fibre of my being filling with rage and an unquenchable fury.

“Botter,” I muttered. “Grab something big, heavy and blunt. I do believe Mr. Flashman is about to have a most terrible and unfortunate accident.”

– Lord Likely.

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Now, where the bloody hell was I?

Ah, yes.

May 1st, 1851.

“Harry who?” I asked, although to be honest my actual interest in my cell-mate was extremely minimal.

“Harry Flashman,” repeated the fellow, “I imagine you have heard of me, of course.” He grinned with self-satisfaction and pride, characteristics I was not entirely convinced he had any right to exhibit.

“No, I cannot say I have,” I replied nonchalantly. “Why, are you a notorious criminal, or something? No wait, I have it – are you perchance the most diseased man in the Empire?”

Flashman bristled upon hearing my words, and fixed me with a furious glare.

“I am highly celebrated and much admir’d, actually,” he said. “I am the champion of Afghanistan¹, I’ll have you know!”

“Feh!” I snorted. “You do not strike me as a military marvel. I dare say you earnt your honour by simply staying alive the longest, probably by spending most of the war hiding and trembling.”

“Ha! I do not expect you to understand, your lordship. I suppose you were too busy lounging around on your fat, ennobled behind during the war to pay it much heed.”

“Now listen here,” I snapped. “I was very ill at the time and – “

“Whatever you say, your lordship,” beamed Flashman. “Whatever you say. I was honoured by the Queen for my dashing heroics.”

“Well, I have solved countless mysteries and crimes for the police.”

“I got a medal.”

“I have a title.”

“I recovered a priceless gem².”

“I shot a Turk.”

“I bested Bismarck³.”

“I beat my man-servant.”

“I dined at the palace.”

“I HAVE A HUGE COCK!” I roared triumphantly, at which point I noticed some of the other prisoners had taken rather a keen interest in the conversation, and were eying me up as if I was a three-course meal, with all the trimmings.

“Well,” I said, straightening my tie, “if you really are such a treasured and revered member of society, then what in the bloody blue blazes are you doing here? I doubt they arrested you for being too wonderful.”

“Well, if you must know, I was arrested for having sex.”

“Correct me if I am mistaken, but I do not believe that intercourse has been outlawed yet.”

“No, but then again I was having sex in the middle of Hyde Park.”

“Ah!”

“With the police captain’s wife.”

“Oh.”

“So what’s your story, your lordship? How does a member of the aristocracy wind up in a small cell with deviants like me?”

“I accidentally bared my buttocks at the Queen,” I said sullenly, as I recalled the horror that had befallen me earlier. “She was not amused.”

“Ha! My, that is rich! She is a frumpy, miserable old sow, isn’t she? I can’t think ol’ Albert is delivering the goods in the sack, else she’d always be smiling.”

“Now listen here,” I snapped, lunging at Flashman and pinning him against the wall. “You show some ruddy respect for Her Majesty, or God help me I shall smack your miserable mouth so far in, your breath shall stink of effluence for ever more.”

“Hey! I’m just trying to lighten the mood here, you know!” Flashman protested. “It’s pretty grim in here, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” I agreed, releasing Flashman’s collar from my grip. “I have to get out of here.”

“Well, here’s what I was thinking, your lordship. How about if I feign an injury or illness, you know, play-acting and all that. Then, you summon a guard to come and tend to me, and while he’s giving me the once over, you sneak up behind him and WALLOP! We’re home free!”

“Lord Likely?” said a guard, as I mused upon Flashman’s hair-brained scheme. “You’re free to go, milord. Inspector Spunkleford has guaranteed your release.”

“I think I shall go with this plan,” I said, pointing to the bars where Inspector Spunkleford had appeared, waving a piece of important-looking documentation at me. “You see, Flashman, it is simply a matter of who you know, and I know a lot of terribly important people, being so terribly important myself. Good luck with your stupid little scheme, though.”

“Likely, you ruddy fool!” Spunkleford wailed. “Can I not let you be for one moment, without you getting yourself into some sort of trouble? You have no idea how many strings I have had to pull to get you released. I should be a ruddy puppeteer.”

“Good man, Spunkleford! Remind me to buy you an ale one day. Wait, we’d better make that half an ale. We do not want to go crazy, now. Well, Mr. Flashpants,” I said, turning to my recent acquaintance. “I would like to say it has been a pleasant experience, but unfortunately it has been incredibly tedious and really rather awful. I would have rather passed the time having wasps inserted into the top of my penis, to be honest. Toodle-pip!”

“Flashman?” Spunkleford exclaimed, craning his neck through the open door. “Harry Flashman? The hero of Afghanistan?”

Flashman smiled. “The one and the same, sir!”

“Gosh, I’m a ruddy huge fan of yours, Mr. Flashman. You’re an inspiration to us all!” Spunkleford babbled, furiously shaking Flashman’s hand. He turned to the guard next to him, and barked some orders that made me quite certain the Inspector had taken leave of his senses. “Guard, I am also releasing Mr. Harry Flashman here. A man of his stature has no business in these squalid surroundings. Make the necessary arrangements at once. We’ll have you out of here in a trice, Mr. Flashman, sir!”

Flashman sauntered across, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“It appears that I must be terribly important as well,” he said smugly. “Toodle-pip.“

I felt myself grimace, and prayed to the Good Lord for another war to break out immediately, to further thin out the ranks of such vapid Neanderthals as Mr. Harry Flashman.

– Lord Likely.

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To be quite honest, the year eighteen fifty-seven has so far been rather disappointing. I’m aware that the year is still very much in its infancy, but infant or not, this year must try damned harder or it shall feel my boot in its backside.

Why, I have only gotten drunk once so far (although, admittedly, it did last for four whole days), and I’ve only had intercourse twice; once whilst deeply intoxicated, with a women so reprehensible and offensively unattractive that I prefer to just pretend the wretched union never took place at all. And to top it all, there has not even been the merest hint of a possibility of an adventure thus far. Awful.

I am so bored out of my exquisitely-sculpted skull that even thrashing my man-servant Botter only served to allay my tedium for a few, fleeting moments, before I became overcome with a terrible sense of ennui and gave up on the beating, despite Botter clearly deserving it.

However, later on in the day, whilst searching for some pornography to listlessly masturbate over, I chanced upon a collection of photographic plates taken on one of my earlier adventures, an adventure I had quite forgotten until that moment. It is not an adventure I believe I have documented in these fine journals either, so in the absence of any present action, I shall now take this opportunity to recall this previous romp.

Allow me to set the scene. It was the first of May, eighteen fifty-one, and the Great Exhibition had just been opened by Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

Ah! What an exhibition it was, thousands upon thousands of exhibits housed in the beautiful and opulent surroundings of the Crystal Palace, an incredible construct of glass and steel which amply reflected the glory of Great Britain and her Empire. It was an awe-inspiring sight, of that there was no doubt. My awe had never been so inspired.

I had been celebrating the arrival of the exhibition since early that morning, by drinking glass after glass and bottle after bottle of champagne. I believe I wound up making a toast to the grandiose display on no less than three-hundred separate occasions.

By the middle of the afternoon, I was more than a little tipsy, and had decided that it would be a jolly old wheeze to go and press my buttocks against one of the many glass panes of the Crystal Palace. Despite Botter’s avid protestations, I dropped my trousers and pressed my naked arse to the glass, whilst loudly proclaiming that my behind was the greatest exhibition of them all.

Instead of my antics attracting gales of laughter and applause, as I had imagined in my drunken mind, a deathly silence descended upon those in the vicinity, as if they had all been stricken mute simultaneously.

“What’s the ruddy matter?” I asked. “Have you not seen a bottom before?”

“Many a time,” came a reply. “But not pressed up against a palace, I must say.” I looked up to get a look at the speaker, and found myself gazing up into the eyes of the Queen herself.

“Her Majesty is not amused,” added one of the Queen’s personal assistants, a tall, thin man with an unkind face, and an even less kind tone of voice.

“I don’t suppose she is at all aroused instead?” I ventured.

She was not, and I was marched off to a nearby police-station by the stern-faced buffoon, and a couple of equally unamused and unaroused police officers.

I do not know what it is about finding oneself in a gaol cell, but it has the most unusual effect of sobering one up in a trice. I do not know if it is the foul stench of stale urine, or the fear of having one’s anus roughly penetrated by a violent criminal, but whatever the cause I found myself alarmingly clear-headed and determined to be freed from my captivity.

“EXCUSE ME!” I bellowed. “You cannot keep me caged up like this! I am far too attractive to be kept alongside other men! My sphincter will be shredded to pieces before dinner-time, you mark my words!”

“Yeah?” Sneered a guard outside the cell. “Well, jus’ make sure you keep your ‘ollering down to a minimum whilst yer bein’ buggered. Some of these folk will be tryin’ to sleep, y’know.”

“You incredulous little toss-bag!” I screeched. “Do you not know who I am? I am Lord Likely, and as a member of the British aristocracy I demand your utmost respect, and all the preferential treatment I deserve!”

“Well,” mused the awful little blighter. “I suppose I could get you some oil to make your buggerin’ a little less painful. I’d ‘ate fer anythin’ terrible to befall your exalted arse-hole!”

I tried to throttle the insolent shit through the bars of the cell, but the swine dodged my flailing limbs, and strolled off, cackling loudly to himself.

“Well well well,” came a voice from the shadows of my cell. “Look at this rum old cove, all high-and-mighty and full of himself! You should watch yourself, my lord, or else you’ll be passed around this place like a cheap cigarette!”

“Who the devil said that?” I cried out. “Stop skulking in the shadows, man, and show yourself!”

The speaker gave a heavy sigh, and then slowly rose up and stepped forward out of the darkness.

He was certainly a very handsome fellow, standing some six-foot tall, with dark brown eyes, black hair and a rather impressive black handlebar moustache adorning his face. He was dressed in smart clothes, although they were rather hap-hazard and skew-whiff, as if he had dressed in a frantic hurry or something. I dare say I was warming to the chap, until he smirked at me and began to speak.

“Harry Flashman,” he said, giving a wry smile and raising an eyebrow. “An’ don’t worry, you old blowhard, I ain’t going anywhere near your backside.”

– Lord Likely.

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