March, 1857.

Having been left a homeless wretch, caked in vomit and piss and with my natural sense of style and grace rent asunder, I was naturally more than a little displeased with those vagrant swines who had placed me in such a position.

In fact, it would not be a terrible understatement to say that I was fucking livid, and dearly wished to crack open some skulls with the nearest blunt instrument.

Talking of blunt instruments, my man-servant Botter met me at the scrap-yard residence of the blasted beggars, as I stormed in later that afternoon. My first inclination was to smash him right in his awful mouth for deserting me in my hour of need, but as he shuffled up to me I noticed he was holding my precious cane, long thought missing by my good self.

“Oh, be still my beating heart! ‘Tis truly glorious to behold you once more! I had feared I had lost you forever, old friend!” I cried out joyously.

“It’s good to see you too, milord,” Botter answered.

“I am not referring to you, you bumbling cock-shaft,” I snapped. “I am referring to my wondrous cane! Give it here at once!”

Botter meekly handed over my prized possession. “There y’are, milord. It got dropped in the tussle, earlier.”

I stroked the top of my cane lovingly (and for once, I am not referring to my penis at this point), and then thwacked Botter across the back of his head with it. Botter yelped in pain.

“Ah, good. It still thwacks properly,” I smiled. “That was for abandoning me earlier, and not coming to my immediate and prompt rescue, you tiny bastard.”

“I-I’m sorry, milord! It just happened so fast and I was trying to hide and – “

Another thwack, another yelp.

“Just be thankful that I have a score to settle with these homeless scoundrels, Botter, else you’d be receiving a full thrashing for your woeful incompetence. As it is, I am saving my full rage for these rough-sleeping rapscallions.”

“Thank you, milord. You are much too kind.”

“I know, I know. Now, where are these wretches hiding? We must go forth and…oh!” I stopped, espying an unopened bottle of beer on the floor beside me. “Hmm, there can be no harm in having a quick drink before I embark upon a vigourous bout of fisticuffs…”

I cracked open the bottle, and raised it to my lips, but before I could sample the golden goodness encased within, Botter leapt at me and knocked the bottle from my hand, sending it crashing down onto the ground, where upon it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Naturally, I punched my man-servant squarely in the face for his troubles.

“What in the name of Captain Fellatio Hornblower do you think you are doing, man?” I roared.

“The beer, milord!” Botter replied, nursing his bloodied nose. “The beer is contaminated with tramp’s piss, don’t forget!“

The stinking oaf was right, of course, but I refused to let him know as much, and simply punched him in the face again.

“That is for using the word ‘piss’ in my presence, when you could have said ‘urine’. I am a very sensitive fellow, you know.”

Botter mumbled an apology from his resting place upon the ground.

“Don’t be too hard on the poor fellow,” came a voice behind me. “There is plenty more beer where that came from, your lordship.”

I spun around to face that filthy cur, Kenneth the Hat, the erstwhile leader of the vile vagabonds. He was joined by a good thirty or so other skanks, all of whom seemed to be cradling a makeshift weapon of some sort – broken sticks, disused mops, discarded bicycle spokes and so on and so forth.

“Oh fuck, fuck and double fucking fuckity-fuck,” I whispered.

“I think the beggars are revolting,” Botter observed.

“Revolting?” I answered. “They are positively vomit-inducing.”

“Go on, your lordship,” Kenneth said, smiling a horrid, broken smile whilst offering me another beer. “Just one more for the road, eh?”

“NEVER!” I roared defiantly. “Your beer is nothing more than an errant fraud, concocted from piss and stink.”

“Heh. You’re very observant, my lord,” Kenneth chuckled. “I should imagine that at this point, you’re wondering exactly why we are making beer out of our own piss, Lord Likely. Well allow me to explain my brilliant plan to you…”

“Do not bother yourself,” I sniffed. “I think I have figured it out. You are brewing a beer so potent it renders a chap completely insensible, and with no recollection of his former life. You no doubt plan to flog this beer to everyone in the land, thus bringing the entire population of Great Britain down to your own awful, shit-stained level, blah blah blah, etcetera, etcetera. I have heard this sort of thing a thousand times over, so if you do not mind can we simply move on to the climactic skirmish, as I am an awfully busy man and I have a party still to organise..”

“Uh, milord,” Botter interjected. “About the party…you went missing for a few days, you see, and the scheduled date for your planned ball has since elapsed quite considerably, so…”

A red mist began to form before my eyes.

“Are you telling me, Botter, that these reprobates have made me MISS my own PARTY?”

“I…I’m afraid so, milord,” Botter confirmed.

I do not know precisely what happened next, as I was suddenly consumed with a rage so powerful that it controlled my every action. From what I have been able to determine from Botter’s eyewitness account, I let out a deafening roar and, cane in hand, ploughed into the amassed vagrants with considerable gusto. It would seem I became something of a blur, swiftly working my way through the rabble, sending bodies flying left and right as I battered them viciously with my cane. Skulls were indeed cracked, noses broken, limbs shattered and organs pulped as I tore through the swine like an ‘Oriental warrior’, in Botter’s own words.

Once that was over, I apparently dragged Kenneth the Hat to the warehouse-come-brewery, wherein I drowned the maleficent miscreant in a vat of his own piss.

“Rest In Piss,” I quipped, as Kenneth The Hat’s body floated lifelessly atop the urinary waters. “Well, Botter, I think I am all done now.” I said, as I returned to my usual, well-composed self. “A jolly fine day’s work, too. I say, this calls for a celebration, don’t you think? We must throw a massive party to-night, and invite all the very classiest people I know. Of course, we shall need some booze…”

I turned to Botter, only to find him running out of the warehouse at top speed, screaming at the top of his filthy lungs.

What a peculiar fellow.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something completely different.

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Against all my better judgement, I followed the foul-smelling, cider-swigging reprobate as he led us through the twisting back-streets and alley-ways of the city. I made sure that Botter, my man-servant, kept closely behind me, lest any more ruffians leapt from the shadows and tried to bugger me six ways to the Sudan. You might say he was maintaining a valiant rear-guard action.

“‘Ere we is, sir,” croaked the homeless wretch. “Our ‘ome sweet ‘ome, as it were.”

“I cannot help but notice we are in a scrap-yard,” I said, not helping but noticing that we were in a scrap-yard.

“Heh, yeah. I ‘spect it’s a bit more ‘umble than what you is used to,” the vagrant beamed, whilst mangling the English language. “Wait ‘ere, sir, an’ I’ll go an’ get the boss.”

“The boss?” I repeated. “How in the name of cock-suckery does a homeless swine like you have a boss?”

“Jus’ wait ‘ere,” the cove replied, and staggered off.

“What an awful and abhorrent chap,” I mused as I watched the filthy figure disappear behind a broken-down carriage. “I don’t suppose he is any relation of yours, is he Botter?”

“Very funny, milord,” Botter dead-panned.

We waited patiently until the foul creature returned, accompanied by an even fouler looking man who was wearing a suit that hung sadly off of his boney frame, as if it was yearning to be on someone less repellent; whilst atop his awful head sat an even-sadder looking bowler hat, seemingly held in place by a large knife sticking out of the top.

“Greetings, sirs!” he said, offering me his hand to shake, a request I declined. “Please, take a seat! Sit, sir, sit!”

I looked around at my surroundings, and found nothing that looked suitably worthy of my noble buttocks, so I gestured to Botter to make himself useful as a temporary chair. He rolled his eyes, and knelt down on all fours. I sat down on his back, and found him to be less comfortable than I had hoped. I would have to dock his pay for being an insubstantial seat.

“I am Kenneth the Hat,” the fellow began. “I got that name because I wear a hat,” he added triumphantly.

“And the knife?…” I asked.

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” Kenneth the Hat replied, gently tapping the blade. “I got into a bit of a scrap with a chef a few years back, when he caught me foraging for sausages in his kitchen. He plunged this flippin’ great knife in my head, and the doctor’s say they can’t take it out because it’s too close to my brain. One slip, one wrong move, and I become a drooling vegetable. Ha-HAH! Ha-HAHAHAHAHA!”

I wondered if it was not already too late.

“Anyway, you’ve met Flakey Jim, here,” Kenneth the Hat continued, indicating to the grimy chap who led us here. “Now, let me introduce you to the rest of the group!”

I shifted uncomfortably on my man-servant-shaped seat, as Kenneth the Hat produced two dustbin lids from a pile of junk, and loudly banged them together.

“VAGRANTS! ASSEMBLE!” he roared, somewhat over-theatrically.

There was a moment of silence, and then more stinking fiends began to emerge from their hiding places, stepping out from within broken wardrobes, squeezing out from underneath disused bath-tubs and sliding out from inside smashed-up grandfather clocks. They were like giant, human cockroaches in many ways, and each was more foul and pitiful than the last.

Sometimes the lengths I would go to in order to get some booze amazes even myself.

“Here they all are, sir! This here is Beardy McBeard,” he said, pointing to a man with a huge, dirty, black beard which seemed to have pigeons nesting inside. “He has a beard,” Kenneth the Hat added unhelpfully.

“Beard.” Beardy McBeard agreed.

“And this is No-Legs Noreen,” Kenneth continued, indicating to a pitiful-looking hag who was, indeed, bereft of legs.

“I ‘as ghost legs!” she cried.

“For the millionth time, Noreen, there are no such things as ghost legs!” Kenneth turned to me. “You shall have to excuse her, sir, she’s a little bit daft. Ah-HAHAHAHAHAHA! Ah! That there’s Mr. Disease,” Kenneth rambled on, as an incredibly sickly-looking chap shuffled forward. “He has over one hundred different diseases. Impressive, eh?”

“Astonishingly so,” I mumbled, as Mr. Disease smiled weakly.

“And then we have this poor sod,” Kenneth the Hat said, introducing a man with a huge wart on his face. A wart so huge, in fact, it was his face. “This is Benson – “

“…Wart-Face?” I guessed.

“Why, yes! Have you two met, perchance?” Kenneth said, genuinely surprised.

“No,” I replied. “I would have remembered such an encounter. I never forget a face, and his face is considerably less forgettable than most.”

“Oh. Well, that’s us, anyway! Now maybe you can tell us a bit about – “

“KENNETH!” yelled Flakey Jim, waving his arms about with such ferocity he dislodged numerous flakes of skin in the process . “Jennifer’s comin’!”

“Oh no!” wailed Kenneth the Hat. “Not Jennifer!”

“Who in the name of Saint Paul‘s sainted scrotum is this Jennifer?” I snapped, as the group of paupers became increasingly agitated.

“Oh, she’s AWFUL, sir!” moaned Kenneth the Hat. “Hideous. Such a foul, degenerate creature! She is horribly disgusting, sir, and incredibly freakish. In fact, she is so incredibly freakish we nick-named her Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish.”

“How very clever,” I said sarcastically.

“Oh, Lord! Here she comes!” screamed Kenneth the Hat, and then he ran for cover with the rest of his grotesque group, leaving me to face this monstrosity alone, save for my man-servant-stroke-seat.

I braced myself to have my eyeballs assaulted by this fresh display of degradation, but as Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish appeared at the gates to the scrap-yard, I saw that she was anything but incredibly freakish.

She was just incredible.

Jennifer, the Incredibly Freakish.

So bowled over by her radiant beauty was I, that I quite literally fell off of my chair.

“Blimey, what a cracking bit of crumpet, eh milord?” my chair observed.

I had to agree. Things were definitely looking up.

And by ‘things’ I mean ‘my penis’.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Lord Likely gets incredibly freakish with Jennifer the Incredibly Freakish.

A Terribly Important Announcement! His lordship has very kindly decided to let all of you join him in The Cock and Balls (his preferred drinking establishment) for light and heavy refreshments, chit-chat and barely-concealed flirting. Do the honourable thing, and visit the Cock and Ball Inn right NOW! Many thanks.

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

Lord Likely Joins The Carnival! The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely is one of the many humourous web-logs to partake in The Humor Blog Carnival, currently being hosted by Mr. Kevin over at Pointless Banter. As well as his lordship’s fine work, there are also links to many other excellent web-logs, which you should jolly well visit right now. Hooray!

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