Oh, the agony.

My poor, noble noggin feels like it has been viciously pummeled by a drunken boxer this morning.

Inspector Albert Spunkleford had organised a massive banquet for me, in recognition of my tireless work in solving the riddle of the runaway Romanov, and thereby saving the entire world. I daresay he was also still feeling guilty about accusing me of murder, and wanted to make amends. Whatever his motives, I gratefully received his invitation as there is nothing I enjoy more than a good banquet. (Except, possibly, intercourse with a lady). I even allowed my man-servant Botter to accompany me. Not only had he been extraordinarily useful on our last adventure, but I would also need someone to keep watch over my hat and coat, and to drive me back home should I become too roaring drunk to even stand.

So, at half-past seven, yesterday evening, Botter and I arrived at Hungwell Hall, a fine venue located in the country. The cream of society were there, lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses and even his Royal Highness, the Prince of Norfolk.

The meal itself was sumptuous. We ate cow legs stuffed with duck’s bills, fried otter on a bed of rice, soused squirrel in a gin sauce, and pineapple and shrew chunks on little cocktail sticks. Absolutely delicious.

Alas, that is about as far as my recollections of the evening go. Beyond that, I fear I drunk rather too much whisky, washed down with generous helpings of more whisky. Suffice to say, ‘drunk’ does not begin to describe the extent of inebriation I found myself in.

Reports on what actually occurred at the party vary, but so far I have been able to martial these following facts from some reliable sources:

1. I urinated into a punch bowl, then drank from the same bowl moments later, having forgotten that I had pissed in it.

2. I vomited over the Prince of Norfolk on no less than three separate occasions.

3. I ruined a valuable portrait of Lord Hungwell’s mother, by adding some crudely drawn breasts upon her person, and a speech bubble saying, “I am a massive slut with a massive vagina” above her head.

3. I picked a fight with the Duke of Kent, resulting in me tipping a rather priceless grandfather clock upon the Duke’s head. Both the clock and the Duke were broken in the melee.

4. I swung from a chandelier, with my trousers around my ankles, while screaming, “I am the swinging Lord!” at the top of my voice.

5. I threw Spunkleford into a fireplace. While the fire was lit. I allegedly joked that he was “a flaming bastard” shortly thereafter.

6. I was introduced to the Count and Countess des Pantalons, a charming French couple visiting with the Hungwells. I was also introduced to their three lovely daughters, who I later engaged in a vigorous bout of intercourse. On the dining table. In the main hall. In full view of everyone in attendance.

Suffice to say, I was soon forcibly ejected from the house, and told never to return. Dear, faithful Botter tried his best to get me back in the carriage, and safely back to the Likely estate, but apparently I spent half the journey claiming that I hated him, and trying to force my fist into his ear. Then, I spent the other half of the journey claiming that I loved him, and trying to force my penis into his ear.

All in all, it seems I had an excellent night, and I eagerly await the next function.

Now, however, I am going to have a nice, relaxing bath and a cool glass of whisky. Just as soon as Botter has successfully tended to his bloodied and spunk-filled ear.

- Lord Likely.

> Subscribe in a reader

It was a good half an hour or so before the police, led in earnest by Inspector Albert Spunkleford, finally arrived on the scene. Two of the officers immediately set about untying Romanov from the chair upon which we had imprisoned him, while Spunkleford hastened over to Botter, who was busily tending to my wounded arm.

“Good evening, gents,” he said cheerily, clearly pleased as punch to be doing some proper police work for a change.

“Spunkleford.” I replied, in a terse and rather curt manner, designed to remind Spunkleford that not only was he not in my good books at present, but he was not even a footnote in the glossary at the back of my good books.

“Um…uh…good…good work,” Spunkleford stammered, clearly sensing my growing resentment. “Really…really first class job.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You thought me to be a criminal, Spunkleford. ” I said calmly.

“Well…uh…you…we…I…I…” the detective blabbered.

I allowed the Inspector to work himself up into quite a lather, before my heart softened and my anger faded. Spunkleford was not a bad man by any means, just a bad judge of character. And a terrible dresser.

“Do not concern yourself any further, Spunkleford,” I said, brightly. “We shall not let a little thing like a misdirected accusation of murder come between us. Although, you should be grateful that I am currently rather too weak to set about your face with a heavy, blunt object, as much as I would like to.”

Spunkleford seemed relieved, and broke out in a grin.

“Good man!” he cried, slapping me heartily on the back, causing me to wince slightly. “We’re all on the same side, are we not? Now, fill me in on the detail of this most fascinating of cases, you old dog!”

I relayed the story of Romanov’s ludicrous scheme as we left the Russian embassy and headed to a parked carriage outside. Spunkleford was fascinated, a fact that he imparted by exclaiming, “Fascinating!” at the end of each and every ruddy sentence. As I concluded my report, Romanov himself was led out of the building by two burly policemen.

“You have not seen the last of me, Likely,” the Russian said. “I will make you pay for what you have done to me. I will get you, Likely. I will get you…to DEATH!”

These words may have been more chilling had they not been delivered in an incredibly comic falsetto, caused by the introduction of my lordly knee to Romanov’s testicles earlier. Instead, the threat was rendered undeniably humourous, and I laughed heartily. Romanov failed to see the funny side, and continued squeaking further threats as he was led off to an awaiting police wagon.

“All’s well that end’s well, eh Likely?” said Spunkleford.

“Quite, Inspector, quite…” I began, but then I noticed another of the accursed ‘Wanted’ posters on a wall nearby, and my face furrowed into a frown.

“Botter, if you could…” I said, motioning towards the offending article.

“Right away, milord,” Botter said. He struggled free from the grip of The Bear, who had become rather attached to my man-servant in the most literal of ways, and obligingly tore the poster off of the wall. He handed it to me, then grudgingly returned to the awaiting embrace of his new admirer.

“Ah, yes…about that poster…um, naturally we will be printing a full retraction in tomorrow’s newspaper…” Spunkleford said, growing more flustered as he observed my cloudy demeanour. I rolled the poster up into a neat, tight cylinder, then smiled at the Inspector.

“Spunkleford, my dear fellow,” I beamed. “Please, bend over. I wish to…lodge a complaint…”

- Lord Likely.

> Subscribe in a reader

“Miss Eileen Nipples, deceased. Death by choking, by all accounts,” said Inspector Spunkleford as Botter and I arrived at the crime scene, a dingy alley just off of Stenchfurst Road.

“How can you die joking?” queried Botter, mishearing the good Inspector. I hit my servant sharply in the gut with my cane.

“Please, do go on, Inspector.” I said, as Botter collapsed into a ball.

“I am afraid we do not know much more than that. There appears to be no clues as to who this poor woman’s killer could possibly be,” sighed Spunkleford. “Nothing at all.”

I surveyed the awful scene laid out before me. The beautiful Miss Nipples lay slumped against the wall, her skin pallid and wan; her dull, lifeless eyes staring into the sky. I felt a rage rise up in my soul, a fire burning in my stomach.

“I swear to all that is Holy, I shall find the barbarian responsible for this atrocity,” I growled. “This is a senseless and horrific waste of a perfectly fine piece of arse.”

“You speak as if you have known this woman intimately, Likely,” said Spunkleford.

“That is because, Inspector, I did perform the sex-act with this very lady, only last night,” I recalled my previous night of passion with pride. “In fact, we copulated no less than seven times, in each direction.”

Spunkleford stroked his chin, thoughtfully.

“So, Likely, you would have been the last person to see Miss Nipples alive, then?” he said, slowly and deliberately.

“Well, aside from the killer, I would imagine.”

“Mmmm. Likely, I’m terribly sorry, but we are going to have to go down the station to discuss this further, in a rather more…official capacity.” Spunkleford remarked, beckoning another policeman over from across the street.

“Spunkleford, do not be a fool!” I snapped at the detective. “I know as little of this crime as you do. I was left chained to a bed by this woman last night, only to be recovered by Botter mere hours ago. I fear questioning me will shed no fresh light on this terrible deed, and only serve to give the true murderer a larger window of opportunity in which to further his escape.”

“Nevertheless, Likely, I feel we should converse in greater detail back at the Yard…”

The second police officer advanced towards me, bearing handcuffs.

“Spunkleford, you scandalous cur! You cannot seriously be entertaining the notion that I am somehow involved in this awful act! What manner of idiocy is this?”

Spunkleford said nothing, and simply motioned the officer to continue his duty. A sudden panic began to fill my heart, and my head whirled with unordered thoughts. Only one suggestion made itself clear to me out of the fog in my mind – and that was to flee, and try to capture the real criminal before it was too late.

“Spunkleford, you flat-footed fuck-knuckle! Desist this ridiculous charade at once!” I barked, making one last attempt to negotiate with the dithering detective.

“Now, Likely, there’s no need to get aggressive…” began Spunkleford, but by the time he had begun speaking, I had lashed out with my cane, catching the second policeman squarely in his jaw and knocking him out cold. Then I span round, and delivered a second blow, this time to Spunkleford’s ball-bag. He crumpled to the ground with a whimper.

“Botter!” I shouted to my dumb-struck accomplice. “Make good on your heels, and RUN like FUCK!”

And with those words echoing down the alley, Botter and I fled the scene, now fugitives from the law.

It was a peculiar sort of day, really.

- Lord Likely.

> Subscribe in a reader

Botter and I took a carriage to London Town, eager to get our teeth into another exciting adventure.

Well, I was eager, at any rate. Botter complained about the whole affair, until I silenced him by hitting his testicles with a pipe.

Unlike our carriage ride in our last adventure, this journey passed by without incident. Botter did piss himself after I refused to allow him to stop to relieve himself, which I found highly amusing at first, but when the awful smell of freshly-soiled man-servant began to fill the carriage, I began to regret my misguided prank.

We arrived at the Russian Embassy by mid-afternoon, and were greeted by our old friend, Inspector Albert Spunkleford.

“Likely!” he beamed, taking my hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “Good to see you again, old boy. I got your telegram, although I must say I’m confounded if I could make head or tail of it!”

He reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a crumpled piece of paper.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop stop…and it continues in much the same manner for a whole page!”

“Ah, yes. You see, Spunkleford, I asked Botter to write the telegram, and I helped by prodding him continually with my sword. One has to pass the time somehow, don’t you agree?”

Spunkleford laughed.

“Oh, Likely, you bounder! Now, I fear we must put all jocularities aside, and focus on the mystery at hand.”

“Ivan Romanov’s disappearence?”

“Yes. A most peculiar affair. Mr. Romanov arrived here one morning, then apparently left at lunch-time, looking ‘flustered’ according to a witness. That was the last any bugger saw of him.”

“Witness, Spunkleford?”

“Ah, yes, one of the secretaries…a Miss Eileen Nipples. That’s her, over there.”

Spunkleford indicated to a gorgeous creature exiting the embassy, a woman with long brown hair, long legs and a bosom so large one would have to prepare an expedition to successfully mount them. I felt my Lord Palmerston quiver.

“I feel I should like to…cross-examine this Miss Nipples,” I said, suggestively. “And quite possibly jizz on her tits, as well.”

This case was looking far more interesting than I could have hoped for.

– Lord Likely.

> Subscribe in a reader

Now, where was I?

Ah, yes, heading to London Town to track down my would-be assassin.

Well, having gathered our senses after our drunken debacle, Botter and I recommenced our journey. However, after a few hours of aimless wandering, we soon came to the inevitable conclusion that we were lost.

“We are lost, Botter”, I exclaimed. “Furthermore, you appear to have soiled your undergarments during the night, and thus you are now emitting a stench so foul I feel I may have to throw up into my own nasal cavity, so I can longer smell it. To whit, my dear Botter, you stink of shit.”

Botter stopped the carriage to allow me a temporary reprieve from his awful odour. I strolled into a small copse nearby, and drew in a long, hard lungful of the fresh, country air.

Except, to my nose’s horror, all I could smell was urine.

I swiveled round quickly, and swiftly located the source of this latest malodour. I was confronted by a fearful apparition, all unkempt hair and cheap fabrics. The terrible creature lumbered towards me, mumbling in some fearful, unholy tongue.

I swiftly drew my fencing sword, and used it to keep the monster at an agreeable distance, while I loudly summoned Botter to my side.

My man-servant made his entrance, and then to my bewilderment, approached the terrible beast with an outstretched hand.

“Botter!,” I began. “Keep away! We know not what devilry this fiend may enact…”

“Wotcha,” said Botter, addressing the creature. “How’s it going?”

I could only look on, agog, as the two began conversing in what I could only estimate to be some long-dead language.

Botter gave the foul abonimation a friendly pat on the back, and turned to me.

“Your lordship, this here is Albert Spunkleford. He’s Mrs. Spunkleford’s little boy. You remember, right? She was friends with that woman who ran that small bakery in town that made novelty buns shaped like cocks, who was married to Mr. Retch from the council? Y’know, the brother of Waldo Retch, the watch-maker? Who was briefly married to…”

“Cease, Botter, before you recount to me the complete ancestry of every damn soul in the land.”

“Sorry, your Lordship. Anyways, Al’s from London Town, see, but wound up stranded here after visiting relatives. He reckons he knows the way to the Town, sure enough. Could be helpful, sir.”

I eyed up the haggard form of Albert Spunkleford, replete with a rather too recent urine stain about his crotch.

“It is decided, then” I announced. “He travels with us.”

Botter and Al both smiled.

“BUT,” I added, “he travels on the roof.”

> Subscribe in a reader