AS AN Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I face bounders and ne’er-do-wells on an almost daily basis, and each and every time I emerge victorious, triumphing over the forces of evil in spectacular fashion – and just in time for tiffing. Hooray for me!

I am naturally very proud of my unbeaten track record, but one cad continues to elude me, slipping through my noble fingers time and time again. That cad, ladies and gentlemen, is CANCER.

Despite my best efforts, this vile villain seems unstoppable, no matter how many bullets I fire at it (and believe me, I have tried, and have been thrown out of many a hospital as a result, the ungrateful heathens). To add further insult, this cancerous fiend absolutely refuses to engage me in a bout of hand-to-hand combat, possibly because it knows I shall drub the fluid excrement from its wretched form.

So what is a heroic figure like myself to do in such a situation? Lesser men would give up and walk away – but not I! Instead, I have decided to fight cancer using my secret weapon – my glorious MOUSTACHE.

You see, dear readers, November is the month when hirsute gents such as myself use our fine face-fuzz to help combat the diabolical disease, in a month-long event known as ‘MOVEMBER’. Over the course of the month, chaps around the world grow the most magnificent moustaches possible, in exchange for which people donate money to those who are trying their best to combat prostate cancer, as well as tackling various other issues related to men’s health.

Of course, I am already in possession of a supremely sublime soup-strainer, one which is the envy of men (and quite possibly women) the world over. You only need cast your eyes up the page, and gaze upon mine wondrous whiskers to revel in its glory! See how bushy, luxuriant and proud it is! Ne’er before has an upper-lip looked quite so handsome!

Furthermore, I often like to style my moustache in a variety of different ways, be it the ‘Bugger’s Grips‘ or the ever popular ‘Chuff Duster‘, as evidence by my Incredible Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama, a wonderful contraption which allows YOU to play with my face, and adorn it with any one of a myriad of moustache styles. Some of you will already be familiar with this device, while the rest of you may tweak my hairs by launching the Incredible Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama below:

As you can see, my moustache is particularly mighty, and now I would like to use its awesome power for GOOD (aside from the great good it already does, tickling many a lady’s fancy, as ’twere.)  So, if you have been suitably awed by my fantastic follicles (as you will have), perhaps you might care to donate any spare shillings, farthings or groats to the charitable Movember event, and help us vanquish prostate cancer ONCE and for ruddy ALL?

If so, please click upon the banner below! It shall only take a jiffy, and all funds go to The Prostate Cancer Charity, so do please give graciously, if you can!

Many thanks, chums – now let us kick cancer RIGHT in the BALLS. HARD.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

However, I have found myself rendered quite speechless over the past couple of days, and it is all thanks to my ever loyal and loving readers, who responded generously to my recent plea for funds to aid my terribly wretched scribe, Mr. A.D Fanton.

But how were these donations spent, I hear you cry. Well, dear readers, let me tell you – and the answer might be more surprising and astonishing than you may have imagined.

Naturally, the first thing I did was to go  into town to bank these generous donations as quickly as possible, lest my wretched man-servant Botter should try to thieve them, a trait all too common among the working classes.

However, on the way to the bank I got rather distracted, and wound up investing some of the funds at The Cock and Balls Inn, one of my preferred drinking establishments. After a rigourous drinking session where I downed many pints, and wound up in a bar-fight (which the bar won, tragically enough), I stumbled out with a rather red nose, and slowly tottered my way towards the bank.

As I groggily staggered through the bustling streets, I suddenly found my way blocked by an older gentleman carrying some papers.

“Get out of my ruddy way, before I beat you to a bloody, grey-haired pulp!” I slurred, swinging a fist in the vague direction of the fellow, but missing by several inches.

“Sorry to bother you, good sir,” said the man, tipping his hat. “I am collecting donations from wealthy gentle-men such as yourself, for Comic Relief, and was wondering…”

“Comic Relief?” I blurted. “What in the name of bloody bastardry is that? Do you offer hand-jobs to clowns, or something?”

“Hahaha!” the man chuckled, nervously. “No, sir, we collect money to help people in some of the most povery-stricken corners of the globe!”

“A globe cannot have corners,” I asserted, surprisingly correctly, considering my inebriated state.

“Ah-ha! No, I suppose you are right, sir…”

“Of course I am ruddy right! I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! I am always right!”

“Well, your lordship, perhaps you would consider doing the right thing now, and give some money to these poor, poor people…”

“Bugger that!” I roared. “I do not do charity, my man. Those grasping little twat-holes can drop down dead, for all I care!”

“Good heavens, sir, that is an awful thing to say!” piped up another voice, belonging to a rather attractive, blonde-haired woman who was standing behind the old man. “How beastly!”

“Now then, Sally, do not get worked up,” cooed the old codger. “Clearly this gentle-man does not want to donate, and that is fine…”

“Wait a moment!” I said, pointing to the female. “Are you collecting for this Jester Relief thing as well?”

“Comic Relief. And yes, I am, sir. Unlike you, I care about others…”

“Who said I did not care?” I beamed, the alcoholic haze lifting as I slipped an arm around Sally’s shoulders. “I am a deeply sensitive soul, you know. Your cause has touched me deeply, and if you would care to follow me, you shall see that I am all too willing to give very generously indeed…”

*****

AND so I led Sally back to the Cock and Balls Inn, telling her some hastily-improvised stories about how I had gone out to Africa and nursed dying infants, how I had built a shelter for the homeless using my bare hands and how I had single-handedly saved a village in India from a terrible tsunami by punching the waves back into the sea using my powerful fists. By the time we got to the Inn, Sally thought I was something of a miracle worker and tantamount to a saint, so I had little trouble in persuading her to follow me up to a room at the Inn, under the pretence of working out a ‘sizeable donation’.

And a sizeable donation is precisely what Sally got, let me assure you. A very sizeable donation indeed, in each and every orifice. And furthermore I went that little bit further, and left her a considerable deposit upon her creamy-white breasts.

By the time I had finished, dear Sally had been gifted many, many times over.

As I got dressed after our bout of intercourse, Sally looked up at me with adoring eyes and whispered to me, ‘thank you, my lord. You truly are a wonderful and special individual. May God bless you.’

I do not know why, but this affected me, and I felt an emotion I am not all too familiar with – guilt. I had taken advantage of this kind-hearted and trusting piece of totty, yet she somehow still saw some good in me.

As I put my coat back on, I suddenly remembered that I still had some of the donations from my own appeal upon my person, and – whether it was this guilt, or the booze still sloshing about in my system – I decided to give the remaining monies to her.

‘Here, m’dear,’ I said, lying the bundle of notes on the bedside cabinet. ‘Take this. Give it to this Comic Relief charity of which you speak, and see that it does some good.’

‘Oh, thank you, my lord!’ the girl smiled. ‘You are an angel!‘

I grunted, and left the room. I headed back to Likely Towers, where I decided to vent my frustrations out on my man-servant, by beating him about the face with a cane for forty-five minutes.

So there you go dear readers. That is what came of your generous donations – some I pissed up against a wall, while some I gave to Sally, and by extension to Comic Relief.Am I not completely fabulous? Yes, is the answer, of course.

But do not fear, dear readers, I left Mr. Fanton with enough money to buy some bread and some milk, and with enough pennies left over to enable him to buy some fresh quills and ink so that he may continue transcribing my astonishing adventures. I am not that mean to him.

Finally, I would like to thank all of you who donated to my fund from the bottom of my heart, and from the very tip of my penis. And now, hopefully, some other people shall be rendered equally happy thanks to your kindness.

Normal tramp-bashing shall be resumed as soon as possible.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

To help support www.lordlikely.com yourself, or to show your appreciation of his lordship’s Astonishing Adventures, please do click the ‘PayChum‘ button below. 20% of all donations received shall continue to go to Comic Relief.

To donate solely  to Comic Relief, please click HERE. Many thanks!