“HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me, happy birthday to me! Happy birthdaaaaay Lord Like-leeeeeee….you handsome swine you!”

‘Twas September the Twenty-Third, a day of much rejoicing at Likely Towers, for it was my most wondrous and glorious birthday, and as such I was in a most chipper mood indeed as I descended the staircase into the Great Hall.

“Ah, Botter!” I beamed as I beheld my man-servant, who was busily polishing my vast array of fencing trophies. “Not even your wretched, stomach-churningly disgusting face can sour this most fabulous of days!”

“Oh yes, milord?” Botter replied, as he dusted my  ‘Largest Fence Built From Human Hair‘ trophy from 1876. “Something happening to-day, is there?”

“Well, I – ” I stopped short, as the full meaning of Botter’s words dawned upon me. “Wait a moment…you DO realise what day it is to-day, yes?”

“Erm…hold on…” Botter replied, consulting a nearby calendar. “Why, it’s September the Twenty-Third, is it not?”

I nodded stiffly. “Yes, yes…and does that date remind you of anything very special, Botter?”

Botter furrowed his brow as he tried to pull the relevant memory from his woefully inadequate brain. “Umm…no, no…I cannot say that it does, my lord.”

“Try to think harder, Botter…think of an earth-shatteringly important event which took place years ago…”

“Erm…oh, yes!” Botter smiled, clicking his fingers. “The Concordat of Worms!”

“Yes, that’s right the – ” I stopped again. “The what, Botter?”

“The Concordat of Worms, milord – sometimes called the Pactum Calixtinum by papal historians. It was an agreement between Pope Calixtus II and the Holy Roman Emperor Henry V, which was made on September 23, 1122 near the city of Worms. It brought to an end the first phase of the power struggle between the Papacy and the Holy Roman Emperors, and it has since been suggested by historians that it laid the foundations of a nation-based sovereignty that would later be confirmed in the Treaty of Westphalia.”

I stood unblinking and slightly dumbfounded by my man-servant’s hitherto unheralded knowledge of papal history.

“No, Botter…” I said slowly. “No, that was not what I had in mind…”

“Oh! Well, then…I’m afraid I can’t think of anything particularly notable about this day then, milord,” Botter chirped, as he resumed his dusting duties, whistling merrily to himself.

I narrowed my eyes.

*****

I TOOK a prolonged constitutional thereafter, which quickly turned into a prolonged pub-crawl, as I frequented many a public house along the way in an attempt to drink away the thoughts nagging away at the back of my mind.

Had Botter – my faithful man-servant and companion of nigh on twenty years REALLY forgotten my birthday? And what of Inspector Spunkleford, or Dorothy Mount-Worthy, or the Duke of Fircombe, or Lady Quimblast, Madam Vadgerton, Lady Nibgobble or any of my many, varied acquaintances? I had not had one communication from any of them, not even so much as a single, congratulatory telegram. Had they ALL forgotten my most special of days? Or had they remembered, but chosen not to care?

Impossible, I thought. I am cocking well fantastic.

It was getting dark by the time I staggered back to Likely Towers, my head spinning like an inebriated carousel. It was more by chance than judgement that I managed to actually get into my mansion at all.

Inside, all was pitch-black. I stumbled into my dining-room, and somehow I successfully lit a gas-lamp without setting fire to myself or the nearby curtains.

As I turned around, I was suddenly greeted by a horde of people standing at the other end of the room. “SURPRISE!” they cried in unison, causing me to stagger back in shock. Confused and disoriented, I quickly pulled out my pistol and shot wildly into the crowd.

“Gah! Take that! And that! And also some of that!” I bellowed, as I fired shot after shot into the amassed horde.

“LIKELY! LIKELY! Stop, man! For heaven’s sake, STOP!” cried Inspector Spunkleford, breaking from the crowd and wrestling my fire-arm from me. “Good grief, man! Calm down!”

“Wh-what in the name of Her Majesty’s Muffty is going on here?” I demanded, swaying uneasily on the spot. “How did all these criminals get into my house?”

“It’s a surprise birthday party in your honour, Likely,” Spunkleford explained. “Although I fear we received the biggest surprise of the night!”

“Oh,” I said, as I scanned the crowd and realised that all of my dearest, closest and large-breasted friends were in attendance, staring at me in disbelief. “Oh! Ahem. I…I do apologise. Is anyone hurt?”

“The Earl of Bumchutney has been shot in the leg,” came a voice in the crowd.

“I am ever so sorry,” I replied. “I was…I was just rather taken aback, you see. I had no idea you’d all be here! How did this happen?”

“Ah, ’twas your man-servant’s doing, Likely! Organised the whole thing. Rather sterling effort, eh? Where is he anyhow?”

I coughed noisily. “Never mind that now…we are here to have a party, and a party we shall damn well have! Come – let us eat, drink and be bloody merry!”

And with that, the atmosphere lightened considerably and the party began in earnest, and continued on well into the small hours, as we drank and debauched ourselves rotten.

Meanwhile, strung up upside-down by his ankles from an oak tree on my estate, Botter contemplated the repercussions of feigning ignorance of my birthday.

- Lord Likely.

Hip-hip-hooray! Let us all carry the party on, dear readers, as I toast not only my glorious self, but all of you who have continued to thrill to my Astonishing Adventures! Many thanks for your unswerving loyalty, chums! Hurrah for us all!

Ahem! Of course, being my birthday, you may feel compelled to make a very generous donation to the Likely Funds, so that many more adventures may be forthcoming!

And lest we forget, the latest chapter of my current escapade, “Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances”, may be found hither.

Now – bottoms up, ev’ryone! CHEERS!

These past couple of days have born witness to an event so earth-shattering that I dare say the world will never be the same again. Truly, the incredible developments of this week will reverberate throughout history, and will be spoken of in awe for many, many generations to come.

For you see, dear readers, this week marks the two-hundredth entry in my incredible journals.

The ink had no sooner dried on my previous chapter when I realised that I had also just completed the one hundred and ninety-ninth account of my astonishing adventures, and that my two-hundredth addition was imminent. Needless to say, I was left exhilarated, thrilled and enormously aroused by this turn of events, and decided immediately to celebrate this most fabulous occasion in a manner worthy of its magnificence.

“Botter!” I exclaimed, tipping over my ink-pot with my fully engorged member. “I am about to mark my two-hundredth entry into my fabulous diaries!”

“Well done, milord,” Botter replied.

“Yes, it was rather,” I smiled. “Do you know what, Botter? I feel like celebrating!”

“Oh, must you?” Botter answered, the colour draining from his face.

“Yes! Yes I must! Two-hundred insertions is not to be overlooked, you know!” Suddenly a most wonderful and fantastic idea popped into my equally wonderful and fantastic head. “Egads! That’s it, Botter!”

“What’s what?”

“I shall celebrate my two-hundredth insertion by performing two hundred insertions tomorrow! And by ‘insertions’ I think you know what I mean…”

“Oh no, milord,” Botter gasped.

“Oh YES! Botter, you must find me two hundred eminently pumpable women, post-haste! This is one celebration that will most certainly go off with a bang! Or two hundred.”

“B-but where am I going to find two hundred women at such short notice?” my foul-smelling man-servant whined.

“If you book them, Botter, they shall come,” I grinned. “And then, they shall come hard.”

I awoke the next morning to a cacophonous racket from outside the mansion. I flung back the bedcovers, slipped on a dressing gown to preserve my modesty (I always sleep nude, so that I am ready for action in a trice) and popped my top hat on my head. Then I opened up the windows of my bed-chamber, and stepped out onto the balcony.

This is what I saw.

Row upon row of women, all clamouring for my lordly love-shaft. A mass of mimsy as far as the eye could see, a veritable sea of snatch. ‘Twas like I had died and gone to fanny heaven.

“I did it milord!” piped a feeble voice from below. There, standing beneath my window, was Botter, looking considerably the worse for wear. “It took me all night, but I did it milord!”

“Yes, yes,” I snapped. “What do you want, a medal?”

“Yes?”

“Well tough titties, Botter! I do not believe they give out medals for being appalling. Now move out of the way, you wretched oik! I rather fear you are cramping my style.”

Botter apologised and skulked away, leaving me alone with hundreds of nob-hungry females.

“LADIES, LADIES!” I yelled, in order that I might be heard over the row. As my voice boomed across the Likely Estate, the women ceased their nattering and turned to face me. With their attention fully focused on my fine form, I shed my dressing gown and bared my naked glory to the crowd.

“Now then…who’s first?” I beamed.

I shall never forget what happened next, as long as there is still breath left in my beautiful body. As soon as the words left my lips, excitable screams filled the air, and the women surged forward as one, before turning upon one another as they attempted to fight their way to the front of the queue, and thus the tip of my shaft.

Dresses were torn, teeth were broken, legs were crushed and hats were trampled upon; it was a scene of complete and utter cock-fuelled chaos.

Naturally, I was overjoyed, although my joy soon turned to deep concern, as the fighting became more and more brutal, leaving me wondering if any of the women present would be left in a fit enough (or attractive enough) state to receive my thunderous thrustings. The grounds of my estate were beginning to resemble some sort of battlefield, albeit a battlefield with big, beautiful breasts.

“Jesus cocking Christ!” I yelled, as I watched one unfortunate woman’s nose explode in a shower of scarlet as another lady smashed at it with her parasol. “This is going to be a ruddy bloodbath!”

Just as I was beginning to regret my course of action, I noticed a rather stunning, dark-haired figure battling her way towards me, staving off her rivals with the judicious use of her handbag, which seemed to be packing quite a wallop. As she neared me, I noticed that her dress had been torn in such a way that it left one of her fantastically fulsome and firm funbags exposed, which I recognised almost immediately.

“Dorothy?” I cried.

“It is I, my lord!” panted the delectable Dorothy Mount-Worthy.

“I thought as much!” I proclaimed. “I never forget a breast!”

I had already had the pleasure of ploughing Miss Mount-Worthy a couple of months previously, along with her good friend Maud Dreadful. The latter had proven to be anything but dreadful, and Miss Mount-Worthy was every bit as thrilling as her surname suggested. To see her again made my heart leap into my mouth, and I wasted no time in descending the staircase to my front door, to welcome the delightful filly as she finally staggered up the stairs to the entrance of my mansion.

Even with her clothes torn apart, her hair ruffled and with a few bruises upon her arm from her struggles, dear Dorothy still looked as gorgeous as she had done on that day back in August, and as her big, beautiful blue eyes beheld me, her full, kissable lips curled into a heart-warming smile. I knew right there and then that she was most certainly the woman for me.

At least for the next couple of hours.

I kissed her briefly in the doorway (which I do not mean in any euphemistic form whatsoever), and ushered her gently into the house, slamming the door hard behind me, and bolting it up for good measure, lest any of the sex-starved slatterns outside tried to break in.

“‘Tis a pleasure to see you again, my dear,” I said, as I drew the final lock fast. “Tell me, what brings you back up this way?”

“Well, my lord…” Dorothy began.

“Please, there is no need for such formality! We have, after all, exchanged bodily fluids and explored one another’s genitals! You may call me by my first name, my love.”

“Oh!” Dorothy exclaimed. “I…I am afraid I do not know your first name.”

“Ah. Well, never mind. You may call me ‘your lordship’ instead, then.”

“Well, your lordship, a rather strange little man came and told me about this event you were holding, and I thought that it sounded like far too much fun to pass up. And, seeing as how to-day is my birthday and all, I thought I would…treat myself…”

“It is your birthday? To-day? Good heavens! Then we must have a double celebration!” I cried, clapping my hands together excitedly. “Wait just one precious moment, my dearest…I believe I may well have a present for you…”

I disappeared briefly into one of my many bath-rooms, and reemerged moments later, clad in one of my finest dressing-gowns, made from the finest Chinese silk. I must have looked even more handsome than usual, for Dorothy let out a very audible gasp of delight.

“Happy birthday, my sweet!” I smiled, and then I slowly undid my gown and slid it off my shoulders, leaving me utterly nude once more, save for a large, red ribbon I had tied around my proud Lord Palmerston.

“Is…is that for me?” Dorothy whispered, pointing at my gift-wrapped glory-pole.

“It most certainly is,” I grinned. “I should very much like to give it to you, my dear. Many times over, if possible.”

Dorothy looked up at me with those pretty eyes, and smiled, and before I knew it she was upon me. Needless to say, we made mad, passionate, sweaty, sticky, glorious, thundering love two hundred times over the course of the next few days, in two hundred different positions.

Here, then, is to the next two-hundred entries!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Announcement! Lord Likely wishes to dedicate today’s journal entry to all his loyal readers, subscribers, and commentators; all of whom he wishes he could thank personally and passionately. Furthermore, his lordship would also like to offer an additional dedication to his darling Kerry, who’s birthday it is to-day, coincidentally! Please join his lordship in wishing her the happiest of days, as well as congratulating his lordship himself on his two-hundredth post. Hip hip! HUZZAH!

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: A Brand New Illustrated Indiscretion!

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!

In short, I feel like utter shit.

However, I am British, so must suck it up and carry on. I would not want my journals to descend into nothing more than incessant whinings and moanings. Did Admiral Nelson sit down and write pages of self-pitying sludge when he lost his right arm in the Battle of Santa Cruz? No, of course he did not. Primarily beause his arm had been blown off, but I digress.

So, back to business. My birthday party, originally scheduled to last for the evening of the twenty-third, spilled on over onto the twenty-fourth, before finally climaxing on the twenty-sixth. It was a three-day bender of the highest order, and a fine time was had by all. The ‘all’ in this case include many fellow aristocrats, wealthy businessmen, members of the clergy, heads of office and hot and cold running prostitutes.

There were drinks galore, including some particualrly devilish coktails of my own devising, including ‘The Spunking Cobra‘ (whisky, lemon and lime), ‘Sex On A Tiger‘ (whisky, cream, more whisky), ‘Matron’s Clitoris‘ (whisky, vermouth and orange juice), ‘Humping the Bellboy’ (whisky, whisky and more whisky’) and finally, ‘The Bloody Botter’. The last one was not strictly a cocktail, more a description of my useless man-servant when he informed me that we had run out of whisky.

Still, such a thing did not prevent us from continuing to drink well into the night, then the morning and into the following afternoon, by which time we had drunk so much we had begun to sober up. Luckily, by then Botter had returned from London Town (where I had sent him the night before) to get more whisky, so we were able to continue onwards without a hitch.

By that evening, the weaker among our number began to fall by the wayside; with people winding up asleep in their own vomit, whilst others fell out of windows and some even toppled into the fireplace. Those of us with stronger constitutions forged on, necking shot after shot and pint after pint, until, filled with alcohol-fuelled lust, I staggered upstairs to attend to Helena, the Dutch prostitute I had been given as a present by Botter.

Upon entering my bed-chamber, I was shocked and stunned to see that Helena was not alone. Far from it, in fact, as this image will attest:

My blood boiled to see some of my guests helping themselves to MY prostitute, as if she were an ‘all you can eat’ buffet, and my first instinct was to scream bloody murder, and attack each and everyone of the blighters with my trusty fencing sword, but then what sort of a host would I have been? So I simply dropped my trousers and got to work, joining in the intercourse while indulging in some light conversation with my fellow guests. Among the topics we discussed were politics, the world of finance, the weather and art and literature, the latter of which Helena expressed a keen interest in, and spoke beautifully about the writings of Charlotte Brontë, when her mouth was not full.

We issued our collective loads onto Helena’s chest, for which she thanked us, and then we all cleaned up and adjourned downstairs to rejoin the party. Alcohol was still flowing freely, and I must have drunk my weight in liquor before the night was out. Indeed, when the next morning came around, I found myself alone and completely naked (save for my top hat, naturally), in a small village called Shitterton:

I was buggered if I could remember how the arse I got to Shitterton, and why I was naked, but I decided not to dwell on these issues and instead set about getting back home. Despite my deeply hungover state, I managed to hitch a ride back to the Likely Estate with some travelling gypsies, all of whom were female. I can only guess that it was the sight of my Lord Palmerston, swinging proudly between my bare legs, which caused them to stop and gleefully offer me transport to my home. My mighty organ is a much more efficient hitch-hiking tool than a mere thumb, is all I can say.

Finally I arrived back home, and after giving the lady gypsies ample payment for their troubles, I ventured into my stately home, to find Botter struggling to put out a fire that had somehow broken out in my bath-tub. I stepped forward to aid my man-servant, then hoisted him up and threw him into the bath, which succeeded in extinguishing the flames admirably. My job done, I went upstairs and collapsed gratefully into my bed, where I remained for most of the day.

It is pleasing to know that, despite my advancing years, I can still party like a bastard when the occassion demands it.

Needless to say, I shall resume transcribing my Astonishing American Adventure as soon as I have fully recovered.

Chin chin!

- Lord Likely.

> Subscribe in a reader

Well, today is my birthday, dear journal, and I am now another year older. More grey hairs fleck my lordly temples, and my poor bones ache more than ever with each passing day, and each fresh adventure. Time is catching up with me, I fear, and one day soon Time will have me well and truly in it’s grasp.

However, they do say that you are only as young as you feel, and today I am feeling this delightfully limber young lady, called Helena, a very amiable twenty-two year-old Dutch prostitute whom Botter procured for my birthday. Sometimes he knows me all too well, the scruffy little turk.

So, by the logic dictated above, I should feel only twenty-two today, and quite frankly I do. I am still relatively young, healthy and I am as devilishly handsome and well-equipped as ever. By the balls of Beezlebub, I feel great.

Therefore I can only say this: piss off, Time, you shall not lay your corrosive fingers on my fine form. In fact, should you come anywhere near me, I shall kick you right in the cock, intangible entity or not.

I must away now, dear journal, for I am throwing a massive party tonight, which will hopefully feature more naked ladies and plenty of booze.

I shall return to continue my Astonishing American Adventure soon, provided I have not lost the ability to see or walk in the interim.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

> Subscribe in a reader

Due to all my recent adventuring, and my time spent in the United States of America, I completely overlooked the birthday celebrations of our current, reigning monarch, Queen Victoria.

This is a terrible oversight on my part. I usually make quite an occasion of her Majesty’s birthday (that being the twenty-fourth of May), as not only do I find her to be a truly inspirational and formidable woman, but I also will use any old excuse to have a ruddy great piss up, and get completely and utterly sloshed, and maybe pick a fight with a street urchin or two.

In an attempt to rectify my glaring oversight, I would now just like to take a moment to honour Her Majesty, under whose reign Great Britain has become even greater. This land has been transformed into a powerful, industrious and wealthy country, with an Empire that covers a quarter of the world, including Canada. Not too bad, for a woman.

At first, I must admit that I found the idea of a woman leading our great nation laughable, because as everyone knows women are far less intelligent than men, and are only fit for carrying out menial tasks such as washing and cooking, as well as the odd vigourous bout of intercourse. However, my initial concerns have been swept aside by this most magnificent of women, who has led the country with grace, dignity and supreme confidence, that often makes me quite forget that she does not have a penis. She has managed to overcome her gender-based disabilities with aplomb.

I thereby raise a glass of whisky to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria – our Sovereign, our leader, our ruler. I stand proud before her, and am happy to be at her service.

Plus, she also has a cracking pair of tits.

- Lord Likely.

Post-script: I promise to commence the transcription of my American adventure henceforth, just as soon as I have finished celebrating. That is, should my eyesight return promptly, and should Botter be able to pry me from my bed-chamber.

> Subscribe in a reader