“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!

This document is being written in the hope that it might be smuggled out of this wretched place and its contents disseminated, so that I may be freed and my name cleared. At the very least, I hope that my family and all the Dickkens to follow will know the truth about me.

My name is Charles Dickkens, and I am the proud bearer of my family name.I am a writer who only seeks to document the truth and wishes to bring to light social injustice and the miseries of my times.

My story is a simple one. My start in life is simple and my fall from grace simpler still. For I was no match for that devil called Lord Likely. Pray, dear reader, for I believe you to be a person of kind heart and trustful disposition, and I rely on your magnitude of heart to look charitably on this state of opprobrium.

So let us begin.

I, Charles Dickkens was born at an early age, and after a period of time spent as an apprentice nutmeg mender, I slowly developed my career as a writer. The remuneration was modest, but the future looked promising until my path crossed with that of the cad Lord Likely. That swine ruined my career and wrecked my life, stealing my work and my identity, whilst causing me to be incarcerated in this ghastly place.

My downfall was in taking the blackguard into my confidence and revealing the shocking, but little known facts concerning Queen Victoria that I had recorded.

I can remember as if it were yesterday when I first came across the blighter. That bleak and rainy December evening when on my way back from a séance in a cold and gloomy house in Shadwell to my garret in Bloomsbury, soaked to the skin and low of spirit I took refuge in ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’.

And a strange sort of shop it was indeed. For upon crossing the threshold I was confronted by the sight of a man of gentlemanly appearance (as far as I could discern, seeing that he was not wearing any britches or any other garment on his lower half) on all fours with a horse’s bit between his teeth. Sitting astride him was an obese hag who I later discovered was called Little Nell, a joke that the other members of the establishment enjoyed because of her gross size.

Nell had a riding crop in her hand and was beating the person (who it later transpired was Lord Likely) across the buttocks, goading him forward across the carpeted floor with grunts and vicious kicks to his nether regions with her heels.

Likely was still wearing his characteristic top hat and was breathing heavily. His eyes were red and wild, and he had snot escaping from his nostrils.

You can imagine my shock, dear reader, to witness this terrible exhibition of depravity. Realising my mistake I quickly turned ready to make my escape, but my path was blocked by a character wearing an ill-fitting red wig and whose mannish face was covered with vast amounts of ladies’ face powder. Beneath an unfastened salmon-pink silk dressing gown could be seen frilly drawers and silk stockings. As I took stock of the figure before me, I quickly realised that this was no lady. In fact it had nothing to do with the female personage at all.

Please understand that I am no prude, nor am I quick to make moral judgements. My involvement with the poor and lower classes of London has exposed me to all forms of indelicate behaviour. Therefore my feeling of ill ease was born of a sense of looming danger which filled my soul with deep foreboding and dread.

The character stood with one arm stretched across the doorway, the palm of the hairy hand resting on the doorpost, and the silk dressing gown gaping open. “Want to buy a lady a drink?” she said in a deep-pitched voice.

Realising that I would have to use all my guile to extricate myself from this unfortunate situation, I attempted to engage the person in conversation. “And what might your name be, Madam?” I enquired.

The person thrust the obviously padded breasts towards me and gave a pout. “You can call me Botter,” she said in a husky voice.

I didn’t like the way things were turning out and began wondering how I could have been so foolish to have mistaken this place, full of harlots and miscreants, for a simple temperance society meeting room where I might have taken refuge from the elements for a few moments.

Before I could decide upon what action to take next, Lord Likely gave a sudden shudder and heaved his back upwards, throwing Little Nell onto the floor, in a bundle of belly fat and open-crotch drawers.

He cast his bloodshot gaze towards me, then with some effort rose and after taking a moment to compose himself he moved towards me. As he approached, and without breaking his gaze his right arm shot out and hit Botter in the groin, causing the poor wretch to scream out in a flurry of distress and face powder.

“Gown,” was all that Likely said in a clipped tone.

Botter, a picture of pain and humiliation, slowly pulled the dressing gown from his body. Likely stood without moving as this poor excuse for a woman – or man for that matter – draped the garment over his shoulders.

With a strangely engaging smile Likely stuck out his hand towards me.

“Likely, sir. And you are …?”

He cocked his head slightly and continued, “You appear, sir, to have me at a disadvantage.”

His absolute self-assurance and perfect manners, despite the fact that his Lord Palmerston was making an appearance every now and again from behind the gown, made it perfectly clear that he was in control of this chance encounter.

Overwhelmed by his self-confidence, I instinctively extended my hand to meet his.

“Charles ……. Aagh.”

I am afraid to admit that I let out a rather girlish scream before I could complete the sentence, as I felt my hand crushed in a vice-like grip.

Likely kept hold of my hand for what seemed like an age, as he applied the dreaded ‘Caledonian Knuckle Crunch‘, sadistically relishing his dominance and my agony. Then in an almost feminine manner he broke the grip and let his hand drift away as if in a genteel wave.

“You were saying,” he said abstractedly, pulling the gown about his person.

I let out a nervous cough, flexing my fingers behind my back, then said “Charles Dickkens, sir. At you service.”

Likely looked up, then cast a glance at Little Nell, who was still lying on the carpet with what in the dimness appeared to be a black cat sitting in her lap. “This is all rather tedious. Why don’t we retire to partake of some refreshment?”

Before I could respond he turned and strode towards a door at the end of the room. Never looking back he simply opened the door and walked in, aware, just as I was that I would be following him.

Almost in a trance I crossed the short distance and entered the room, which was even more dimly lit than the one we had just left.

As I stepped in, I noticed a couch to my right on which a Chinaman was lying. His eyes were half closed and he had a sleepy look of ecstasy as he sucked on a pipe.

Likely was now draped on a couch at the back of the room, the gown unfortunately gaping open.

Likely patted the cushion beside him. “Don’t be shy,” he said in an almost brusque tone.

I moved towards him, trying not to appear to be aware of the state of his dress, and sat next to him on the couch.

Just then a ghostly figure appeared out of the shadows and placed a tray of drinks on the table in front of us. Likely said, “Now pray, tell me all about yourself.”

For the rest of the night I was unaware of the passing hours. The dark seduction of the evening, the scent of the Chinaman’s pipe, Lord Likely’s medicine (which I later found to be a mixture of port wine and laudanum), together with the sheer force of the man’s personality lead me to talk, and talk and to offer all the details of my life and my future aspirations.

I could hear my own voice and see Likely’s fiendishly smiling face shimmering in front of me – and then no more.

My next recollection was of waking in a back alley in the district of Whitechapel with guttersnipes rifling through my pockets.

But, oh if that were the extent of my misfortune. For after stumbling my way back to my garret, constables were waiting for me. Everything that I had blurted out to Lord Likely had been turned against me. I was about to be tried for high treason, and while I was suffering incarceration, Likely stole all my works.

Rewriting these pieces of literature he completely devastated the beauty and truth of the originals.

By the cunning means of taking my family name and removing one ‘k’ he created the pseudonym ‘Dickens‘ which he used to publish these poor imitations of my works in a style that would appeal to the masses.

I shall endeavour ………..

Quickly, I can hear the approaching footsteps of the jailer. I must stop writing and conceal this message behind a loose brick in the wall of my prison for later completion.

- Charles Dickkens.

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