So there we were: Lord Loathsome, murderous villain and knob-end of the highest order, and myself – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and all-round ruddy fantastic fellow indeed, facing off against one another in the bell-tower of my old school, St. Bumthrusty’s.

Loathsome, being the utterly indefensible weasel that he is, had already gotten the first blow in, sending me flat on my back, leaving me now looking down the troublesome end of a pistol pointed at my handsome face by the cad himself.

Meanwhile, my dithering man-servant, Botter, had gotten himself kidnapped by Loathsome, and was currently manacled to the inside of the school’s mighty bell, facing a gruesome pummeling from the bell’s clapper when six o’clock came around, which was in less than four minutes’ time.

Truly, things were looking distinctly shit-coloured for your noble narrator.

“Where shall I shoot first?” sneered Loathsome. “Shall I put a hole right through your face? I am sure the incredibly vain Lord Likely would not approve of that….no, wait! I have a better idea! Why don’t I blast your precious cock-end right off? Let us see how popular you prove to be without a penis, eh?”

Luckily for me, Loathsome’s inane prattling had bought me sufficient time to regain my breath, and so as he pointed his pistol at my proud Lord Palmerston, I swung a leg up and kicked the weapon from his hand, sending it ricocheting off of the school bell, before it disappeared down the hole below.

“Bastard!” hissed Loathsome.

“Lord Bastard, if it is all the same to you,” I retorted as I clambered to my feet. “Now, shall we proceed? I am rather keen to kick your posterior into next week.”

“Gladly,” replied Loathsome, and then he charged at me.

Despite having been rather winded from Loathsome’s earlier assault, I managed to deftly dodge the cad as he lunged at my good self, and delivered a most powerful punch to his face, which sent him crashing to the floor.

With Loathsome momentarily out for the count, I scooped my cane up off of the floor and headed behind the school’s bell, where there was a rather large and rather complex clockwork mechanism, which I assumed operated the bell when the clock struck the hour. After deliberating whether or not my man-servant’s miserable life was worth ruining a perfectly good cane for, I decided that seeking new help would be far more bother than seeking a new stick, and so thrust the cane inbetween some of the cogs operating the machinery. There was a low moaning sound as the cogs tried to continue turning despite the presence of my rigid rod, but happily, my cane held firm, and the entire mechanism ground to a juddering halt.

As I proudly surveyed my excellent handiwork, I was suddenly sent tumbling to the ground once more as that nefarious prick, Harold Loathsome, snuck up on me and swept my legs from beneath me. I was getting rapidly tired of being acquainted with the floor so regularly, and so kicked the swine in the knee, and then booted him in the chin. The cad fell to the floor like the sack of shit he so clearly was.

“You shall pay for your loathsome acts…Loathsome,” I declared, rather inelegantly.

“Oh really? And who is the real villain here, Likely?” Loathsome coughed as he struggled back up from the ground. “Is it really me, just because I murdered a few people? Or is it you, for creating me by bullying and mocking me through all of my school years?“

“I would have to say it is you who is the real villain,” I reasoned, quite reasonably. “Yes, yes. ‘Tis definitely you, no question about it.”

“Well, then…I shall feel no remorse about sending you to your grave then,” Loathsome exclaimed, and then he was suddenly brandishing a knife, which he tried to plunge into my chest. I put up an arm to block such a move, and then roared in pain as the blade entered my limb.

“You cocking piss-hole!” I yelled. “That really rather stung, you know.”

With Loathsome’s knife still protruding from my stricken arm, I grabbed the fiend by his lapels and then hurled him against a nearby window, which had been boarded up for reasons unknown. The wood splintered as Loathsome’s body slammed against it, but before he could recover I was upon him again, grabbing him by his lank, greasy hair, and slamming his head into the remaining boards.

“This…is…for…ruining…a…perfectly…good…suit!” I cried, each word punctuating a fresh attempt to batter Loathsome’s bonce against the wood. “And…this…is…for…ruining…a…perfectly…good…arm!” I continued.

Loathsome, somewhat bleary and bloodied by now, somehow managed to struggle free from my grasp, and then he took me by my injured arm and flung me against the window. The rest of the wood broke apart, and I was left half-hanging out of the glassless window behind. I felt a chilly, autumnal breeze across my face, and saw the considerable drop waiting below. However, I had no time to observe the view before I was pulled back in by my enraged nemesis, who spun me around to face him.

“This is it, Likely!” he cackled, an evil smirk upon his lips. “This is where we must part ways, I’m afraid. I would say it has been a pleasure to see you again, but frankly, it has not!”

I tried to think of a witty retort, but I was beginning to feel rather queasy and light-headed as my precious blood seeped from the wound in my arm.

“You wanker,” was all I could manage, before Loathsome pushed me back out of the window. As I fell backwards, however, I grabbed Loathsome’s wrist, which took the cove quite by surprise.

And then we fell together.

I awoke with a start, and saw nothing but sky. Where was I? What was going on? Was I in Heaven?

I moved my head to the left, and saw Loathsome lying next to me, seemingly unconscious. Clearly I was not in Heaven, then. Was I in Hell? Curses, I thought. I knew all that masturbating would catch up with me one day.

I slowly sat up, wincing as pain shot through every muscle in my body. Once I was sat upright, I saw that I was not in Hell, either. I was sat outside St. Bumthrusty’s, surrounded by a group of shocked onlookers. Clearly, I had not been out cold for long.

“What are you doing down there?” a voice cried from above. I gingerly looked up, to see Inspector Spunkleford looking down at me from the bell-tower window from which I had just plummeted.

“What are you doing up there?” I shouted in return.

“I came up to help you out!” Spunkleford yelled.

“Well, better late than never, I suppose.” I replied.

“What?”

“Oh, never mind! I shall talk to you when you get back down here!”

“What?”

“I said…”

“Never mind, Likely!” Spunkleford echoed. “I shall talk to you when I get back down there!”

I rolled my eyes in disbelief at the detective’s deplorable dimness, then all of a sudden I found Loathsome back upon me, his hands wrapped firmly around my throat.

“I”m not finished with you yet, Likely!” the wretch snarled, his grip tightening. “I shall not be finished until you are finished!”

“Fucking hell!” I gasped. “Why are you not ruddy well dead?”

“I shall not rest until I’ve completed my life’s work, and ended the life of the Lords Likely!”

“Luh-Lords?” I wheezed.

“Why yes,” Loathsome grinned, his grip as solid as steel. “After I have wiped you off this earth, I shall go after your father…”

“I…I think yuh-you’ll find muh-my father’s already duh-duh-dead, Loathsome!”

“Oh no, Likely. No, no no. He’s very much alive, at least for the moment. I saw him in – “

Suddenly, there was a loud cracking sound, and Loathsome’s eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, and then he slumped off of me, unconscious once more.

“Apologies for the delay there, Likely,” said Spunkleford, standing in front of me, proudly brandishing his truncheon. “We took a wrong turn and wound up in the toilets.”

“Spunkleford, you anus!” I coughed, as air filled my lungs. “That bloody cock-bag was about to tell me where my father is!”

“Oh,” Spunkleford said, evidently crestfallen. “Um, sorry, old boy.”

“Well, I suppose you did mean well,” I said, as Spunkleford helped me to my feet. “I shall refrain from kicking you in the plums this once.”

“Jolly good!” Spunkleford brightened. “By the way, did you ever find Botter?”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, as I remembered that my man-servant was still shackled to the inside of the school bell. But then I also recalled the amount of uneccessary worry he had caused me, and decided that leaving him where he was might serve as a clear reminder that he should not get kidnapped again. “Yes…yes I did, Inspector. He is fine, we can retrieve him…later. Much later.”

“Oh, well, huzzah!” Spunkleford cheered. “Well then, I sppose we should get you to a hospital, eh?”

“Not right now, my dear inspector,” I said. “Right now I think I would very much like to have a rather more intimate school reunion with that delightful young lady I met earlier…”

Spunkleford raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“By that I mean I plan to pump her roughly,” I added for clarity.

Spunkleford shook his head in weary resignation, and I staggered off to get my noble end away.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Come one, come all, and celebrate the Likely Bicentennial!

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I could not believe that my arch-enemy, Harold Loathsome, had chosen to hold our final showdown in a bell-tower. It just seemed so very cliched. Honestly, I had expected more from him. Maybe it was time I found a better class of nemesis.

And so it was rather begrudgingly that I hauled myself up the winding stairs that led to the tower, cursing Loathsome’s name as it quickly became apparent that there were far more flights of stairs than I had first imagined. Maybe that is how Loathsome intended to finish me – by wearing me out completely through such exertions, so that when I finally faced him he could cut me down without a struggle. That would be exactly the sort of twattish plan I would expect from the murderous cove.

As I continued my struggle against the stairs, another memory from my school-days bubbled forth from my brain. When I had attended St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys, there had been a long-running rumour that the school’s bell-tower was haunted. Many people – staff and pupils alike – had claimed to have heard ‘unearthly wailing and moaning’ and some ‘ominous banging’ coming from the tower, with one teacher even claiming to have discovered some ectoplasmic residue in the room. The truth, however, was much less spectral and far more scrotal; the school’s bell-tower had merely been my favourite spot in which to hide girls from the town, whereupon we would indulge in some covert coupling, hence the frequent moaning and banging. And needless to say, that was most certainly not ectoplasm found in the bell-tower…

I smirked inwardly at the recollection, and was further buoyed by the fact that I had finally reached top of the stairs, thus ending my terrible escalatory ordeal. I rested myself against the wall for a momentary respite, but did not get to relax much before I was interrupted.

“Well, you certainly took your time,” said a rather snide, disembodied voice. Immediately I sprung to attention, my eyes straining through the murk of the bell chamber in an effort to locate the speaker. I soon picked out a top-hatted figure silhouetted against the early evening light which was snaking its way through the slats on the window of the room.

“Loathsome,” I spat.

“Lord Loathsome, if you do not mind,” the shadowy figure replied calmly. “Yes, I have a peerage now as well. I inherited it from an aristocratic friend of mine. Well, the dead have no use for such titles, you see…”

“You may call yourself whatever you wish, Loathsome,” I sneered. “I shall still only refer to you as ‘tosspot’, if it is all the same to you.”

There was silence from Loathsome, except for the sound of a match being struck as he lit himself a cigarette. I briefly caught a glimpse of one of his small, beady eyes in the match-light, before he lit his fag and discarded the match over his shoulder.

“Still the same old Likely,” Loathsome finally said. “As arrogant and up his own arse as ever. It is high time someone bought you down a peg or two, Likely. And I shall only be too pleased to take on that responsibility.”

I felt my muscles tighten as I readied myself for some kind of ruckus, but instead Loathsome slowly stepped forward into one of the few shafts of sunlight in the tower, finally revealing himself in all his foulness.

Loathsome still looked as loathsome as I remember him; he was a skinny and wiry fellow, wearing a long, dark-grey overcoat on top of a black suit, with a similarly dark top hat on his awful, greasy, straggly blonde-hair. He had a long, pointed nose, and his cruel, thin lips were contorted into some sort of wretched smile. The only change I could really observe was that he now sported an eye-patch across his left eye, leaving only one piggy eyeball free to glare at me.

In short, he rather resembled a bastard wrapped up in a cunt.

“I am glad you could make it, Likely,” Loathsome grinned. “I rather feared you were going to be late. Why, it is already ten to six, you know…”

“Why don’t you just stop wittering and make some sort of ruddy move, Loathsome?” I snapped, growing weary of his melodramatic performance.

“Oh no, Likely. No, no, no. I have been waiting for far too long to hurry this now,” my enemy responded, drawing upon his cigarette and blowing a smoke-ring in my direction. “Twenty-five years I have waited. Twenty-five years since you publicly humiliated me in front of everyone at this very school. Twenty-five years since you got me expelled. Twenty-five years since you had me exiled to Africa, to spend two and a half decades toiling in the burning sun. Suffice to say, I fully intend to really, really enjoy this moment.”

“To be fair, Loathsome, you deserved every bit of your punishment, You were, after all, a massive cock-end.”

“Please, do keep the feeble insults coming, Likely. It shall make killing you all the more sweeter.”

“You do not scare me, Loathsome. Not one bit. I have bested you many times before, and I dare say I shall do so again. You forget that I am vastly superior to you in every possible way.”

“Oh, you think so?” chuckled Loathsome, his lips parting to reveal rows of horrid, yellowing teeth. “I do beg to differ, Likely. I mean, you have been rather slow to finally catch up with me, have you not? And I do not imagine that you have any inkling as to precisely how long I have been tracking you, and messing with your over-privileged life…”

I froze. The thought of Loathsome stalking me was terribly nauseating. Why could I not be stalked by someone decidedly more attractive, and considerably more be-titted?

“I thought that would get your attention, Likely,” Loathsome jeered. “For you see, I have been following your progress quite closely…quite, quite closely indeed. And for such a long time, too! Right from the moment you opened a letter in which the writer threatened to cut you, early last year…”

My mind raced as I tried to recollect the moment in question, and then I remembered.

It was February, 1856, and I had received a mysterious missive from some lunatic threatening to cut me. The return address on the letter had led me to a house at Buckingham Place, where I had subsequently been drawn into an astonishing adventure involving murderous prostitutes and an evil old brothel-owner called Mrs. Dinklesuck. At first, I had assumed the letter had been a cryptic cry for help from one of her unfortunate clients, but this was later proven to be incorrect, leading me to dismiss the note entirely. Now, however, I could see its importance all too clearly. It had been written in the same hand as that used in the note which had been affixed to the first victim of Loathsome’s murderous spree at St. Bumthrusty’s.

“So it was you who penned that letter,” I mused. “How extraordinarily dull.”

“That was just the beginning, Likely! I had far more fun toying with you later that very day, when I took great pleasure in ramming your carriage off the road…”

“Egads!” I gasped. “I remember that! You made me spill some whisky, you utter shit-ball.”

“Wait, Likely, because it gets rather more brilliant still. A few months later, as you boarded the HMS Bastard to sail to America, I sent an assassin after you, to rough you up a bit. You know, just for fun.”

“Doctor Corkscrews!” I exclaimed, as I remembered my encounter with the murderous medic.

“Indeed, indeed. It is a terrible shame you offed him, Likely. He was under strict instructions not to kill you. I just thought his attack might keep you on your toes…” Loathsome stopped to draw upon his cigarette once more, before flicking the cigarette butt across the room. “And then – then! – I hatched a brilliant scheme to pilfer all the booze from the Likely Estate earlier this year. Oh, your face! It really was utterly, utterly priceless!…”

The news that Loathsome had a hand in many of my most notable adventures of the past couple of years set my head reeling, and I had to steady myself on the wall beside me. The fact that Loathsome has been manipulating me so made me feel rather sick, but above all it made me want to pound his putrid skull to dust.

“That just about does it, Loathsome,” I hissed. “I think I have heard quite enough. Now, if you will be so kind as to put your fists up, I think we…”

“Wait a moment, old boy,” Loathsome replied, rather too nonchalantly for my liking. “What time is it?”

“What in the name of shittery does the time have to do with anything?” I yelled.

“Oh, the time is very important, Likely. Very important indeed,” Loathsome answered, strolling over to the enormous bell hanging from the roof of the tower. “For you see, at six o’clock, this bell here will chime the hour.” Loathsome gently patted the side of the bell. “‘Tis quite a size, isn’t it? Apparently, this is the largest bell in the entire county, Likely.”

“I think I am looking at a rather bigger bell-end right now, Loathsome.”

“Very droll. Anyway, at six this bell will chime six times; and on each of those chimes the bell’s huge clapper will strike the inside of the bell with quite considerable force. Imagine, Likely, if someone were unfortunate enough to wind up actually inside the bell when that happens…why, I would think they would be pulped to a mash fairly quickly, don’t you?”

I slowly drew closer to the fiendish felon, knowing all too well that he was planning something awful.

“What have you done, Loathsome?” I demanded.

“Here,” said Loathsome, striking another match. “Take a look inside, Likely.”

I took the match from Loathsome’s hand, and knelt down to look under the bell. And there, manacled to the actual inside of the bell, was Botter, considerably not-dead, but looking rather the worse for wear, his face badly bruised and his mouth gagged. Furthermore, he had been stripped down to his underwear, which I felt was not only completely unnecessary, but also incredibly revolting. Truly, Loathsome was a most twisted individual indeed.

I rose back up slowly, but before I could return to my full (glorious) height, Loathsome delivered a swift boot to my beautiful face, sending me sprawling flat on my back. Loathsome laughed maniacally as he withdrew a revolver from his overcoat, and pointed it at my head. Blearily, I retrieved my solid-gold pocket-watch from my waist-coat, and tried to focus on the tiny clock face.

“I would say your time was running out, Likely,” Loathsome chuckled.

The blurring of my vision subsided, allowing me to read the time on my pocket-watch. Annoyingly, it seemed Loathsome was rather correct.

It was four minutes to six.

I had less than four minutes to save my own life, and to save Botter’s.

In that exact order.

– Lord Likely

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Time runs out as ‘A Lesson in Murder’ reaches its nail-biting, pant-soiling conclusion!

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“What in the name of all that is sacred and holy do you think you are doing?” bellowed Professor Ventricle, after I had punched him squarely in the face, strongly suspecting that he was none other than my arch-nemesis, Harold Loathsome, in some sort of shoddy disguise.

“Give it up, Loathsome! Your terrible charade is over!” I cried triumphantly.

“You have gone stark, raving bonkers, Likely! How on earth could I possibly be that Loathsome fellow? I’m considerably taller and older, for starters. And look!” protested Ventricle, tugging firmly on his long, grey beard. “It is all my own hair! Are you quite satisfied now?”

I grudgingly conceded that I was indeed satisfied that he was not Loathsome after all. It seemed that my usually faultless deductive powers were somewhat failing me, with this episode following on so closely from my earlier misapprehension about the caretaker being Loathsome.

“I say,” said Mr. Bertrum Gumbumble, my old head-master. “Is this how you conduct all your investigations, Likely? By punching people in the face until you find the felon? For if it is, then I rather feel you had better leave before you incapacitate all my staff…”

“Yes, I suppose you would be happy to get me out of the way, wouldn’t you?” I mused. “Having me completely and utterly out of your hair would suit you rather well, would it not…HAROLD LOATHSOME?“

With that, I delivered a fine upper cut to Gumbumble’s chin, which sent the old fool tumbling backwards onto the ground.

“Egads!” cried Inspector Spunkleford, who was watching the events unfolding before him with a mixture of shock, horror and outright disgust. Meanwhile, I had set about Gumbubmle, and was trying in vain to prove that his balding pate was nothing more than a skin-coloured skullcap, worn to disguise his true identity.

“Bugger,” I said, as I was once again proven to be incorrect in my assumptions.

“Get off me, you blithering idiot!” spat Gumbumble.

“Hmm,” I pondered, as I disentangled myself from the exasperated educator. “I was certain you were Loathsome…damnation, what the devil is wrong with me today? Maybe I am over-thinking this whole dilemma…maybe the answer is staring me right in the face.” At which point my eyes fell upon the glorious cleavage of a delectable female standing among the crowd of onlookers who had assembled at the crime-scene like vultures assembling at…well, a crime-scene.

I knew precisely what had to be done.

“You!” I said pointing to the pretty creature, a curvaceous brunette who filled her dress in a most pleasing manner indeed. “You aren’t Harold Loathsome, are you?”

“N-no sir,” the woman said nervously.

“Well, if you do not mind, I should just like to make certain of the fact,” I said, taking her hand in mine and drawing her out from the crowd.

“Certainly, my lord,” the cock-worthy creature replied. “Do whatever you have to in order to clear my name!”

“I appreciate your compliance in this matter, m’dear,” I smiled, and then I quickly put my hands upon her breasts, to verify their authenticity. “Well, yes. These certainly do feel genuine…do you mind awfully if I just?…”

“No, no! Not at all!” answered the girl, rather excitably.

“Marvellous!” I cheered, and then I swiftly set about freeing the lady’s filthy fun-bags. Happily, they were most assuredly real, and were a pleasingly firm and fulsome pair, to boot.

“Happy, my lord?” asked the woman, a coquettish smile forming upon her lips.

“Extremely,” I beamed. “But I must just check one last thing…”

“Of course,” the minx smiled back, lifting up her dress.

I tipped my hat in thanks, and then knelt down to examine the lady’s lady-parts. I was gladdened to find myself looking at a beautiful bush underneath that dress, and not the horrid flaccid flesh-stick of my arch-enemy.

“Well, this certainly looks real,” I said. “I wonder, however, does it taste real?…”

“Really, Likely!” Spunkleford objected. “I think that is quite enough!”

“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you…HAROLD LOATHSOME?” I yelled, before leaping up and flooring the fellow in an inevitably spectacular fashion.

“Jesus Christ, Likely!” Spunkleford yelped, as he reeled back. “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing? This is getting ruddy ridiculous! You can’t seriously suspect me, you fool!”

“No, I do not suspect you at all, Spunkleford,” I responded. “I just wanted to clout you for disturbing me in the course of my… cross-examination.“

“You bugger, Likely,” Spunkleford cursed as he tended to his bloodied nose.

“I apologise, Spunkleford. It is just that I am rather on edge…I am not used to being wrong, and yet I have been wrong on no less than three separate occasions now. Furthermore, I am still not absolutely certain that this poor, dead fellow lying before us is not my man-servant, Botter. The only certainty I do have right now is that I would very much like to give this delectable strumpet a jolly good shafting,” I added, indicating to the pretty thing I had just given a good going-over.

“Well, quite,” said Spunkleford. “So we are right back to square one, then. We still have absolutely no clue as to where Loathsome may be”

“Indeed,” I answered, stroking my magnificent moustache in deep contemplation. “Damnation, I know he is here somewhere, gloating…”

“Probably, old boy,” Spunkleford agreed, holding his head back to curb the bleeding from his nose.

“I dare say that the cad is probably watching me right now, laughing at me…mocking me….”

“Oh! Wait a moment! Isn’t that him up there?” Spunkleford exclaimed, pointing up to the school’s bell-tower. I followed the direction of his finger, and saw a thin figure clad in a black suit standing atop the building.

“Oh yes. So it is. Well, that was considerably easier than I had imagined,” I remarked.

And with that, I set off to go and pummel the bastard.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely vs Loathsome!

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Getting a new man-servant is an awful ball-ache, you know. And I should know, for I have had over twenty different servants in my lifetime, of varying degrees of uselessness.

When my father, Lord Eustace Likely, disappeared from the Likely Estate, ne’er to return (and now presumed deceased), I was left in the care of the family butler, Philtrum. However, this arrangement did not last long, for at the age of one hundred and twenty-three years old, the useless bastard decided to go and die on me, throwing me into the most inconvenient predicament of having to go out and hire new help.

Luckily, I found a new lackey at a servant market in Dudsbury, who was on sale for the incredibly low price of one shilling. However, it did not take me long to discover why this particular valet was going for such a remarkably discounted amount – it transpired he was blind, deaf, mute and had wooden hands. Naturally, I was all set to return the defective domestic and give the vendor responsible for selling him to me a damned good drubbing, but before I could, my new man-servant unwittingly mistook the stove for the wash-basin, and went up in flames shortly thereafter. Clearly, one should always check the goods thoroughly before purchase.

My next effort led me to hire a man who seemed to be actually competent in his work, and was incredibly fastidious in his duties, especially when cleaning my various trophies, gold-plated trinkets and diamond-encrusted sex-aids. However, it quickly became apparent that this high level of meticulousness was not born out of a desire to see my valuables shined to the brightest of sheens, but rather out of a desire to steal the goods from under my very handsome nose. Needless to say, when I caught wind of his duplicitous scheme, I made sure he could not grab my assets (as t’were) by physically breaking his hands. No-one man-handles my treasure and gets away with it, dear readers.

Having been let down by quite so many man-servants, I next elected to hire a maid. Naturally, I hired the most attractive maid I could find; a beautiful, comely wench with ‘come to bed’ eyes and ‘fuck my mouth’ lips. After watching her frantically scrubbing the gussets of my trousers for a while, I could no longer control the wild animal inside me, and quickly set about pumping her for hours and hours every day. It soon became obvious that I was servicing her far more than she was servicing me, and when the mansion began to fall into a filthy, grubby state through my maid’s neglect, I thought it might be time she was fired. When we both found ourselves stricken with cholera, I knew it was definitely time to fire her; and thus I had to (rather reluctantly) let her go.

On top of these few poor shows, I’ve also had to put up with illiterate proles, woefully inept workhouse children, wretched foreigners who did not understand one word of the Queen’s English, infuriatingly smug butlers and – worst of all – a Liverpudlian man. I mean, well, really.

With such an unsuccessful record for hiring quality help, you can sympathise with my current plight, where I believed my current man-servant – Botter – to have been slain by my arch-enemy Harold Loathsome. I had just witnessed Botter’s body pass by a window at St. Bumthrusty’s in a worryingly vertical direction, as if he had been thrown out of a higher window to meet his doom on the harsh ground below. While I held no great affection for my simple servant, he had proven to be the least useless menial I had ever hired, which may not say a lot for the foolish oaf, but it did mean finding an equally adequate replacement would be a most challenging task indeed, and a task I was not entirely sure I could be bothered with any time soon.

It was with this dreadful burden hanging over my noble head that I headed outside to go and identify the corpse, accompanied by Inspector Spunkleford, my old head-master Betrum Gumbumble, my former biology teacher Professor Ventricle and a couple of my past classmates.

“Alright, alright,” said Inspector Spunkleford as he cut through the small crowd of morbid onlookers who had surrounded the body. “Move along, please! Move along! There is nothing to see here!”

“What about that dead body?” replied one of the gawpers.

“Oh! Yes, that is rather interesting, I suppose,” Spunkleford reasoned. “Why, look at that! Can you see how this poor chap’s brains have sprayed out the top of his head in a perfect arc, like some sort of ghoulish rainbow? Remarkable! Likely, take a look at this!”

I strolled up beside the Inspector, and beheld the macabre scene. The victim was sprawled on the ground, face down, his limbs twisted in various unnatural directions. As for whether this was indeed my man-servant, I could not be certain without turning the body over, but the attire sported by the man certainly seemed to match that traditionally worn by Botter; a small, bedraggled waist-coat, ill-fitting trousers and those filthy, scuffed shoes. And there, lying a few feet away from the stinking carcass was the all-too familiar bowler hat. But there was something else bothering me about this terrible tableau…

“I have come to the conclusion,” I boomed, after a moment’s pause, “that this unfortunate fellow was murdered before being hurled out of the window.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Spunkleford. “How on earth can you tell, Likely?”

“I believe you may have overlooked a vital clue, my dear inspector,” I explained, crouching down beside the cadaver. “Namely, these three knives sticking out of the victim’s back.”

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

“Remarkable!” Spunkleford enthused. “Truly remarkable!”

“Well spotted old bean,” said Professor Ventricle, leaning in to observe the crime scene. “Why do you suppose someone would want to murder your man-servant?”

“That is if this poor bounder is indeed my shambolic scrotum of a man-servant…” I said, turning the body over with my foot. Alas, it seemed that confirming the identity of the departed from the face would be an impossible task, as the countenance had been splattered beyond all recognition from the impact of the fall. Unless someone had beaten the face to a pulp beforehand…

“Well, it certainly looks like him!” said Ventricle. “No doubt about it, that’s the chap I saw talking to the new janitor earlier. I never forget a face, you know! I can still remember him clearly, asking the janitor for directions to the bath-room, saying that he wished to take a quick shower…”

“Hmmm?” I replied, my mind racing as I tried to put together the various different pieces of this particular puzzle. One thing that had just struck me was that Botter seemed taller now. I might have expected him to become considerably wider after a fall from such a height…but actually, physically taller?

And how had Ventricle’s tip-off about the janitor proven to be so wrong?

And how…

“Wait a minute!” I suddenly cried, grabbing Ventricle by his lapels. “What did you say?”

“I…I just said that this fellow was asking for directions to the bath-room….he…he wanted to take a shower, by all accounts.”

I smiled broadly, to Ventricle’s bemusement. Then, I began to chuckle quietly, before I burst into full, roaring laughter. Ventricle returned a confused titter, fear rising in his eyes. I grinned once more, and then gently released Ventricle from my grasp. I turned my back on the professor, then in an instant I swung back around, delivering a terrific blow to the bewildered biologist’s face.

Another chorus of gasps erupted from the crowd.

“Likely! What on earth?…” began Spunkleford.

“Botter? Take a shower? Ha!” I shouted, as I stood over the floored fellon. “The very notion is absurd to the extreme! I am afraid you have made a terrible mistake, Ventricle…” I leant closer to the professor’s face. “…Or should that be Loathsome?“

There was yet another simultaneous gasp from the onlookers.

“I’m buggered if I know what’s going on,” mused Spunkleford, befuddled to the very end.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: What the buggeration is going on?

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Announcement: His lordship wishes to apologies for the lack of updates this week. This can be solely attributed to the continued rubbishness of his official scribe, Mr. A.D. Fanton, despite his protests that he is working on something ‘really incredible’ behind the scenes. Such talk is clearly complete and utter cock. As recompense, we have thus made today’s entry 25% longer, and 176% more thrilling!

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While my wretched man-servant Botter may well have been in great danger at the murderous hands of my arch-nemesis Harold Loathsome, I saw no reason to cut short my current orgiastic duties with the delectable Miss Lizzie Flapkiss and company. It is awfully bad manners to pull out early, you know.

Thus I did not emerge from the room until some one hour and thirty-two minutes later, having made sure I had taken care to attend to each and every one of Miss Flapkiss’ orifices thoroughly, as well as making friendly small talk with the rest of the group. All in all, it was a most delightful way to pass an afternoon.

I practically skipped down the stairs of St. Bumthrusty’s afterwards, so high were the spirits within which I found myself currently enveloped. That is until I reached the bottom of the stairwell, and found a stern-faced Inspector Spunkleford waiting for me.

“Where in the blue blazes have you been, Likely?” he snapped, his face redder than a baboon’s bottom after a good, hard bumming.

“I was…catching up with an old friend,” I replied cryptically.

“Oh yes? And how was your old friend? Was she well?”

“As a matter of fact she was…” I paused as realisation hit me like a sock full of farthings. “Oh, you know.”

“Yes, Likely, I do indeed know. You cannot keep these things from me, dear boy! I am a detective, after all.”

“Yes, I keep forgetting that fact,” I deadpanned.

“It is disgusting, Likely! Disgusting! I thought you were supposed to be investigating these terrible murders, not…sticking your…your tingle-tangle in her…her…her moochie-moo!” Spunkleford blustered, prudish to the very end.

“My what in her what?” I asked, utterly bewildered by Spunkleford’s muddled nonsense.

“Never mind all that! We have more serious concerns at the present!” Spunkleford shouted.

“Let me take a guess,” I said coolly, as I casually lit a cigarette. “My bumbling arse-crack of a servant has gone missing, and is presumed to be the latest victim of the serial-killer stalking these very corridors?”

Spunkleford’s complexion reddened even further, leading me to worry that his head might well explode, leaving nothing more than a moustache and a bowler hat.

“Egads, Likely!” he boomed. “Do you mean to tell me that you knew all the time, and yet you persisted in carrying on with your….your…dirty dilly-dallying!”

I rolled my eyes. “Ruddy hell, Spunkleford, you act like you have never had intercourse or something.”

“Well, of course I have,” Spunkleford grunted, adjusting his tie. “Though not for quite a while, I shall warrant you. Mrs. Spunkleford maintains that such…activities are evil, and she refuses to let the devil enter her.”

“And thus neither can you,” I smiled, resting a hand upon Spunkleford’s shoulder. “You have my sympathies, my good fellow. You must be so terribly backed-up I am quite surprised you do not shoot ejaculate out of your nose whenever you sneeze. I really must treat you to a prostitute one of these days…”

“Look, can we stop talking about my wife and I, and focus our attentions back onto the case? I mean, what are we going to do about Botter?”

“Ah yes. Him.” I sniffed. “Follow me, dear Inspector, and watch in awe as I bring this whole affair to a rather satisfactory conclusion!”

I turned sharply on my heels, and then turned back again to face the Inspector.

“Which is more than you will have ever said to your charming wife, I am sure,” I beamed.

I threw open the doors of the school hall in a typically grand and theatrical manner, just as my old headmaster, Mr. Bertrum Gumbumble, was preparing to give a toast to the assembled former pupils of St. Bumthrusty’s.

Gumbumble had seemed positively ancient back at school, and I was rather surprised to see that the cantankerous old fool was still alive, or at least not quite yet dead. Gumbumble had been responsible for a large number of the canings, birchings and general thrashings I had received during my time at St. Bumthrusty’s, and I had rather hoped that he might have collapsed through exhaustion after tanning my hide so frequently. But alas, no, there he was; stood behind a long table at the back of the hall, hunched over so badly he rather resembled an ill-tempered question mark. As I entered the hall, Gumbumble pushed his spectacles up his nose, and squinted in my direction.

“Who the bally hell is that?” he spluttered.

“It is I, Lord Likely, Arisotcratic Adventurer and Gentleman of Action!” I bellowed, my voice echoing around the hall magnificently.

“Lord Lychee?” snorted the deaf old scrote. “What a ridiculous name.”

“Likely,” I repeated patiently as I strode up to the table.

“Likeboys?”

“That does not even sound the same, you silly old fart,” I sighed.

“Oh! It is you, Likely!” the old codger exclaimed as I stood mere inches away from his face. “I recognise you now!” He paused. “Wait a moment, I hate you. Oh, yes I remember now! You were an awful boy, Likely. You really were! A terrible, terrible deviant, absolutely no good at all!”

“He seems rather astute for a man of his advanced years,” Spunkleford whispered.

“Thank you, sir, you are too kind,” I grinned, ignoring Spunkleford’s slur upon my good name. I picked up a bottle of champagne from the table and swigged at it, an act I immediately regretted. “Ugh. That tastes like piss. I would have thought you might have splashed out on something a little more luxurious, you cheap bastard.”

“Bears turd? What are you rambling on about, Likely? Sit down at once, or else…”

“Or else you’ll beat my firm buttocks again? Aye, I’d wager you would relish such an opportunity, you wrinkled old pervert. Bottoms up, eh?” With that I held the champagne bottle up above my head, then threw it onto the floor.

“Good heavens, Likely!” spluttered Spunkleford as the bottle shattered into a thousand cheap pieces.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” cried Gumbumble as the excited chatter from my ex-classmates subsided. “What do you think you are doing, boy?”

“Terribly sorry, sir,” I replied. “Why don’t you call the janitor?”

“Why should I want to call the janitor anything? He’s a rather pleasant chap, by all accounts.”

“Just summon the janitor, you wretched old coot,” I sighed.

But Mr. Gumbumble did not have to summon anyone, for at that precise moment the caretaker himself entered the hall, carrying a mop and bucket. He was a reasonably well-built man, with blonde hair, and had a large-peaked hat on, which conveniently covered most of his face. The man passed by me and got to work clearing up the mess.

“Awfully sorry, old boy,” I said as the cleaner mopped up the bubbly. “I am so very clumsy sometimes. Mind you, it was not a terribly good champagne, to be honest. Why don’t you take a closer look, and let me know what you think?”

With that, I tripped the man over and then forced his face into the sodden floorboards with my boot.

“Saints preserve us!” exclaimed Gumbumble. “Likely has gone quite, quite loopy!”

“Good God, Likely! Leave that man alone!” barked Spunkleford.

“This is no man, Inspector,” I said calmly. “This is a maggot. A filthy, pathetic little maggot by the name of Harold Loathsome!“

Upon crying out Loathsome’s name, I triumphantly whipped off the bounder’s hat and cast it aside. There was a stunned silence, before a small voice piped up.

“That’s not Harold Loathsome,” it said.

I pulled the man’s head back in order that I might get a better look for myself, and found myself looking at the face of a complete and utter stranger.

“Well, of course it doesn’t look like Loathsome. He is, after all, a master of disguise!” I said hopefully, and then I began to set about the man’s head, desperately searching for the edges of a mask, or the tell-tale signs of a wig. Neither were forthcoming, and all I wound up with was a rather intense feeling that everything was beginning to go distinctly tits-up.

Furthermore, I had filthy commoner all over my hands.

Finally, Spunkleford had seen quite enough and dragged me away from the man, at which point the school bell suddenly chimed the hour. It was three o’clock, and on the third strike a body suddenly hurtled past one of the hall’s window. A body which – although glimpsed only briefly – rather resembled a certain man-servant of mine.

I gulped. Absolutely everything was going wrong, and wrong is not a word with which I am well acquainted. Indeed, if I were to pass wrong in the street, I dare say I would not recognise it at all.

In short, it felt like the bottom had fallen out of my world.

And if the feeling in my guts was anything to go by, the world would be falling out of my bottom shortly thereafter.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Is Botter really dead?

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Announcement! His lordship has been thrilled to the point of ejaculation by the fact that over three-thousand people have dropped by his journals over the course of the past twenty-four hours. Truly, that is something worth celebrating, and his lordship extends a moist welcome to any new readers…although he would like to know one thing: what took you so ruddy long?

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“Well bless my soul! Is that little Lord Likely I can see? What an unexpected surprise!” beamed Professor Ventricle, my old biology teacher, as he entered his classroom wherein I was currently ensconced.

“The one and the same, sir,” I replied. “Although I am no longer little, I hasten to point out.”

“Indeed…indeed..” Ventricle replied. “And…um…who is this with you, may I ask?”

“Oh, her?” I said, indicating to the delightful Lizzie Flapkiss, whom I had artfully seduced into accompanying me to the classroom. “Why, this is Miss Elizabeth Flapkiss.”

“Ah, yes,” Ventricle said. “Used to have a face like a cat’s anus, as I recall.”

“That’s right.”

“Good…good…may I just enquire as to what Miss Flapkiss is doing bent over my desk with her buttocks exposed to one and all?”

“Well, Professor, I am afraid to report that Miss Flapkiss has been terribly ill-behaved, and thus I have decided to punish her by giving her six of the best, and soundly thrashing her behind with this cane, here.”

“I’ve been terribly naughty!” panted Lizzie.

“I see, I see. Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” Ventricle mused, stroking his long, thin, grey beard. “I am still slightly confused, though, Likely.”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Well, why are you also thrusting your penis roughly into her arse-hole?”

“Ah, yes. Well, that is to teach her a little humility, my dear Professor.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. To be quite frank all I am actually doing is having rough, kinky sex with an extremely attractive bit of totty.”

Ventricle nodded. “Ah-ha! I thought as much, to be honest. You do not spend thirty-two years as a biology teacher without recognising the act of intercourse, you know.”

“Indeed not,” I concurred as I continued to thrust deeply into Lizzie’s back passage. “I cannot fool you, Professor!”

“I must say, I am very glad to see all of my lessons did not go unheeded. You yourself seem to have an excellent knowledge of biology.”

“I pride myself on being exceptionally intimiate with all parts of the female form,” I smiled, as I refocused my attentions on pounding the hell out of Lizzie’s anus.

Ventricle chuckled gently.

“Ah, but where are my manners?” I gasped, mid-thrust. “I am sure young Lizzie here would not mind tending to your own todger with her mouth and lips…”

“Not at all, not at all,” smiled Lizzie.

“Oh, how frightfully decent of you,” Ventricle remarked, positioning himself in front of Lizzie’s head, and unbuttoning his trousers.

“Think nothing of it,” I remarked, resuming my own erotic exertions.

“So,” Ventricle continued, as Lizzie took his flaccid flesh-pole into her mouth. “I presume you are here for the reunion?”

“Partly,” I answered as I watched my Lord Palmerston slide in and out of Lizzie’s filth-tube. “However, it seems I have found myself embroiled in another great adventure, as I am currently trying to track down the murderous fiend who has already taken two lives here at St. Bumthrusty’s.“

“Ah yes, a terrible business. Terrible,” sighed the Professor. “Tell me, do you suspect anyone of this foul play?”

“Indeed I do, indeed I do,” I began, but was interrupted by a knock at the classroom’s door, and then a young gentleman in his early twenties entered, carrying a tea-tray.

“Excuse the interruption, Professor,” said the chap. “I bought you some tea.”

“Thank you, m’boy!” beamed Ventricle. “Likely, meet Hedgerow, my laboratory assistant. He’s a frightfully good stick, tremendously helpful.”

“You are most kind, sir,” Hedgerow responded, placing the tea-tray down on one of the desks. “Would your guests care for some tea as well, Professor?”

“Likely? Cup of tea, dear boy?” asked Ventricle.

“Why not?” I replied.

“Jolly good. And Lizzie?…”

“I’m fine thank you professor,” Lizzie replied, taking a momentary pause from her cock-gobbling duties. “I’m not thirsty at the moment.”

“Fine, fine. Just two cups of tea then, Hedgerow!” chirped Professor Ventricle. Hedgerow nodded, and set about preparing the beverages, while Ventricle urged me to resume my account of the day’s events.

“Yes, well, I strongly suspect the murderer to be a former pupil from the school,” I shouted, in an effort to make my voice heard above the sound of my balls slapping loudly against Miss Flapkiss’ arse. “I believe it is one Harold Loathsome.”

“Loathsome…Loathsome…” mused Ventricle as Lizzie continued to slurp greedily upon his scholarly sperm-stick. “Can’t say the name rings a bell, to be honest.”

“No matter. I’m sure I shall apprehend him nonetheless, and save the day once more. Ah, thank you Hedgerow,” I said, as Ventricle’s assistant passed me a cup of tea. Hedgerow smiled, and as he leant over to give the professor his tea, Lizzie stretched out a dainty hand and slowly began stroking the lad’s groin.

“Oh-ho!” I remarked as I sipped my tea. “It seems like Miss Flapkiss has a thirst for more penis!”

“So it does!” agreed Ventricle. “Go on, Hedgerow! Don’t be embarrased! Join us, won’t you?”

Hedgerow looked a little unsure for a moment, but then he seemed to come round to the idea, and soon enough he had dropped his trousers and was enjoying some fine hand-relief from the lovely Lizzie.

“So, Likely, where do you suppose this Loathsome chap is now, then?” Ventricle asked.

“I imagine he is close by, biding his time before his next attack,” I replied, gently inserting two fingers into Lizzie’s increasingly wet vagina. “However, so far all my attenpts to track him down have proven rather fruitless, I am afraid to say.”

“GERALD!” screamed a new voice, which rather served to put me off my stroke. We all turned our heads to see a rather thin, middle-aged woman, her blonde hair pulled up into a rather tight bun. She was stood in the doorway, looking less than impressed with Professor Ventricle’s current leisure pursuit.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ventricle. “Veronica! How delightful to see you…”

“Don’t you Veronica me, Gerald.” snapped the lady. “You were supposed to meet me outside the school fifteen minutes ago, remember? We are supposed to be going to visit my mother!”

“Blast it!” Ventricle said, slapping his forehead. “I completely forgot, darling. I am so sorry…”

“It simply will not do, Gerald,” Veronica huffed, crossing her arms. “I”ve been sat outside in a cold cab, waiting on you, when all the time you’ve been in here getting your love-pump licked by some strumpet or other.”

“Lizzie Flapkiss,” smiled Lizzie, as she prepared to move her mouth from Ventricle’s shaft to that of Hedgerow.

“Hm,” sniffed Veronica.

“Excuse me, madam!” I interjected. “Maybe, while you are here and all, you might like to partake in our friendly little foursome?”

The lady stared at me for moment, then relented. “Well, I suppose I have come all the way up here,” she said, unbuttoning her jacket.

“That’s the spirit!” I grinned. “You can squeeze in here, if you’d like to tongue Elizabeth’s mimsy for a while.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Veronica consented, kneeling down beside me. “I find the taste of quim most agreeable.”

“Splendid. I’m Lord Likely, by the way,” I said, tipping my hat.

“Veronica Ventricle,” replied the professor’s wife, as she maneuvered herself under Lizzie’s mossy mound. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Cup of tea?” offered Hedgerow, stretching across to the tea-tray while young Elizabeth sucked upon his nob-end.

“Mmmm,” consented Mrs. Ventricle, her mouth otherwise occupied.

“One lump or two?”

“I’ll take both,” chuckled Lizzie, taking Hedgerow’s scrotum into her mouth.

“My wife doesn’t take sugar, Hedgerow,” Ventricle said, as Lizzie furiously worked away on his tallywhacker with her spare hand.

“Cream?”

“I think I may well do so at any minute,” replied Ventricle, and surely enough he subsequently did just that.

Hedgerow, meanwhile, finished preparing a fresh cup of tea, and placed it beside the Professor’s wife, who acknowledged the generous gesture with a muffled ‘thank you’.

“Likely,” continued Ventricle. “I’ve been thinking…about the school janitor…”

“Whatever helps you get in the mood, my good man!”

“No, no, no…you misunderstand. Last week we took on a new janitor here at the school, after the previous one died in a mysterious raking accident.”

“Raking accident?” I repeated, my interest piqued.

“Yes. It seems the poor fellow accidentally fell on his own rake seventeen times whilst clearing up some leaves last week.”

“Oh dear.”

“Indeed. Then the unfortunate man accidentally hurled himself into the furnace. One day later, we had a new janitor…a rather quiet, blonde-haired chap…”

“Oh! Oh! OH!” I exclaimed.

“What? What is it, Likely? Are you getting an idea?”

“No, my dear professor, I believe I am about to ejaculate.”

“Allow me!” chimed Mrs. Ventricle, disengaging herself from Lizzie’s flaps and angling her face towards my throbbing Palmerston.

“Many thanks indeed,” I said, doffing my hat while I spurted forth arcs of silken man-paste into Mrs. Ventricle’s waiting mouth. “Actually, Professor, I think there may be something in this janitor business of which you speak…tell me, when did you last see the new chap?”

“It must have been about an hour or so ago,” Ventricle recalled. “He was talking to a fellow I didn’t recognise at all…small fellow, wore a bowler hat, seemed quite wretched…”

“Botter!” I cried, as Mrs. Ventricle gleefully swallowed my noble nut-cream. “Buggeration! If this new janitor is indeed Loathsome in disguise…then my man-servant may be in mortal trouble…”

I paused as fear gripped my entire body.

“…or he’s already dead.”

Silence descended upon the room.

“Now, what say we all swap positions here, and have another bash?” I beamed.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Botter Beware!

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“Well, come on, man!” Spunkleford exclaimed. “Who exactly is this Loathsome fellow? Why do you suspect him of these terrible crimes? Speak up, man! Why must you keep us all in such terrible suspense?!”

I was looking out of the school kitchen’s window, lost in a mixture of quiet contemplation and remembrance of times past.

“Harold Loathsome,” I said eventually, “is one of the most wretched souls to have e’er walked this earth.”

“Really?” scoffed Inspector Spunkleford.

“Harold Loathsome’s evil knows no bounds, my dear inspector. There lies a darkness in his soul that permeates every fibre of his being, and which engulfs all those who are unfortunate enough to come into contact with the wretched cove; no matter how brief their encounter. He is the devil incarnate, a walking abomination who would destroy us all if he could.”

“Good heavens!” Spunkleford cried, his face ashen with fear.

“Furthermore,” I continued, turning away from the window to address the white-faced crowd. “He once reported me to my own father, simply because I was slipping out of school to get pissed.”

“Ye Gods!” spluttered Spunkleford. “What a rotter!”

“I know, I know,” I shook my head sadly. “He really is a massive bell-end.”

“And do you really believe that this bounder really poses a threat to you, Likely?” Spunkleford asked.

“Loathsome has killed twice already, my good inspector. I dare say he shall be willing to kill again. I would imagine he still holds some small ill-feeling towards my good self, after I successfully managed to get the swine exiled to Africa when he was but fourteen years of age.”

“Good gracious!” Spunkleford ejaculated (though not literally, I am happy to report). “Well, yes, I suppose that would leave one feeling rather sore. I must confess, Likely, that if I was in Loathsome’s shoes, I would probably have already killed you dead! In fact, I imagine I would have probably stabbed you many times over, in a bloody, revenge-fuelled frenzy of horrific proportions! And then, furthermore, I think I would probably have curled out a giant poop into your deceased mouth, and then set fire to your awful, bastard corpse!”

There was a lengthy silence as Spunkleford regained his composure, while I did my best to discreetly move myself several feet further away from the disturbed detective.

“Well…thank you for that little outburst, inspector,” I said finally, from my new vantage point behind a spice-rack. “That really was most…edifying. And now, if you have quite finished being totally insane, I think I shall press on to the reunion, and see if anyone has seen anything of Loathsome…”

I strode into the school hall, where a rather elegant banner had been hung from the ceiling, which warmly welcomed us to ‘St. Bumthrusty’s School Reunion for the Class of 1831‘, in wonderful cursive script.

Beneath the banner my old classmates were busy chattering away to each other over a selection of fine wines and delicious hors d’oeuvres, laughing and chuckling in equal measure as they recollected tales of their long-gone schooldays.

I recognised some of the people gathered about; over there, by the punch-bowl was Spotty Flapkiss; beside him Peter P. Petersson; there was Duncan Biscuits (‘Soggy’ Biscuits had been his nick-name, due to a most humourous and ribald tale I may recount at a later time); Filthy Daniel was stood over by the door, next to Speccy Spencer and Charlie Poleblow; and over by the stage was Nobby Henderson, ‘Wanky’ McWank and Tommy Ticklestick-Thinn. Quite an array of familiar faces, and I had quite forgotten exactly how much I despised the majority of them.

I quickly snapped myself out of my nostalgic reverie. It was no use getting caught up in my own memories: there was still a killer stalking the grounds, and I had to find him before he dispatched any more of the Class of 1831 or worse – me.

I marched purposefully over to the group huddled around the punchbowl.

“Likely!” beamed Peter P. Petersson, extending a hand I chose not to shake.

“Good heavens, is that really ol’ Likely? Splendid to see you, old chap!” chimed in Spotty, offering another unaccepted hand.

“We were just talking to Duncan here…seems to be doing rather well for himself, don’t you know? Tell Likely what you told us, old boy!” Petersson rambled on, ignoring my evident disinterest.

“Yah, well I was just telling the chaps here…I have my own business now, yah,” droned Duncan. “Investments, savings and loans, that whole game. We’re doing terrifically well, posted some rather impressive figures at the end of the financial year…”

“Really?” I said, stifling a yawn. “Well, I am still filthy cocking rich, and I imagine I have had more sex in the past year than you’ve had tedious, soul-sapping meetings about interest rates and credit notes. Now listen, have any of you seen Harold Loathsome at all?…”

“Why you beastly little…” Duncan began, his face crimson with rage.

“Loathsome? My, what an awful little weasel that man was!” Spotty recalled. “I don’t know if he was even invited, to be honest, Likely. I certainly haven’t seen him here at all…”

“Right, well thank you, gentle-men. Now if you shall excuse me I must…oh! Hello! And who is this radiant beauty?” I said, noticing that there was a rather gorgeous, buxom brunette standing behind Spotty, quietly sipping some punch.

“Oh! Yes, you remember my sister Lizzie, don’t you Likely?” Spotty said, putting a friendly arm around his sensational sibling.

“Why, of course I do!” I grinned, laying a kiss upon Lizzie’s hand. “It has been a fair old while though, has it not? You’ve certainly…grown.”

Lizzie certainly had grown. I distinctly remembered meeting Ms. Flapkiss on the few occasions Spotty’s family picked him up or dropped him off at school. Back then, she had been rather short and squat, with a most angry little face, her features permanently scrunched up in anger, like a cat’s arse-hole.

“I remember you,” Lizzie sneered, withdrawing her hand quickly. “You used to be awfully cruel to me. You used to call me ‘Lizzie Cat-Anus Face’.”

I smiled wearily. That certainly wasn’t one of my more creative nicknames, it had to be said.

“Well, m’dear, I can only apologise for my younger self’s abhorrent manners. Suffice to say, the Likely you see before you know is a much more refined gentleman; a man of honour, dignity and grace.”

Lizzie’s face softened.

“I am much relieved to hear that, sir.”

“Jolly good. Now, how about a quick fuck, hmmm?”

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Loathsome Strikes Again!

News Just In! Lord Likely’s official, wretched, jobless scribe Mr. A. D Fanton, has been interviewed by the excellent people at Fuelmyblog. Should you wish to read what the cad has to say about his experiences in the Blogosphere (which I believe may be off the coast of Norway, if I’m thinking correctly), then you may peruse the entire article by CLICKING HERE. A great many thanks to the FMB team for putting up with the wretch’s witterings!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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“Oh dear,” I sighed, as we entered the kitchens of St. Bumthrusty’s. The scene was one of utter chaos; items of cutlery were strewn about the place, food items were spilt everywhere, and slumped next to the stove was the body of a man. I knelt down beside the corpse, which I noticed was covered with a mixture of eggs, milk, and flour. On closer inspection, it seemed that the poor bounder’s head had then been shoved roughly into a pan of boiling oil.

I sighed again, and straightened up.

“I am afraid to say,” I began, addressing the rapt audience before me, “that this poor fellow has been battered to death.“

An audible gasp was raised by the assembled few, while the rather pretty young thing who had alerted us to the crime broke down in tears again.

“There, there, m’dear,” I cooed softly, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders (whilst also taking a quick peep at her fabulous cleavage, naturally). “We shall find the cad responsible, do not fear!”

“Oh, it is awful,” the dear creature sobbed, drying her beautiful, blue eyes on my lapel. “How are we going to get our hands on that many eggs again at such short notice? I am supposed to be baking a big cake for the reunion to-day…and then this happens!”

The poor girl buried her head in my chest, weeping loudly.

“Um…yes, I see,” I said, not altogether seeing. “Well, I am sure the cake would have been delicious, m’dear…”

This attempt at placating the troubled totty failed rather miserably, and only elicited further prolonged wails from her mouth.

I am not the best chap at dealing with such outward displays of emotion, and felt increasingly uncomfortable with a weeping woman in my arms. Being an English aristocrat, I firmly believe that such emotions should be bottled up inside one’s self, until they either explode within you, leading to a full-blown mental breakdown, or letting them gush forth in a torrent of terrible twaddle when pissed out of one’s head. Much more healthy, I am sure you will agree.

Anyway, I unburdened myself of the blubbering beauty, forcing her into the arms of my bemused man-servant, Botter. I dare say Botter was even less equipped to deal with a female in any state, but I had more important things to worry about. A dead body in the kitchen of my old school, for example.

“Do we have any idea who this poor man is?” I asked. “His face is barely recognisable any more.”

Inspector Spunkleford, relishing the chance to finally do some detecting, bounded over to the body of the recently deceased, and began frisking the body earnestly – maybe rather too earnestly, in fact.

“Ahem,” I coughed politely, as Spunkleford continued to rummage through the man’s pockets for slightly too long. “Find anything, Spunkleford? Apart from maybe a new-found preference for the same gender?”

“Ah-ha!” Spunkleford beamed, holding aloft a brown leather wallet. “I believe this shall shed some light on the identity of the victim.”

“There is no need to look so smug,” I sniffed. “Just tell us who it is, man!”

Spunkleford looked slightly crestfallen at this remark, but obliged by opening up the wallet and removing a small business-card from within.

“It seems this fellow is a mister Edward. J. Crotch-Staiyne…he is a banker, apparently…”

“Wait!” I said, as another wretched memory sprang forth into my mind. “What was that surname again?…”

“Crotch-Staiyne,” Spunkleford repeated. “Why? Do you know him?”

“I believe I did,” I nodded sadly. “That is old Crotchy…another of my old school-chums.”

“Crotchy!” gasped Ginger Nadgers. “Oh my! Poor, poor Crotchy.”

“Tell me, Inspector,” I continued, a sense of dread welling up inside of me. “Do we know the name of the teacher who was murdered here earlier?”

“Ah, yes!” Spunkleford exclaimed, retrieving his note-book from his back pocket. “Let me see….ah, yes, here we are…he was a mister…Harrison. Yes, Thomas Harrison.”

“Ginger Harrison,” I sighed. “I had no idea he had become a teacher.”

“How many Gingers were there in your school, milord?” Botter asked, struggling with the still-inconsolable girl in his arms.

“Ginger Harrison wasn’t even ginger-haired,” Ginger Nadgers replied. “I believe he got his name from having been caught molesting the school cat, Ginger, if I recall…”

“Never mind all that bollocks!” I snapped, my brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Do you not see what is transpiring here? Some bastard is offing my old school chums, and has already threatened to see me run through as well. Clearly this is someone who knows something of my school-days…someone who maybe attended this very establishment with me…but not long enough to grasp the very basics of the English language, if his note was anything to go by…”

I froze.

“What is it, Likely?” Spunkleford asked, noticing the look of horror etched across my handsome face.

“I know who the culprit is.” I said slowly. “If my hunch is right – and I am very rarely wrong, of course – then this murderer is Loathsome.”

“Loathsome?” Spunkleford repeated. “Downright despicable, I would say! Now who is it?”

I rolled my eyes in despair. “Loathsome, my dear, slow-witted Inspector, is a name in this instance, rather than an adjective. Although, truth be told, the adjective does suit him well. You see, I am almost one hundred per-cent certain that the killer is none other than…”

I paused for dramatic effect.

“…Harold Loathsome.“

There was a stunned silence.

“Who?” said Spunkleford, rather ruining the mood somewhat, the tedious little twat-bag.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Looking for Loathsome!

Lord Likely would like to thank everyone who sent him birthday well-wishes earlier this week. So wrapped up in his adventures was his lordship, that he quite forgot it was his birthday. Many thanks to you all!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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We all headed towards the large, oak doors of St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys; Botter lagging slightly behind the rest of us, nursing his freshly clobbered cranium.

‘Class of 1832, Please Proceed This Way‘, read a sign affixed to the door, an arrow indicating that we should head around the side of the building, and enter via the back-door.

“Pffft,” I snorted dismissively, tearing the sign down. “We aristocrats never use the side-door, and we certainly never use the back-door!”

“That’s not what I had heard,” Inspector Spunkleford commented wryly.

I raised a weary eyebrow at the disrespectful detective, then I pushed the heavy old doors wide open, and went back to school.

My eyes widened as I beheld the all-too familiar surroundings; ghosts of my past shuffling silently through the empty corridors; raucous, disembodied laughter echoing down the winding staircases; the sound of a spectral school-bell ushering the apparitions of my school-days back to their classrooms.

It was quite enough to drive a man to drink, I can tell you. Luckily, I had already been driven to drink and left there many years before, and so I swigged heartily from my hip-flask as more memories jostled for position in my noble head.

“Bugger me,” I said finally. “I fear this nostalgia is becoming rather too much. So many ruddy memories…”

“Lord Likely?” an unfamiliar voice interjected. “Lord Likely, is that you?”

This was the second time I had been successfully recognised from behind in one day. I suppose that is what comes of having such unforgettably pert and muscular buttocks as I do.

I turned around slowly, and beheld the sight of a rather stern-looking old lady, dressed all in black, seated on an old wicker chair. I did not instantly recognise this elderly crone, but as I leant forward and looked into her eyes, I saw a flicker, a spark, that I had seen many times before.

“Good heavens!” I gasped, drawing back in horror. “Mrs. Agnes Cum-Loudly?”

“Oh-hoh!” beamed the old buzzard, revealing a smile bereft of teeth. “So you still remember your old Latin teacher, do you? Still remember my little pet-name, I hear!”

“Oh!” Spunkleford exclaimed. “So this is the lady who you…well, y’know…uh…”

“Oh, I’ll say he did,” cackled the aged Mrs. Wilkens/Cum-Loudly.

“Veni, vidi, vici…” I whispered in quite recollection. “I came, I saw…”

“…And he bloody well conquered!” Mrs. Cum-Loudly finished, shrieking with delight. I sighed quietly. This whole episode was proving quite traumatic for me; pumping Mrs. Agnes Cum-Loudly whilst she was a firm-buttocked, heavily-knockered TWWIWLTF (Teacher With Whom I Would Like To Fornicate) had been a source of great pride to my younger self. Now, watching the saggy, wrinkled, old prune before me recount our sordid tryst was making me feel rather nauseous, and furthermore it was causing my poor Lord Palmerston to recede into himself – an inverse erection, if you like.

“Oh, Likely here was very good at getting to grips with the Latin tongue,” Mrs. Cum-Loudly continued, clearly relishing the visible discomfort I was currently expressing. “He was also very good at getting to grips with the Latin tits, and all! And the Latin cun-“

“Oh, do be quiet, you fetid old whore!” I barked, unable to stand the continued horror dealt upon me.

“Oh-hoh! It’s no use getting all coy now, Likely! My oh my, you were anything but coy back in school! I could barely keep him off me at times. Randy little thing, he was.”

“Still is,” Spunkleford chimed in, taking a similar glee in the awkwardness bestowed upon me.

“I had heard,” Mrs. Cum-Loudly beamed. “What say we have another go, for old time’s sake, eh?”

“I would rather thrust my penis into a crocodile’s gaping jaws, then loudly besmirch the good name of his mother,” I snapped.

“Oh, come on, boy!” Mrs. Cum-Loudly grinned. “I’ve been reading all about you and your erotic escapades! Why, I’ll bet you’ve learnt some things on your travels, eh? What say the pupil teaches the teacher, hmm? Doesn’t that sound like fun?” she added, licking her craggy lips with her wretched old tongue.

“Listen, you dried-up old tart, I will never – ” I began, but was interrupted by an ear-piercing scream, followed by a far more attractive young lady running to our side.

“You have got to help!” the pretty young thing gasped, her pleasantly fulsome bosom heaving due to her recent exertions. “In the dining room…there…there is a dead man! There has been another murder!”

“Well thank fuck for that!” I cried, earning myself some rather curious looks from the assembled group. “Um…that is to say, this is of course terrible news, and must be investigated at once!”

With that, we all dashed off, but as we left Mrs. Cum-Loudly behind, I could not help but hear her call out after me:

“Ego mos habitum vestri penis iterum!”

Disgusting old cow.

– Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Another Stiff in Bumthrusty’s!

These past couple of days have been nothing but astonishing for his lordship. Firstly, as mentioned previously, The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely were selected as one of the ‘Best of the Web‘ on The Guardian newspaper’s website. I believe this distinction lasts until Monday, so if the link has expired, feel free to go to Mr. A D Fanton’s web-log to see the honour in all its glory (and be sure to offer some sympathy to Master Fanton, who lost his job on Friday, the useless no-good).

Secondly, these self-same journals have been given a wonderful review by Mr. Chris Poirier, over on The Web Fiction Guide. I am sure you will agree, he has been utterly fair, even if he did misplace the fifth star somewhere.

Thirdly, Chelle B, the eminently humpable hostess of humorbloggers.com, has seen fit to honour his lordship by highlighting his journals in the humor spotlight for this entire week. Go forth and bask in the glory, and join up whilst you are there. It is an awfully excellent place, you know. And funny, too!

Finally, but by no means leastly, his lordship has been either honoured or praised by other wondrous web-loggers, including the ever-agreeable Max from British Speak, Mr. Chris Wood, and The Heliograph. Hooray for you all!

Good heavens. At this rate, his lordship’s head will swell to such a size, that no hat will fit him.

Many thanks to each and every one of the above, and to my regular ravishing readers for sticking with TAAoLL. Now let us hope that all of this is just the beginning of a whole new Golden Age of Likely! HUZZAH!

humor-blogs.com, meanwhile, still refuses to work properly.

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Having assured myself that my wretched man-servant, Botter, was not trying to expediate my exit from this life to the next, I turned my attention back to the fact that there was a twisted fiend still on the loose, who had not only murdered a teacher at my old school but who had threatened the same fate upon my lordly self. I had to track this bounder down, and swiftly bring him to justice.

Also, I was rather keen to bash his face into a pulp for even entertaining the notion of slaughtering one as incredible as I.

A hansom cab carried us to the scene of the grizzly crime, the school which I had attended in my early years: St. Bumthrusty’s School For Boys.

As we drew up outside the educational establishment in which I had spent my formative years, I noticed that the old place had barely changed in the ensuing years since my attendance. It still looked as curiously monochrome as I remembered, although it no longer seemed as imposing as it had seemed to my young eyes. Whether that was due to the fact that I was now considerably taller than I was back then, or whether the building had shrunk in the elapsed time, I could not tell. Plus I was rather tipsy, having sipped heartily on my hip-flask of whiskey during our journey.

We all quickly exited the hansom cab, although I must confess that my exit was rather less than graceful, as I seemed to fall out of the cab, rather than step out of it in a dignified manner. Furthermore, I then threw up on the pavement.

Having emptied my stomach thusly, I took the time to soak in the familiar surroundings.

“Ah, yes,” I smiled, as we walked up to the school. “‘Tis all coming back to me now.”

“Oh dear! Are you going to be sick again, milord?” Botter interjected.

“Silence, you irksome bell-end,” I snapped. “I am taking a brief dip in the waters of nostalgia.”

“I think he is really, really drunk,” Botter whispered to Inspector Spunkleford. “He thinks he’s in a river or something.”

I ignored my stupid servant’s blatherings, too wrapped up in the various memories staggering through the booze-fogged haze of my mind.

“Ah, yes,” I smiled, pointing to a wall half-hidden by a large tree. “That was where Ginger Nadgers and I were caught smoking. Heavens, we got in terrible trouble that day. And over there,” I continued, pointing to a part of the courtyard. “There is where Tugger Johnson and I once set fire to Harold Loathsome’s boots. Haha! How we laughed! Well Loathsome did not find it so funny, but he was a bloody twat-hole, so it did not matter.”

“You certainly had the most colourful school-days, Likely,” Spunkleford observed.

“I’ll say!” I beamed. “Why I can still remember the day three of us got blind, roaring drunk on one of the School-Master’s secret stash of gin. We were all discovered, naked and completely comatosed, in that hedge, over there,” I indicated, chuckling at the memory, which Spunkleford echoed. “And right over there,” I said, pointing to a doorway just out of sight. “Is where I gave Mrs. Agnes Wilkins, my old Latin teacher, a damned good rogering, when I was just fourteen years old.”

Spunkleford stopped chuckling, and regarded me with open-mouthed astonishment.

“Good lord, Likely!” he exclaimed.

“Good? She was alright, as I recall. Rather noisy, though. ‘Agnes Cum Loudly‘, I called her. It was a surprise we were never discovered in the act with her screaming and gasping like that.”

I strolled off, lost in my thoughts, leaving a rather shocked Spunkleford in my wake.

“Is that you, Likely?” came a voice behind me, interrupting my particularly erotic reminiscences. I turned sharply on my heels, to face a tall, angular gent with receding hair.

“It is I,” I confirmed.

“I thought it was!” the man beamed. “I recognised your vomit on the side of the road, there. I thought, ‘only one chap can spew in such a perfect circle – that simply has to be Likely’! And I was right! It bally well is you!”

“In the handsome flesh,” I said. “You shall have to forgive me, sir, but I am struggling to place a name to your face. It may be that I am still slightly drunk from earlier, or it could be that we have met before, but you are simply to dull and uninteresting to remember…”

“Ha!” cried the man. “That old Likely humour! Well, I cannot say that I am surprised that you do not remember me, as time has not been so kind to me. The hair is a little further back now, and the colour is somewhat dimmed, but it is I, Likely…Ginger Nadgers!”

“Ruddy hell!” I roared, taking Ginger’s hand in mine and shaking it furiously. “Ginger! What are the ruddy odds? Why, I was just talking about you mere moments ago, you know. Tell me, do you recall the time we were caught smoking behind that tree, there? And that day we were found passed out in that hedge by the wall, there?”

Ginger guffawed heartily as the memories flooded back to him, and we both began babbling at high speed, throwing out memories in all directions, and roaring with laughter at some of our more outrageous exploits.

“Bugger me,” I said, wiping a tear from my lordly eye. “We really were a bunch of terrible reprobates back then, were we not?”

“Indeed!” Ginger agreed. “Although I would say some us are just as bad to-day, eh, Likely?”

“Too bloody right!” I grinned, slapping Ginger heartily on the back. “‘Bummers ‘Til We Die’, eh?”

“Bummers ‘Til We Die!‘” Ginger repeated, hollering our old school motto at the top of his lungs.

“So what brings you back to this old place anyway?” I enquired of my old chum.

“Why, the reunion, of course!” Ginger explained. “Is that not why you are here, Likely?”

“Reunion? I do not recall anything about any reunion. Botter!” I yelled, summoning my miserable man-servant to my side. “Why was I not informed about this reunion, hmm?”

“Uh, well, milord…” Botter stammered. “It’s…well, I…you…”

“Spit it out man!” I bellowed. “Or heaven help me I shall drag it out of you through your filthy anus!”

“Well, you did recieve an invitation, milord. Do you not remember? You told me to throw it in the fire, because you were not inclined to attend as you considered all your former classmates to be…now what was it you said?….ah, yes. You described them as ‘awful, shit-stabbing cretins, who have all amounted to precisely nothing, and who are worth less than a pube on a gnat’s sack.'” Botter concluded.

There was a distictly awkward silence. I regarded Ginger with a weak smile, but found it not quickly reciprocated. Indeed, Ginger’s demeanour had changed considerably, and he was now glowering at me with visible disdain.

“Ha!” I laughed. “You shall have to forgive my man-servant here. He is suffering from a most terrible concussion.”

“I…I’m not suffering from a concussion,” Botter countered, to which I replied by thumping him heavily atop his head, forcing him to collapse to the floor like a sack of particularly unappealing potatoes.

“Shall we go and join in the revelries?” I asked Ginger.

– Lord Likely.

The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely have finally been recognised for their excellence by the national press. To-day, Likely’s journals have been selected as one of the Best on the Web on The Guardian’s website.
Please go here, and peruse the bottom right-hand side: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree Huzzah, and indeed, hoorah!

Next Time in the Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely runs into an old flame!

humor-blogs.com never went to school.

ATTENTION: Lord Likely’s official scribe, Mr. A. D. Fanton, has penned some rather moving and touching verse, which he wishes to share with you, the word-reading masses. Do please take the time to peruse his writings at Digital Sickbag, lest he gets all stroppy and shuts himself in his room for a week.

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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