TIME flies when you are having fun, so the old saying goes – and it is true. Take, for example, the occasion when a particularly amorous lady and I found ourselves so engrossed in a bout of lustful, energetic intercourse that neither of us noticed my posterior ramming into the bed-side cabinet with such vigour that it sent an alarm clock soaring through the air and out of the window. Time did indeed fly that day, and we would have both been quite unaware of this had the clock not chosen to fly into the face of a passing matron. Suffice to say, I was not invited back to that hospital again, and the nurse with which I was entwined was suspended from her duties. Ah, precious memories! 

And to think, it has now been a decade since I took quill to hand and began sharing such memories with you, my adoring general public. Since that fateful day, the course of literature would be changed forever more; Mr. Charles Dickens ceased work on his novel Edwin Drood fearing (quite rightly) that it would not measure up to my astonishing adventures, revealing himself as the half-witted charlatan he truly was, while elsewhere Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle killed off his most famous creation, Sherlock Holmes, after having to accede that the so-called ‘Great Detective’ was nothing more than a cheap, less dashing facsimile of my glorious self, and his adventures mere parodies of my own extraordinary exploits. Ten years on, and hardly anyone remembers this ‘Sherlock Holmes’ character, while Lord Likely remains on the lips of every man and woman throughout the land. Sometimes, quite literally.

Thus, my Astonishing Adventures have easily secured their place in the pantheon of literary greats, alongside Chaucer, Shakespeare and whoever it is who pens the delightful strip-cartoon about the comical drunken vagabond which graces the pages of the London Illustrated News-Sheet. And this success, this astounding legacy is all thanks to you, my loyal readers. Well, more accurately it is clearly thanks to me, for I have done all the hard work in having said adventures and then chronicling them, after all. I do not believe that a single one of you has offered to help me out in transcribing my tales, or deigned to come along and empty my bins while I lock myself away and craft, craft, craft. Not a jot of it. Lazy, that is your trouble. Sheer bloody laziness.

Where was I? Oh yes, thanking you, the reader. Thank you, dear reader!

While literary immortality is already ensured for me, I do not intend to stop there and rest upon my laurels. For one thing, I do not wish to crumple my laurels. Have you ever had crumpled laurels? A terrible thing it is, for a man to have crumpled laurels. Thus, while we stop to reflect on a damnably thrilling decade already passed, we must also find ourselves moist and throbbing with anticipation at the future that lies ahead – and what a future it is! There shall be revelries abound for sure, but perhaps the most exciting of all shall be the publication of my brand-new adventure – The Bellending Club. If you thought that the adventures I have shared so far were sphincter-loosening in their astonishment, then…well, you would be quite correct. That is the correct observation. But the adventures to come shall literally blast your colons inside-out with astonishment. LITERALLY, so brace yourselves, and your trousers.

So! Let us celebrate that which I have done then, but also that which I have yet to do but will do, and then we shall celebrate that which will have been done alongside that which I had already previously done. There shall be a lot of celebrating, simply put.

In summary: HUZZAH FOR ME!

Toodle-pip!

Lord Likely.

Keep in touch with his lordship for further news about his tenth anniversary celebrations – including the forthcoming release of his new tome – by following him on the Book of Faces, or via the Twittering Device. One might also sign up for his noble newsletter, to be kept fully abreast of his doings, and for the chance to win prizes and obtain FREE things.

AS REGULAR readers of these journals will be aware, I am deep in the midst of writing my first ever novel, due for release in the coming months. As anticipation mounts, I thought I would spare some of my precious time to help YOUR literary ambitions, by revealing some useful tips I have learnt over the course of writing this book. My benevolence knows no bounds! 

Here then, is my invaluable and incomparable writing advice. Quills at the ready, ladies and gentle-men!

1. Master the basics.

 My first writing tip would be to make sure that you are writing with the TIP of your writing implement. I can still recall, with considerable pain, the time when I composed an epic fantasy trilogy, comprising three, 900-word tomes, only to find that I had been using the wrong end of my quill throughout the entire enterprise. I had to restart the process from scratch, this time with actual ink on paper, but gave up after the first paragraph as I was so ruddy dispirited by the whole affair at that point. I cannot stress this enough: USE THE RIGHT END.

2. Write it yourself, you lazy cur.

Some lazy, less-talented individuals may decide to take a back seat and employ a ghost-writer to pen their book. This is a false economy indeed, for a ghost-writer cannot hold any sort of writing implement without it passing straight through their hand, so are utterly, utterly useless. In addition, they spend most of their time wailing and moaning and clanking chains, which I get quite enough of from my servants, thank you very much. No, nothing beats your own authentic voice, and furthermore you would not end up wasting so much of your time cleaning ectoplasm off of all your surfaces.

3.  Grab your readers by the balls – the eyeballs, that is – AND NEVER LET THEM GO. 

You have very little time in which to grab your reader’s attention and to keep it. Your readers are busy people, with things to do and other opening paragraphs to read. You need to make an impact, and make an impact FAST, like a rotund gentle-man plummeting off of a diving board. Make the very first word of the book something eye-catching, like ‘KABOOM!’ ‘POW!’ or ‘BREASTS!’ Hook the reader in, then batter them into submission against the tree-stump of your writing. Throw them, blinking and disoriented, straight into the action, as I have done, as demonstrated by this chapter heading from my own forthcoming tome:

Perfect. Absolutely ruddy perfect.

4. Character is key. 

Your characters are everything. Without sufficiently interesting and complex characters, you may as well simply deposit your manuscript beside the toilet, and leave it for others to wipe their filthy backsides on, as that would be the only use it would have to offer. Of course, in my case I am drawing from my own life experiences, and I am a most interesting and complex character indeed, not to mention devilishly handsome, strong, well-endowed and ridiculously attractive. The rest of you can try to make a character as immediately appealing as I (ha! Good luck!) but if all else fails, simply go through your manuscript and replace your main protagonist’s name with the words ‘Lord Likely’ instead. Guaranteed success awaits!

5. Keep your writing fresh.

You may spend hours, days maybe even a few weeks writing your magnum opus, but how do you prevent your writing getting stale as time marches on and your attention span wavers? If you get bored of your work, you can bet every farthing you have that your readers will get bored too, and may well slip into a coma. A coma that YOU caused by your tedious scribblings! To prevent that idea from playing on your conscience, be sure to keep plenty of alcohol on stand-by. I find that I am constantly surprised and thrilled by my own writing if I propel myself into a state of blind, roaring drunkenness as I write. I never know what may flow forth from my sozzled brain, and it is always a delight to return to a manuscript-in-progress the next morning with no recollection of what I wrote the night before. Needless to say, it is ALWAYS astounding.

6. Editing is for the weak.

This may be something approaching heresy among writing circles, but I firmly believe that editing is completely superfluous to requirements, a giant literary con perpetuated by editors over the years to give them something to do. As far as I’m concerned, if you cannot get your story perfect on the first go, then you have no business being in writing and may as well jab the pen right in your eye and slit your own throat with the side of a sheet of paper. If you so much as embark upon a second draft, then you are effectively saying that you are a weak, pathetic creature who cannot write for toffee. A builder does not get to go back, pull some bricks out of his newly-constructed house, and replace them with new ones. A soldier cannot run into a battlefield, and then ask for a second try afterwards as there were some things they felt they could improve upon. You get one shot at everything in life, and writing, I feel, should be no different. As the old adage goes: “If at first you don’t succeed, give up, you terrible, terrible failure.”

7. Ignore writing guides.

There are a lot of other writers who spend their time trying to tell you how to write, and I can guarantee that each and every one of them will be espousing nothing more than complete and utter arse-water. None of them REALLY know what they are doing, for they are all far too drunk to have any firm grasp of what is going on. Some of them may have attained some sort of triumph and think they now know all the answers, but they do NOT. They simply got lucky, and stumbled into success like a drunkard tumbling into a hedge, and in both cases, they’ve ended up somewhere, but have no recollection of how exactly they got there. If writers truly knew what worked, they would have bottled it and used it to guarantee that every single book they write is a smash-hit success and spent their hours swimming about in a vat of gold coins rather than helping the likes of you, you ignorant pauper.

No-one knows what they are doing, no-one has the answers, no-one is your mentor. Except for me, naturally. And now that I have spoken, go forth and do as I do, and I can GUARANTEE* that you shall be writing the next best-seller.

Toodle-pip!

– Lord Likely.

*guarantee not guaranteed.

Lord Likely’s first novel will be available soon. To keep up-to-date with the latest developments, please sign up to his news-letter right now. Or not, but then it would be your loss, to be honest.

THIS WEEK, dear readers, you find me plummeting down the side of a rather tall cliff, rapidly heading towards a doubtlessly painful and potentially messy encounter with the ground below. You may (quite naturally) be wondering how I found myself in such a predicament, so please allow me to elucidate.

I have noticed of late the rise of a curious literary phenomenon, that being the appearance of a vast array of autobiographies penned by the rich and famous, which are cluttering up the shelves of book-shops up and down the land, like literary pigeons depositing their word-droppings into the eyes of anyone passing by.

This year sees publication of such tomes as Mr. Charles Dickens’ ‘What? THE Dickens?’; Sir Robert Peel’s ‘Unpeeled’; Charles Darwin’s ‘The Origin of Charles Darwin’ and ‘Bell Ends’, by Alexander Graham Bell, all vying for the punter’s hard-earned (or hard-inherited) cash. It is certainly a lucrative market, which gave me a rather glorious idea…

“Pah!” I exclaimed, as I slammed shut a copy of Mr. Bell’s book, which I had been reading in the drawing room of my spacious mansion. “Alexander Graham Bell! What has HE done to warrant such a publication, eh?”

“Well, he revolutionised the way we communicate with one another by developing and patenting the telephonic device, milord,” Botter replied.

“Pah!” I repeated. “But did he ever wrestle a bear, I ask you?”

“Not to my knowledge, milord.”

“Precisely! But I have!” I cried.

“As I recall, milord, that was just a rather large lady in a fur coat…”

“Aye, but she was wild!” I beamed. “Anyway, the point remains – my life has been considerably more interesting than these bearded buffoons who have been blessed with biographical books! But where is my autobiography, hmmm? Nowhere, that is where! Well, that is a publishing oversight that I shall attempt to rectify right now! Quick, let us hasten to the ‘Wonder Factory’!”

“The…the what, milord?”

“My STUDY, Botter. Heavens, do try and keep up.”

*****

AS YOU all should know by now, whene’er I embark upon another Astonishing Adventure, I am careful to chronicle it in one of my journals, so that future generations may read them and revel in their sheer majesty, thus keeping my memory alive for time immemorial, if not longer. Once completed, my journals are carefully stored away in the bookcases of my study, which were now being viewed by my considerably widened eyes.

“Bugger me!” I declared as I surveyed the rows upon rows of journals before me. “There are a lot of ruddy journals here!” I plucked one from a shelf, and flipped through its yellowing pages. “Ha-ha! Listen to this, Botter: ‘March the Sixteenth, 1864. My man-servant Botter got his head trapped in some railings today. I had rather a good laugh at his expense, and then helped him free. Several hours later.‘ Ha! Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Botter winced.

“Good times, good times,” I chuckled as I slid the leather-bound volume back in the shelf.

“I must say, milord, I’m rather impressed that you are willing to put so much work into this autobiography of yours…researching through all of these journals will take you months, I’d wager!”

“Oh, scrotums to that, Botter!” I beamed, spinning away from the bookshelf. “I have thought of a far easier, and much more exciting way of preparing for this task! Quick! Let us hasten to the Likely Mobile!” Botter’s face suggested a complete absence of comprehension. “Ready the horse and carriage, you wretched sphincter.”

*****

“MILORD,” Botter said slowly. “I cannot help but wonder why we have come to Death Ridge, and why we are standing at the vey edge of an extremely tall cliff.”

“Ha! Poor, stupid, intellectually-impaired Botter!” I cheered, slapping my man-servant so very heartily on the back that he nearly toppled over the edge. “A small cliff would never suffice!”

“Suffice for what, milord?”

“Let me explain, you poltroon! You see, they say that when a man finds himself in a life-threatening situation, facing near certain death, his entire life flashes before his eyes…”

“Uh-oh…” Botter began.

“Thus, I have decided to hurl myself off this very cliff, so that my life may flash before my eyes, thereby saving me all that terribly tedious research I would otherwise face. And naturally, as I have lived such a full, rich and exciting life, I shall need a very tall cliff from which to leap, as opposed to a much smaller cliff which would be more than adequate for someone like yourself, who has lived a very dull and remarkably uninteresting life. Do you see? ‘Tis rather ingenious, is it not?”

Botter shook his head. “If you shall forgive me for saying so, milord, I think it is rather – ”

“It is, rather!” I beamed. “Toodle-pip!”

And with that, I jumped right off the cliff, which is where you came in, dear readers.

And as I began my descent towards the decidedly solid ground below, my life did indeed begin to flash before my very eyes. My plan was working PERFECTLY.

I could see myself as a mere lad, playing and frolicking on the grounds of the Likely Estate – ah, such fun! And there I was, being caught reading some pornographic literature behind the old oak tree, my father quickly confiscating said pamphlet from me…

My father. Lord Eustace Likely, Gentle-Man Explorer – a hero to millions, and a father to me, or at least he was, until he buggered off when I was six years-old. I had since presumed him to be dead, but a recent run-in with my arch-nemesis Lord Loathsome had revealed to me that he was still very much alive. I should really go and look for him, I suppose. But what if he has forgotten me? What if he simply does not care? What if he turns out to be a massive, terrible twat-hole? The disappointment could kill me!

Damn that Loathsome for imparting that news to me. Damn him to Hades, the snivelling little tit-sack.

Ha! Tit-sack. Tit. TITS. Hmm….

Suddenly a stream of memories relating to the ladies I have pumped over the years trickled through my mind, forming an ocean of breasts, a sea of vaginas and a beautiful, babbling brook of buttocks. Ah, so many beauties! Ladies, female pirates, sensual Russian spies, bakers, paupers, wives, dancers…so many notches had been carved upon my bedpost that it had been whittled down to a toothpick. Ah, happy times!

Hmmm, I pondered as I tumbled through the air, I wonder how my dear Dorothy Mount-Worthy is keeping? It has been a while since I last beheld her fine form, and longer still since I last bedded that fine form. Ah, what a woman! She was one of the few ladies who could lay claim to my heart as well as my ‘part’. The last I heard she had returned to her husband, Count Mount, a fellow I always thought had one too many vowels in his title to adequately describe him.

Ah, well, I sighed as I continued my downward trajectory. There is plenty more fish in the sea, as they say. But in all honesty, I don’t really want to have sex with a fish. A mermaid might be interesting, I suppose, although it’d depend largely on which half is which. The traditional mermaid build, with a human upper-half and fishy lower-half does not really work for me. If it was the other way around, then one is blessed with a chuff AND a creature with a mouth that looks like it was designed with fellatio in mind. Perfect!

Good heavens, now I’m incredibly aroused, I mused.

And then I hit the ground.

*****

I AWOKE with a start.

“Wh-where am I?” I blurted.

“‘Tis alright, my lord,” said Botter, carrying a tray of broth over to me. “You are back home, in your own bed.”

“How…why…who…what the ARSE is going on?” I snapped, springing up into a sitting position.

“You were rather lucky, milord. You landed on a group of schoolchildren who were collecting seashells on the shore”

“Oh,” I laid back gently. “Anything broken?”

“A dozen conch, a bucket of wentletraps and you also crushed their teacher’s cockles.”

“Well, that’s alright then.” I smiled weakly.

“Did you at least manage to see your entire life flash before your eyes milord? Have you now got adequate notes for your autobiography through this foolhardy scheme?”

“Er…no, sadly not. I got rather…distracted. I fear we shall have to find a bigger cliff, I simply have too much life to recall!” I paused. “Either that, or I shall get you to do all the research for me, Botter.”

“Very good, milord.”

I smiled and allowed my eyes to gently close once more. One day, I thought, one day I shall compile my adventures into the world’s most thrilling book. ONE DAY.

And who knows? Maybe there shall even come a time in the future when all of my adventures are transmitted through a series of wires, to strange glowing boxes all across the Empire.

At any rate, I confidently anticipate that I shall still be much celebrated and admir’d for centuries to come. I am much to marvellous to fade into obscurity.

Unlike that Dickens fellow.

– Lord Likely.

Do Not Forget!

His lordship is still collecting funds for Movember, in aid of The Prostate Cancer Charity. Click here to find out more, and to donate!

PLUS!

Do take a moment to VOTE for The Astonishing Adventures as the toppest of all web-fiction, by clicking here. No registration required, just a quick click to show his lordship you adore him so! Many thanks!

– Lord Likely

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I wonder if I may momentarily interrupt my recollections about my damned voyage to America, to inform you all of a rather bizarre occurrence which befell me recently.

What am I saying? Of course I cocking-well may momentarily interrupt – these are my ruddy journals and I shall do as I damned well please!

So, to business.

As a rich and charming member of the aristocracy, with a gargantuan todger, I receive many more marriage proposals than the next man (the next man, in my instance, happens to be my man-servant, Botter, so such a boast really is not all that impressive once you take into consideration Botter’s foul and ungodly nature).

To expedite the process of sifting through the countless proposals, I devised a rather splendid questionnaire, featuring some carefully thought-out questions designed to single-out those ladies best suited to marrying one such as wondrous as myself.

The first lady-in-waiting to partake in my rigourous interrogation was a Miss Lisa Phegan, who also went by the pseudonym ‘LoopyLisa21f‘. Her frankly beguiling answers to my perfectly pertinent questions are reproduced for your enjoyment and/or bewilderment:

Application for Title of ‘Ladyship’

Name:

Lisa Phegan. Sometimes known as LoopyLisa21f, or “Self-Powered Nancy”, my super-hero name if I was one… I’d basically just travel around in an electric wheelchair, solving crimes and that – like a cross between Professor X, Batman, and the Tour de France (or, as my dad calls it, “The Wheel-Ponce Jamboree”).

Age:

21

Title (the proletariat are considered for ladyship, but must be in possession of a cracking set of jubblies to compensate for lack of noble blood):

Ms. Or miss. Or mussss.

Physical Attributes (please enclose pictorial reference, preferably a nude photograph):
(photo attached)

Name three (3) household chores at which you excel:

I’m pretty good at all the household chores. My dad has a phobia of all things around the house, and spends most days just screaming, and reeling away from stuff. Consequently, I pretty much have to do everything: cleaning, weaning, gilding, gliding, guilding, welding, wielding, building, Bill Ding…

Describe yourself in twenty words (one of which should ideally be ‘buxom’ or ‘comely’):

Buxom, comely, homely, hairless, uninfected, splintered, sore, pus-y (as in relation to pus), winded, honked-up, Tarzan, Scrabble-liker, tucked-in, tall midget, sassy.

Are you wealthy?
Not really. I’m currently £44.58 overdrawn. Craig subscribed me to a Viagra mail order service for a joke, and it’s draining my bank account dry. I keep phoning them to say I don’t need a daily delivery of Viagra, but they haven’t stopped the direct debit yet, and just laugh at me down the phone.

Unfortunately, the dog got into the Viagra at the weekend, and ate most of it. It had much the effect you might imagine, but the dog also started foaming at the mouth and eyes, and making this sort of weird grunting noise while jerking its head from side to side, like it was trying to shake off a load of flies. The dog did this for six hours. Also: it had intimate relations with my dad for a further six hours.

Are you adept at using any weapons?
Not really, dear. I used to do judo, but the judo teacher fell out of a window one day, and snapped his thorax in four places. After that I realised that judo wasn’t much use, and stopped going. What’s the point of learning a martial art if you can’t even levitate, or develop and impervious thorax?

Have you ever been in a fight? If so, please furnish further details:
I had loads of fights with Craig, but the worst one we ever had was over a game of Subbuteo. It was awful. He tried to do a nude pitch invasion, and I had to wrestle him behind the sofa before my father’s golf friends saw. And then something even more awful happened – Craig fell backwards onto the pitch, and got a goalie wedged up his cracksie. We had to take him to casualty, and they used a special pair of tongs to remove it, and then Craig told the doctor it wasn’t the first time he’d had Seamen up his bottom.

The doctor seemed to get deeply offended by this, and refused any further treatment. I don’t really know why. Maybe because the goalie was actually Edwin van der Sar, and maybe because Craig also tried to rub himself up against some medicine.

Have you ever killed another human being, or cockney?
I’ve never killed either one of those things. The biggest thing I ever killed was a proboscis monkey. I accidentally drove over it at a safari park. Craig got out, picked it up, shoved it in the glove compartment, and then it was in there for about a week until Craig took it out and fried it up. He just put its nose in a bap, and ate it with some poupon, guy!

What is your preferred tipple?
The left one.

What is the drunkest you have ever been?
I only ever get drunk when Craig makes me drink. He gets really down sometimes, and says that the only thing which will cheer him up is watching me drink myself unconscious. I’d prefer it if he got drunk with me, rather than just sitting there, watching in silence as I down a bottle of schnapps. Also, sometimes he gets me to spin around and around until I’m sick on myself. He quite likes that too.

Would you be able to sire an heir for his lordship?
You talk really funny, dear. I had to look up what that meant (I thought it was something to do with horses). I’m not sure if I ever want to have children. I get all silly when I hold babies, and get an urge to bite them. I always imagine that they are made of marshmallow. But it turns out that they’re not, and that you can be arrested for biting babies. And that they’re more likely to press charges if you do it more than once.

How many times a week would you perform the sex-act upon your new husband?
I… it… I can’t answer that. You’ve made me blush so hard that I’ve ruptured my eardrum.

What is your preferred sexual position? (eg: The Squatting Cleric, The manatee, The Reverse Handshake etc)

There goes the other one (the other eardrum – that’s not the name of a sexy position).

Would you object to your partner making sexual congress with others, with and/or without yourself present?

Now my shoes have burst.

Have you ever touched another lady on the breast? (Please give explicit detail, referencing erotic lithographs as and when appropriate):
Only my mother when she was breastfeeding me. She only tried it the once, though, and gave up because it hurt. After that she bought a small cow, and fed me directly from that. On the same subject, do you think boy cows find udders sexy?

Would you willingly lay down your life for your lordship, should he find himself under attack from natives, beggars or whores?
I don’t think so. I suppose I could try and teach him some techniques to avoid getting into scrapes. My dad always said that the best way to avoid getting beaten up is to just keep apologising. I got mugged once, and I just spent the whole time saying sorry for putting them out. It didn’t work (they stole my purse and helmet), but at least it didn’t escalate. Also, manners cost nothing. Except in my case they cost me a purse, and the cost of a cycle helmet.

Are you gagging for it?

Gagging? Is that what happens when you put some cloth over a person’s mouth? Are you trying to kidnap me in some way? You know: kidnap me via questionnaire?

*****

Well, after I had read this application through, my interest was piqued, and my ‘Lord Palmerston’ (as I am wont to calling my proud penis) was on full alert. But that was only the peak of this oh-so erotic iceberg, for then I clapped eyes upon the photograph she had enlosed with her form:

Oh! What beauty! What grace! What alluring five o’clock shadow! Oh, how my heart soared and my balls tightened – could this glorious creature be the one?

I was expressing my joy to a friend of mine, Lord SuperFitGuy1821, over a glass of whisky at a society gathering, when he suddenly dropped his glass in shock and horror, and furthermore, his monocle popped straight out of his eye and into his soup.

“Egads, Likely!” he gasped. “LoopyLisa? I know that blasted name all too well, sir! I too was courted by this slovenly wench, but it was not until I met up with her for a dinner date that I realised the horrible, shocking truth…”

“That ‘she’ is in fact a ‘he’, perchance?” I replied, coolly.

“Precisely, Likely!”

“Oh, I am well aware of that,” I said, dismissively. “I am not a cretin, nor a fool, nor a cretinous fool. Man or woman, however, I cannot help feel that I would like to pump this divine creature all the same, in one hole or another.”

Upon further research, I discovered that LoopyLisa was the creation of a gentle-man called Mr. Biffo, from London Town. Furthermore, he has written an entire book, featuring transcripts of his torrid encounters with lust-crazed men, whilst in the guise of this Lisa character. The tome is called ‘Confessions of a Chatroom Freak‘, and is, I am reliably informed by those who dare venture near the commoners, available in all good bookshops, and here.

I urge you all to spend your hard-earned pennies on purchasing a copy of this book, so you too can fall under LoopyLisa’s bewitching spell, and also enjoy a jolly good laugh.

In the meantime, if this mysterious ‘Mr. Biffo’ character is still out there….please, do get in touch. I promise to be gentle.

– Lord Likely, who will continue his tale of his journey to America at the week-end.

Thanks to Mr. Biffo for his co-operation in today’s journal entry.

Finally, please observe Lord Likely’s guide to telling if your dinner-date is a man, published HERE.

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