March, 1857.

Having been left a homeless wretch, caked in vomit and piss and with my natural sense of style and grace rent asunder, I was naturally more than a little displeased with those vagrant swines who had placed me in such a position.

In fact, it would not be a terrible understatement to say that I was fucking livid, and dearly wished to crack open some skulls with the nearest blunt instrument.

Talking of blunt instruments, my man-servant Botter met me at the scrap-yard residence of the blasted beggars, as I stormed in later that afternoon. My first inclination was to smash him right in his awful mouth for deserting me in my hour of need, but as he shuffled up to me I noticed he was holding my precious cane, long thought missing by my good self.

“Oh, be still my beating heart! ‘Tis truly glorious to behold you once more! I had feared I had lost you forever, old friend!” I cried out joyously.

“It’s good to see you too, milord,” Botter answered.

“I am not referring to you, you bumbling cock-shaft,” I snapped. “I am referring to my wondrous cane! Give it here at once!”

Botter meekly handed over my prized possession. “There y’are, milord. It got dropped in the tussle, earlier.”

I stroked the top of my cane lovingly (and for once, I am not referring to my penis at this point), and then thwacked Botter across the back of his head with it. Botter yelped in pain.

“Ah, good. It still thwacks properly,” I smiled. “That was for abandoning me earlier, and not coming to my immediate and prompt rescue, you tiny bastard.”

“I-I’m sorry, milord! It just happened so fast and I was trying to hide and – “

Another thwack, another yelp.

“Just be thankful that I have a score to settle with these homeless scoundrels, Botter, else you’d be receiving a full thrashing for your woeful incompetence. As it is, I am saving my full rage for these rough-sleeping rapscallions.”

“Thank you, milord. You are much too kind.”

“I know, I know. Now, where are these wretches hiding? We must go forth and…oh!” I stopped, espying an unopened bottle of beer on the floor beside me. “Hmm, there can be no harm in having a quick drink before I embark upon a vigourous bout of fisticuffs…”

I cracked open the bottle, and raised it to my lips, but before I could sample the golden goodness encased within, Botter leapt at me and knocked the bottle from my hand, sending it crashing down onto the ground, where upon it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Naturally, I punched my man-servant squarely in the face for his troubles.

“What in the name of Captain Fellatio Hornblower do you think you are doing, man?” I roared.

“The beer, milord!” Botter replied, nursing his bloodied nose. “The beer is contaminated with tramp’s piss, don’t forget!“

The stinking oaf was right, of course, but I refused to let him know as much, and simply punched him in the face again.

“That is for using the word ‘piss’ in my presence, when you could have said ‘urine’. I am a very sensitive fellow, you know.”

Botter mumbled an apology from his resting place upon the ground.

“Don’t be too hard on the poor fellow,” came a voice behind me. “There is plenty more beer where that came from, your lordship.”

I spun around to face that filthy cur, Kenneth the Hat, the erstwhile leader of the vile vagabonds. He was joined by a good thirty or so other skanks, all of whom seemed to be cradling a makeshift weapon of some sort – broken sticks, disused mops, discarded bicycle spokes and so on and so forth.

“Oh fuck, fuck and double fucking fuckity-fuck,” I whispered.

“I think the beggars are revolting,” Botter observed.

“Revolting?” I answered. “They are positively vomit-inducing.”

“Go on, your lordship,” Kenneth said, smiling a horrid, broken smile whilst offering me another beer. “Just one more for the road, eh?”

“NEVER!” I roared defiantly. “Your beer is nothing more than an errant fraud, concocted from piss and stink.”

“Heh. You’re very observant, my lord,” Kenneth chuckled. “I should imagine that at this point, you’re wondering exactly why we are making beer out of our own piss, Lord Likely. Well allow me to explain my brilliant plan to you…”

“Do not bother yourself,” I sniffed. “I think I have figured it out. You are brewing a beer so potent it renders a chap completely insensible, and with no recollection of his former life. You no doubt plan to flog this beer to everyone in the land, thus bringing the entire population of Great Britain down to your own awful, shit-stained level, blah blah blah, etcetera, etcetera. I have heard this sort of thing a thousand times over, so if you do not mind can we simply move on to the climactic skirmish, as I am an awfully busy man and I have a party still to organise..”

“Uh, milord,” Botter interjected. “About the party…you went missing for a few days, you see, and the scheduled date for your planned ball has since elapsed quite considerably, so…”

A red mist began to form before my eyes.

“Are you telling me, Botter, that these reprobates have made me MISS my own PARTY?”

“I…I’m afraid so, milord,” Botter confirmed.

I do not know precisely what happened next, as I was suddenly consumed with a rage so powerful that it controlled my every action. From what I have been able to determine from Botter’s eyewitness account, I let out a deafening roar and, cane in hand, ploughed into the amassed vagrants with considerable gusto. It would seem I became something of a blur, swiftly working my way through the rabble, sending bodies flying left and right as I battered them viciously with my cane. Skulls were indeed cracked, noses broken, limbs shattered and organs pulped as I tore through the swine like an ‘Oriental warrior’, in Botter’s own words.

Once that was over, I apparently dragged Kenneth the Hat to the warehouse-come-brewery, wherein I drowned the maleficent miscreant in a vat of his own piss.

“Rest In Piss,” I quipped, as Kenneth The Hat’s body floated lifelessly atop the urinary waters. “Well, Botter, I think I am all done now.” I said, as I returned to my usual, well-composed self. “A jolly fine day’s work, too. I say, this calls for a celebration, don’t you think? We must throw a massive party to-night, and invite all the very classiest people I know. Of course, we shall need some booze…”

I turned to Botter, only to find him running out of the warehouse at top speed, screaming at the top of his filthy lungs.

What a peculiar fellow.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something completely different.

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Now where was I?

Ah, yes. In the gutter, in a pool of my own urine, apparently homeless and with no recollection of who I really was.

In other (decidedly more succinct) words, I was in big trouble.

I elected to try and get up, and maybe take a stroll to see if there was anything about that might help refresh my memory as to my true identity. It would transpire, however, that this plan was much easier to formulate than it was to practice, as getting to my feet proved to be a task of near Herculean effort. Every bone and muscle screamed with pain, and my head began to spin wildly like an out-of-control carousel driven by a drunk.

I steadied myself against the wall behind me, and tried to regain some composure. As I did, I felt my trousers moisten, and not in a sexual way, either. I fumbled at the zipper of my trousers, and found that I was, in fact, urinating. I grappled with the gargantuan organ within my trousers, and directed it towards the wall, whilst urine gushed forth like a powerful jet of water from a (particularly large) firehouse.

As I continued to pass water, my head began to spin again, and nausea enveloped me. Before I could do anything, I found myself spewing up vast quantities of yellowy liquid.

So there I was: standing in a street, in urine-soaked trousers, with my cock out, pissing and vomiting in equal measure.

Truly, there has never been such a terribly tragic sight.

Once I had stopped peeing, and puking upon my own pee, I collapsed to the floor again, exhausted and (quite literally) drained.

Ruddy Hell, I thought to myself. Where in the name of arsery is… what’s his name when you need him?

I frowned. What’s his name? Who was this what’s his name? Did I have some sort of acquaintance with me? A friend, perhaps? Or was it a pet…I seemed to recall something small, hairy and incredibly foul-smelling following me around…

Blotter. Butter. Blister? Buttocks?

Confound it. I almost remembered something.

I sighed and closed my eyes. Maybe there was nothing else to remember. Maybe the pitiful existence with which I was currently presented was the sum total of my life. Maybe I was nothing more than a homeless shambles, a piss-stained mockery of manhood.

I felt something gently fall into my lap. I opened my eyes and blearily gazed down, to see a coin resting there, head-side up. I raised my eyes to see a smartly-dressed man smiling sympathetically at me.

“There you go, you poor blighter,” said he. “Perhaps you can afford to buy some bread now, or some such thing.”

I smiled back, and looked back down at my lap. I beheld the image of a woman’s face upon the surface, my brow knotted in deep concentration. I knew that stern, noble face. She was important.

“Sir!” I said, still slurring slightly but I was far more comprehensible than I had been earlier. “This woman, on the face of this coin. She is someone of great importance, is she not?”

“Why, I should say she is, friend!” The man beamed. “That is Queen Victoria, after all! God Save Her!”

Queen Victoria, I thought. Queen Victoria…

Suddenly, I felt that python-like appendage betwixt my legs stiffen to attention.

Queen Victoria! Yes, I knew her alright. Her Majesty gave me the raging horn, I seemed to remember. I wanted to take her, and pound her with my Lord Palmerston, thrusting away at her magisterial mimsy until…

Lord Palmerston! Yes, of course! My penis had a name! Lord Palmerston! I clawed excitedly at my zipper once more, and unfurled my mammoth member. It was fully erect and throbbing with barely-contained excitement. Clearly I was in a state of considerable arousal bought about by the thought of humping the Queen.

I looked at my penis. I looked at the coin in my other hand. This seemed familiar, I thought. I am sure I have been in this position before…

“I say, friend! What on Earth are you doing?” cried the man, looking upon the spectacle unfolding before him with shock and disgust.

“I am not yet entirely certain,” I replied. And then, for whatever reason, I began to masturbate furiously. It seemed like something I should do.

I pounded my Palmerston for a few, short, blissful minutes, ne’er once taking my eyes off of the embossed portrait of Her Majesty. The building excitement proved to be too much for any sustained act, and I soon found myself spurting forth a glorious jet of my fantastical cock-foam, narrowly missing a young couple on the other side of the street.

From that point on, everything seemed much clearer, almost as if I had spunked out any last remnants of doubt and uncertainty through this splendid act of self-abuse.

I now knew exactly who I was.

“Thank you, sir!” I bellowed, leaping to my feet and shaking the horrified man’s hand. “You have helped me to find myself once more!”

“So..who…who are you?” stuttered the flustered fellow, as I gathered up my top hat from the floor.

“I am Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action,” I replied firmly, as I placed the hat upon my noble head, showering myself with pennies in the process. “Now if you will excuse me, I must go and have a frightfully violent discussion with a bunch of homeless bastards.”

I strode off, leaving the man bewildered and confused, and with a rather sticky hand to boot.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His Lordship seeks vengeance upon the vagrants!

Presenting gaup – another quality venture from the cads responsible for these Astonishing Adventures.

Likely Bags A Blogscar! Dear Valerie Morrison, writer of the marvellous ‘Thinking Out Loud‘ web-log, has chosen to honour his lordship with this fine, shiny award:

His lordship is truly grateful, and plant to spend many hours diligently polishing his little chap to celebrate. Many thanks indeed!

As his lordship attempts to penetrate each and every nook of the inter-net, we are proud to announce the unveiling of his latest undertaking – Lord Likely’s Fanatical Followers, a brand-new fan club for Lord Likely on the ever-popular Facebook web-site. Do feel free to join up, and declare your moist lust for his lordship!

The Further Scrawlings of Mr. A.D Fanton:
Digital Sickbag | New! gaup
The Carrotty Kid
The Best Bit of the Internet (R.I.P)

Other places of interest:
The Clay Pigeon

FuelMyBlog | Blog Catalog | humor-blogs.com

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Date unknown, 1857.

I awoke with the most awful of headaches.

I am no stranger to hangovers, of course. My hedonistic lifestyle dictates that I often wake up with a fierce, pounding headache and with little or no recollection of the previous twenty-four hours. Indeed, the entire of the 1830s remain a mystery to me still, being nothing more than a decade-long hangover.

This time, however, was different. I could not recall one single damned thing, not even my name, who I was, or how I had come to be sitting in the street, in a puddle of my own piss (at least, I hoped it was mine).

And why were people throwing coins at me, for cock’s sake?

“Get a job, you filthy, degenerate swine!” yelled one portly gentleman as he passed me by.

I may have been completely clueless as to my own identity, but I was fairly certain I was not the sort of chap who tolerated that sort of slur upon my character.

Did I even have a character? I could not remember.

“Go and take an extremely lengthy constitutional off an incredibly meager pier,” I retorted to the fat fellow. At least, that is what I had tried to say. What actually emitted forth from my mouth was a lengthy, slurred cacophony of nonsense, which caused the target of my vitriol to nod sadly and stride onwards.

I mumbled something in return, then allowed my head to loll over to the side, where it remained as I tried to marshal the facts I had to hand in an attempt to fathom out precisely who I was.

I grabbed at my groin. Fact one: I was a man. Good, I thought, I am making progress.

Fact two: I was a particularly well-blessed man. Even better.

Fact three: I was on a street.

Fact four: I was –

“Mother, dearest, what on Earth is THAT?” asked a precocious young lad with a shock of blonde hair, pointing at me with clear disgust.

“Keep away, Sebastian,” replied the child’s equally pretentious mother. “That is a homeless man. Keep well away, for the homeless eat little children for dinner, you know!”

The child yelped in horror and withdrew back behind his mother, and then they both scurried past in a terrible hurry, leaving me with one, final, undeniable fact.

Fact four: I was a homeless man.

Something was distinctly amiss here, of that I was certain.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely is drunk. Very drunk INDEED.

Presenting gaup – another quality venture from the cads responsible for these Astonishing Adventures.

As his lordship attempts to penetrate each and every nook of the inter-net, we are proud to announce the unveiling of his latest undertaking – Lord Likely’s Fanatical Followers, a brand-new fan club for Lord Likely on the ever-popular Facebook web-site. Do feel free to join up, and declare your moist lust for his lordship!

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

The Further Scrawlings of Mr. A.D Fanton:
Digital Sickbag | New! gaup
The Carrotty Kid
The Best Bit of the Internet (R.I.P)

Other places of interest:
The Clay Pigeon

FuelMyBlog | Blog Catalog | humor-blogs.com

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Having pumped the incredibly freakish Jennifer, the Incredibly Freakish, and filled her with so much of my man-cream that she was nothing more than a walking, human éclair, I decided that it was high-time for a little light refreshment.

I headed back to the scrap-yard, where I found my man-servant, Botter, already getting a head-start on the boozing.

“Botter, what in the name of Her Majesty’s regal fanny do you think you are doing, man?” I snapped.

“I…I’m ‘aving a drink, milord.” Botter replied.

“And where, pray tell, is mine, hmmm?” I enquired.

“Um…I…well, you were busy, so I thought…erm…” Botter stuttered.

“You did not think, Botter. I know for a fact that you are entirely incapable of anything as taxing as thinking. Had you actually thought, then you would have remembered that you are my servant, and thus your entire purpose in your pointless, vapid existence is to serve me, and ensure my constant and continued comfort and contentment. This being the case, I would have hoped that at the very least you would have gotten me a beer, if not many. Do you understand, Botter?”

“Sorry, milord,” Botter replied, sheepishly.

“And?…” I added.

“Would…would you like my beer, milord?” Botter said, offering me the bottle he had been drinking.

“That is much more like it,” I swiped the bottle from my man-servant’s filthy mitt. “You shall only receive a mild thrashing when we get back home now.”

“Milord is much too forgiving and kind,” Botter replied.

“And sexually attractive. Do not forget that.”

“And sexually attractive,” Botter repeated.

I nodded my approval, and began to swig on the bottle of beer. Although I had gone for several hours without any alcohol of any sort passing my lordly lips, this particular brand of beer was doing little to refresh me. It was warm and slightly nutty tasting, but in the absence of any other booze I drank up the entire bottle, and tossed the empty container upon the floor.

“Hmm, I have had better,” I declared, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief. “To be honest, that was akin to drinking tramp’s piss. Still, we are in dire need of alcoholic beverages for my celebratory shindig, so I suggest we gather as much of this beer as we can carry, and take it back to the Likely Estate, post-haste. Tell me, Botter, where did you get that bottle from?”

“Well, that’s the funny thing, milord. For a bunch of homeless geezers, these fellahs certainly have a lot of beer at their disposal. Flakey Jim gave me that bottle, an’ said there was plenty more where that came from.”

“Well, I dare say that these wretches spend each and every ill-gotten shilling on nothing but booze,” I reasoned. “Either that or they steal it all. Come, Botter, let us go and gather together as much beer as we can carry, and get back to glorious civilization as quickly as possible.”

Botter and I traipsed up and down the scrap-yard for what felt like an age, and in all that time we found neither any more beer, or any of the other filthy vagrants with whom we had become acquainted.

“Where in the name of King Solomon’s Colon is everyone?” I said. “It is not as if they have jobs to go to, or anything.”

“Why don’t we try in there, milord?” Botter suggested, pointing to a large, disused warehouse at the end of the yard.

“It looks incredibly ominous and frightfully perilous,” I observed. “Yes, let us go there immediately.”

And so, we went there immediately.

“You go in first, Botter,” I said as we stood outside the warehouse’s doors. “Should there be any crazed lunatics lurking within, I would rather they lopped off your face rather than mine. My face is far too handsome to be sliced up and worn by a deranged psychopath.”

Botter sighed, and cautiously opened the doors. He peered inside, then quickly withdrew his head and turned to me excitedly.

“Milord! You have to see this!” Botter cried.

I pushed past my grubby associate, and strode into the warehouse. The entire place was lined with crate upon crate of beer, stacked up to the very ceiling.

“Fuck me in a Turkish bath, that is rather a considerable quantity of alcohol. One far cruder than I may even describe it as a ‘shitload’,” I said, picking a bottle of beer out from an open crate beside me.

“It’s a shitload!” Botter said.

“Exactly,” I agreed, popping open the bottle and drinking the contents. “Eugh, this stuff tastes just as revolting. Still, needs must, and all that.”

As I opened another bottle, Botter wandered deeper into the warehouse, gazing around him in awe. He disappeared behind some crates for a while, then suddenly he was back, looking as white as a ghost. A stinking, foul ghost with terrible hair.

“Milord, you’d better come with me!” He whispered, pulling at my arm.

“Unhand me, Botter! I am quite capable of walking, thank you ever so much,” I snapped, as I staggered forth, and then crashed into a pillar. “Blow me, this beer appears to be far more potent than I had given it credit for.”

I followed Botter as he led me through the warehouse, and into another, previously unseen, room. Botter pointed inside.

“What is it, Botter?” I said, swigging from the bottle in my hand. “What ish it?“

I walked into this new room, completely unprepared for the sight that would greet me.

Around the entire circumference of the room were dozens upon dozens of unfortunate homeless urchins, all chained up and either asleep or unconscious. They were all stripped completely naked, with tubes affixed to their genitals, through which their urine was being drawn into a large vat in the centre of the room. The vat itself had a complicated-looking pumping mechanism affixed to it, which was taking the liquid up from within the container, and depositing it into bottles moving slowly along on a conveyor belt.

Bottles just like the one I was currently drinking from.

“Shitting Christ!” I yelled, spitting out a mouthful of beer all over the back of my man-servant’s head. “No wonder this tastes like tramp’s piss! It is tramp’s piss!”

I felt sick and revolted, and my head was spinning so fast I feared it would fly off of my neck and fly around the room.

“Focking bash-tardshhh,” I slurred, and then I blacked out completely.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely is drunk. Very drunk INDEED.

Presenting gaup – another quality venture from the cads responsible for these Astonishing Adventures.

Come, See His Lordship’s Cock and Balls! His lordship has very kindly decided to let all of you join him in The Cock and Balls (his preferred drinking establishment) for light and heavy refreshments, chit-chat and barely-concealed flirting. Do the honourable thing, and visit the Cock and Ball Inn right NOW! Many thanks.

Lord Likely would like to give his warm and incredibly moist thanks to Random Chick, for seeing fit to bestow him with this fine award right here:

Many thanks indeed, m’dear! The fact you have noticed how very ‘cool’ his lordship is has made him incredibly hot!

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

The Further Scrawlings of Mr. A.D Fanton:
Digital Sickbag | New! gaup
The Carrotty Kid
The Best Bit of the Internet (R.I.P)

Other places of interest:
The Clay Pigeon

FuelMyBlog | Blog Catalog | humor-blogs.com

> Subscribe in a reader

February, 1857.
Miss Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish was an arresting, trouser-tightening sight; and I knew right there and then that I simply had to have her. And suffice to say, what I desire, I ultimately get.

I am Lord Likely, after all.

“Why on Earth do you call this poor woman Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish?” I asked Kenneth the Hat, the so-called leader of the group of homeless wretches with whom I had wound up spending my precious time.

“Well, look at her!” Kenneth the Hat exclaimed. “She has neither the warty complexion nor the diseased mouth of a true ‘omeless, like what we is.”

“She’s a FREAK!” Flakey Jim chimed in.

“She is the most devilishly attractive freak I have seen for a while,” I said. “I believe the last freak I desired was when I saw a curiously attractive bearded lady at the circus. Luckily, the beard transpired to be fake, although I can attest that she boasted a very real beard down below.”

The vagrants mumbled their disapproval, and ambled off to do whatever it is the homeless do to occupy their time. Probably urinating in each other’s mouths, I shouldn’t wonder.

I sent Botter, my man-servant, off to scout around for any booze for my party, but my real focus now was in penetrating Jennifer as soon as possible. As we were now alone, I sensed the perfect opportunity to make my move.

“Good day, m’dear!” I beamed, tipping my hat. “And what, pray tell, brings such a delightful creature as yourself to such an unsavoury locale as this? What unfortunate circumstances have led to such beauty finding herself out on the streets, left to fraternize with such odious fellons?”

Jennifer looked down at her feet, and when she looked back up tears were forming in her deep, dark eyes.

“Oh, sir! It is a terrible tale. You see, when my mother and father died, I was placed in the care of my wicked uncle, who promised to look after me, and – “

“Terrible.” I interjected, holding precisely no interest in the sob story. “Listen, m’dear, my time is rather precious so what say we just get down to the intercourse, hmmm?”

Jennifer stopped, tears streaming down her face, and looked up at me. Then, as quick as a light, her expression changed to one of sheer joy.

“Oh, yes sir! I do so love the cock, you know, sir! Big, veiny, purple-headed cock, sir!”

I shall admit that this rather frank answer did throw me somewhat. She looked like an angel, and yet spoke like a filthy, whoreish sailor.

God, I wanted her so much my balls were in danger of combusting.

“Good! So it is decided, then!” I cheered. “But what say we adjourn to rather more comfortable and less pungent quarters, hmm? I fear that if I get naked here, a rat may crawl up my anus.”

“Let’s go to my place,” Jennifer gasped, grabbing my hand.

“Your place?” I repeated, but before I could collect my thoughts Jennifer grabbed my hand and dragged me off.

We left the scrap yard and headed across the street, before turning into a narrow lane lined with small, cramped-looking houses. Jennifer came to a stop, and proudly indicated down the street.

“Here we are. Home sweet home,” she said.

“I thought you said you were homeless, my dear? ” I asked, slightly puzzled.

“I am, sir,” Jennifer interrupted, pointing to a dustbin outside one of the houses. “That. That is my home.”

“Charming, I’m sure,” I said. “It looks awfully cramped though…are you sure there is no-where else where we – “

“LOOK!” yelled Jennifer, stamping her feet. “Do you want to fuck me or not?”

The bin was indeed rather cramped, and there was a lot of maneuvering required to fit Jennifer, my good self and my mighty Lord Palmerston inside, but once we had settled in, things became considerably easier. Besides which, it was not as if a dustbin was the strangest place I’d ever had intercourse. That would have to be inside a whale.

Anyway, despite our restrictive surroundings, we managed to be surprisingly athletic and creative in our love-making, trying a variety of different positions and styles, including the ‘vertical sixty-nine‘, the ‘rear admiral‘, and the ‘disgraced puppeteer.’

In one instance, the sex became so impassioned that we accidentally upended the dustbin, and wound up rolling down the lane in it. I am happy to report that even in such a situation, I was not put off my stroke.

Jennifer was an extremely passionate lover, gasping and screaming with such ferocity that at one point, one of the inhabitants of a house across the street opened their window, and hurled a boot at us. Still we continued, and Jennifer displayed some rather unusual fetishes over the course of our pumpings. For example, she adored having filth smeared into her breasts, demanded to have an entire rotten pilchard thrust up her jacksie, and at one point she even asked whether I would throw any spare change into her gaping mimsy.

I declined, of course. Beautiful or not, I never give change to beggars.

As we concluded our intercourse, I could quite clearly see the real reason this young lady had been given the nick-name Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely uncovers something slightly unsavoury about the homeless, and it’s not even the urine stains on their trousers.

Come, See His Lordship’s Cock and Balls! His lordship has very kindly decided to let all of you join him in The Cock and Balls (his preferred drinking establishment) for light and heavy refreshments, chit-chat and barely-concealed flirting. Do the honourable thing, and visit the Cock and Ball Inn right NOW! Many thanks.

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

> Subscribe in a reader

Against all my better judgement, I followed the foul-smelling, cider-swigging reprobate as he led us through the twisting back-streets and alley-ways of the city. I made sure that Botter, my man-servant, kept closely behind me, lest any more ruffians leapt from the shadows and tried to bugger me six ways to the Sudan. You might say he was maintaining a valiant rear-guard action.

“‘Ere we is, sir,” croaked the homeless wretch. “Our ‘ome sweet ‘ome, as it were.”

“I cannot help but notice we are in a scrap-yard,” I said, not helping but noticing that we were in a scrap-yard.

“Heh, yeah. I ‘spect it’s a bit more ‘umble than what you is used to,” the vagrant beamed, whilst mangling the English language. “Wait ‘ere, sir, an’ I’ll go an’ get the boss.”

“The boss?” I repeated. “How in the name of cock-suckery does a homeless swine like you have a boss?”

“Jus’ wait ‘ere,” the cove replied, and staggered off.

“What an awful and abhorrent chap,” I mused as I watched the filthy figure disappear behind a broken-down carriage. “I don’t suppose he is any relation of yours, is he Botter?”

“Very funny, milord,” Botter dead-panned.

We waited patiently until the foul creature returned, accompanied by an even fouler looking man who was wearing a suit that hung sadly off of his boney frame, as if it was yearning to be on someone less repellent; whilst atop his awful head sat an even-sadder looking bowler hat, seemingly held in place by a large knife sticking out of the top.

“Greetings, sirs!” he said, offering me his hand to shake, a request I declined. “Please, take a seat! Sit, sir, sit!”

I looked around at my surroundings, and found nothing that looked suitably worthy of my noble buttocks, so I gestured to Botter to make himself useful as a temporary chair. He rolled his eyes, and knelt down on all fours. I sat down on his back, and found him to be less comfortable than I had hoped. I would have to dock his pay for being an insubstantial seat.

“I am Kenneth the Hat,” the fellow began. “I got that name because I wear a hat,” he added triumphantly.

“And the knife?…” I asked.

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” Kenneth the Hat replied, gently tapping the blade. “I got into a bit of a scrap with a chef a few years back, when he caught me foraging for sausages in his kitchen. He plunged this flippin’ great knife in my head, and the doctor’s say they can’t take it out because it’s too close to my brain. One slip, one wrong move, and I become a drooling vegetable. Ha-HAH! Ha-HAHAHAHAHA!”

I wondered if it was not already too late.

“Anyway, you’ve met Flakey Jim, here,” Kenneth the Hat continued, indicating to the grimy chap who led us here. “Now, let me introduce you to the rest of the group!”

I shifted uncomfortably on my man-servant-shaped seat, as Kenneth the Hat produced two dustbin lids from a pile of junk, and loudly banged them together.

“VAGRANTS! ASSEMBLE!” he roared, somewhat over-theatrically.

There was a moment of silence, and then more stinking fiends began to emerge from their hiding places, stepping out from within broken wardrobes, squeezing out from underneath disused bath-tubs and sliding out from inside smashed-up grandfather clocks. They were like giant, human cockroaches in many ways, and each was more foul and pitiful than the last.

Sometimes the lengths I would go to in order to get some booze amazes even myself.

“Here they all are, sir! This here is Beardy McBeard,” he said, pointing to a man with a huge, dirty, black beard which seemed to have pigeons nesting inside. “He has a beard,” Kenneth the Hat added unhelpfully.

“Beard.” Beardy McBeard agreed.

“And this is No-Legs Noreen,” Kenneth continued, indicating to a pitiful-looking hag who was, indeed, bereft of legs.

“I ‘as ghost legs!” she cried.

“For the millionth time, Noreen, there are no such things as ghost legs!” Kenneth turned to me. “You shall have to excuse her, sir, she’s a little bit daft. Ah-HAHAHAHAHAHA! Ah! That there’s Mr. Disease,” Kenneth rambled on, as an incredibly sickly-looking chap shuffled forward. “He has over one hundred different diseases. Impressive, eh?”

“Astonishingly so,” I mumbled, as Mr. Disease smiled weakly.

“And then we have this poor sod,” Kenneth the Hat said, introducing a man with a huge wart on his face. A wart so huge, in fact, it was his face. “This is Benson – “

“…Wart-Face?” I guessed.

“Why, yes! Have you two met, perchance?” Kenneth said, genuinely surprised.

“No,” I replied. “I would have remembered such an encounter. I never forget a face, and his face is considerably less forgettable than most.”

“Oh. Well, that’s us, anyway! Now maybe you can tell us a bit about – “

“KENNETH!” yelled Flakey Jim, waving his arms about with such ferocity he dislodged numerous flakes of skin in the process . “Jennifer’s comin’!”

“Oh no!” wailed Kenneth the Hat. “Not Jennifer!”

“Who in the name of Saint Paul‘s sainted scrotum is this Jennifer?” I snapped, as the group of paupers became increasingly agitated.

“Oh, she’s AWFUL, sir!” moaned Kenneth the Hat. “Hideous. Such a foul, degenerate creature! She is horribly disgusting, sir, and incredibly freakish. In fact, she is so incredibly freakish we nick-named her Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish.”

“How very clever,” I said sarcastically.

“Oh, Lord! Here she comes!” screamed Kenneth the Hat, and then he ran for cover with the rest of his grotesque group, leaving me to face this monstrosity alone, save for my man-servant-stroke-seat.

I braced myself to have my eyeballs assaulted by this fresh display of degradation, but as Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish appeared at the gates to the scrap-yard, I saw that she was anything but incredibly freakish.

She was just incredible.

Jennifer, the Incredibly Freakish.

So bowled over by her radiant beauty was I, that I quite literally fell off of my chair.

“Blimey, what a cracking bit of crumpet, eh milord?” my chair observed.

I had to agree. Things were definitely looking up.

And by ‘things’ I mean ‘my penis’.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Lord Likely gets incredibly freakish with Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish.

A Terribly Important Announcement! His lordship has very kindly decided to let all of you join him in The Cock and Balls (his preferred drinking establishment) for light and heavy refreshments, chit-chat and barely-concealed flirting. Do the honourable thing, and visit the Cock and Ball Inn right NOW! Many thanks.

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

Lord Likely Joins The Carnival! The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely is one of the many humourous web-logs to partake in The Humor Blog Carnival, currently being hosted by Mr. Kevin over at Pointless Banter. As well as his lordship’s fine work, there are also links to many other excellent web-logs, which you should jolly well visit right now. Hooray!

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There are few things more horrifying, more terrible, more downright cataclysmic than running out of alcohol.

The awfulness of this situation is multiplied by a factor of a million when one is supposed to be holding a magnificent ball to celebrate the one-year anniversary of one’s journals, as I had proposed. Immediate action was required to alleviate this deepening crisis.

“Botter,” I said softly. “Prepare the Likely Mobile!”

“The what, milord?”

“You know. The horse and carriage. We must go into town, and try and procure more booze if we are to throw the mother of all parties here tonight. The fate of hundreds of party-goers and revellers rests in our very hands.” I paused and looked out of the window, striking my best troubled look. “God help us all.”

We arrived at Mr. Timothy Tipsy’s Emporium of Alcoholic Beverages an hour later, but as soon as I set my lordly foot inside the shop, I could sense something was rather amiss.

All the shelves in the shop were as bare as a nudist’s arse.

“Good day, gents,” smiled Mr. Tipsy, as he emerged from the back-room of his store. “And how may I help you fine fellows on this fine February afternoon?”

“Wh-wh-where’s all the damned booze, confound it?” I replied.

“Ah, yes. You noticed that, did you? Well, you see, sir, we no longer sell alcohol here.”

“What in the name of buttocks are you warbling about? This is, is it not, Mr. Timothy Tipsy’s Emporium of Alcoholic Beverages?”

“Oh, it was, sir. It was. But now we specialise in shelves. Take a look around you, sir! A fine array of shelves as you will ever see, I am sure.”

“But…why, man? Why?“

“Well, they are very fine shelves, sir, crafted from the finest Norwegian wood. Many of my customers have commented on the excellence of my shelving, and with business being a bit slow of late, I realised that my best asset in this shop was not the booze, but that which was holding the booze up – to whit, the shelves. I simply put two and two together and came up with shelves, sir.”

“Please, for the love of ev’ry God under the sun, tell me that you have stored the booze away safely somewhere…” I pleaded.

“Oh, heavens no, sir!” the foolish fellow chirped. “We threw all the alcohol out into the garden, and lit a massive fire. It was most spectacular, I can tell you. We nearly set the whole street aflame, and sadly three cats perished in the blaze. But still, it was quite an incredible sight to behold.”

I rubbed the top of my nose despairingly.

“You, sir, are possibly the biggest idiot I have ever clapped eyes upon, and I live with Botter here.”

“I beg to differ, sir! People will always need things to be held up a certain distance from the ground, you see. Shelves are the future! Why, I believe even Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, has a shelf in her palace, so it is rumoured.”

“My good man,” I sighed deeply. “Have you ever been hit upon the head with a shelf?”

“No, sir! I can’t say that I have.”

“Would you like to be?” I smirked.

*****

Botter and I emerged from the shop, my self brandishing a large shelf.

“It is funny, Botter, I had no desire to purchase a shelf to-day but after clobbering that fellow about the head with one, and seeing how the shelf remained strong and unscathed after such a brutal attack, I was quite swayed, I can tell you. First-rate craftsmanship, I must say.”

“Plus Mr. Tipsy can use those pound notes you gave him to mop up his blood,” Botter added.

“Exactly! Everybody wins!” I beamed, but then my face fell again as I remembered the original purpose of my visit to the shop. “However, we are still no nearer to getting hold of more alcohol for the party, Botter. This is getting rather serious.”

“Maybe we could try that pub outside the town, milord?” Botter suggested. “I’ll bet they’ve got loads of booze to spare.”

“Botter!” I cried. “Who could have imagined that you would have a good idea rolling around in that vast, empty void you call a brain? Capital idea, man! Let us get back to the carriage and – “

“Can you spare any change, guv?” came a voice at my elbow. I looked down to see a hitherto unnoticed vagrant sat on the pavement beside me, his grimy hand reaching outwards me.

“If you do not leave me alone this instant,” I replied, “then the only change you shall experience is the change in you being dead, rather than alive.”

The beggar mumbled something under his breath, and took a swig from a bottle of cider he was holding in his other hand.

“Wait a blasted, disease-ridden minute! How is it that some filthy, pus-filled wretch has alcohol, yet I – Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action – have none? Has the world gone completely arse-about tit?” I stooped over the pauper, and grabbed him roughly by his lapels, an action I instantly regretted as his lapels were caked in grime. “Where on Earth did you get that booze? Tell me man! Tell me at once!”

“I can’t!” cried out the foul creature, as I shook him violently. “I can’t tell ya, guv!”

I stopped shaking the vagrant (too many flakes of dandruff and/or skin were flying off of the vile abomination), and then I decided to try a different approach.

“There shall be a shiny penny in it for you,” I said. The beggar smiled a disgusting, decaying smile at me.

“Deal,” he said.

And so the stage was set for one of my most unusual adventures thus far…

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Lord Likelys descends into the murky underworld of Victorian London, and faces previously unimagined horrors, all just so that he might get some alcohol and get utterly pissed off of his lordly face.

*****

Notes, Notices and Notifications.

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

Mr. Diesel, long time supporter of his lordship and the chap behind Mattress Police and humor-blogs.com (click the latter link to help his lordship rocket up the rankings, by the way), has launched a new offensive upon the world of comedy, called The Clay Pigeon, chock-full of amusing articles and witty writings. Although nowhere near as hilarious as his lordship’s own scrawlings (naturally), we still encourage you to visit the Pigeon by clicking the image below! The second issue is out…right…about…NOW!

The Further Scrawlings of Mr. A.D Fanton:
Digital Sickbag | The Carrotty Kid
The Best Bit of the Internet

Other places of interest:

FuelMyBlog | Blog Catalog | humor-blogs.com

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Oh, dear diary! Today is a special day indeed, for it heralds the one year anniversary of our joyous union!

Can it really be twelve months since I first opened you up, took my quill firmly in my hand and thrust it betwixt your soft, creamy pages, and filled you with my wondrous words and my powerful punctuation?

I am very pleased and more than slightly surprised to reach the one year mark. I rarely manage to keep anything up for an entire year (except back in 1845, when I maintained an erection for a whole three hundred and sixty-five days). I usually find myself very easily distracted, and quickly bored, which explains why most of my relationships have been fleeting and temporary, amounting to little more than a few hours of exquisite, passionate, and incredibly sweaty love-making.

Truly, then, the fact that I have stuck at this journal writing lark is something worth celebrating,
and worth celebrating in the way I know best – by getting blind, roaring drunk, and hopefully penetrating a few maids along the way.

I am going to party like ’twas 1899.

“Botter!” I cried as I strode into the dining-room, where Botter was busily cleaning up a large pile of vomit. “Good heavens, man! What has happened here?”

“Don’t you remember, milord?” Botter replied, scooping up some chunks of chundered chow into a bucket. “You got rather drunk last night.”

“I did?” I said, stroking my moustache in deep contemplation.

“Yes, milord. You said you wanted to celebrate the fact that it was a Saturday, and then you drank heavily into the night, threw up here, stripped naked and ran out into the garden, loudly proclaiming that you were the ‘hanging judge’. I found you later asleep under a cow.”

“Well,” I said. “Saturdays are really rather splendid. But not as splendid as to-day, Botter – for to-day I am celebrating the one year anniversary of the commencement of my journals!”

“Congratulations, milord,” Botter replied, depositing more vomit into his bucket.

“Thank you, Botter. I have decided to mark the occasion by throwing one of my massive balls.”

“Throwing one of your massive balls at whom, milord?”

“Ah, I see the mistake you have made there, Botter. I am referring to holding a big party, and not hurling one of my generously-sized testicles at an individual. You blithering twat.”

“Oh.”

“I shall leave the arrangements in your capable, puke-caked hands, Botter. I trust you can cope with that?”

“Certainly, milord, however there is a slight problem,” Botter replied.

“Problem? Problem? Of what problem do you speak, you grubby little shit-stain?”

“Well, after your drunken antics last night, I am afraid to report that…well, you should probably like to sit down for this, milord.”

“Nonsense! I can take it standing up, as the whore said to the bishop.”

“Well, um…you know…erm… ” Botter babbled.

“Jesus Cocking Christ! Just give it to me straight, man!” I yelled. “Which is also what the whore said to the bishop, now I think about it.”

“Alright, milord, alright. I am afraid to report that…we are entirely out of booze!“

My eyes widened in horror.

“Bollocks!” I cried. “This is serious.”

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: will Lord Likely be able to procure more alcohol for his magnificent ball? Or will he be forced to celebrate his anniversary stone-cold sober?

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

Stop the Presses! The deliciously delectable Diane of the web-log Much of Muchness, has awarded his lordship a wondrous award to mark the occasion of her own one year blogiversary. Many thanks, m’dear – and happy blog birthday to you! Huzzah!

Mr. Diesel, long time supporter of his lordship and the chap behind Mattress Police and humor-blogs.com (where his lordship currently resides at an incredibly sexual 69th place), has launched a new offensive upon the world of comedy, called The Clay Pigeon, chock-full of amusing articles and witty writings. Although nowhere near as hilarious as his lordship’s own scrawlings (naturally), we still encourage you to visit the Pigeon by clicking the image below! The second issue hits the virtual newsstands tomorrow!

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