PEOPLE often come up to me and ask, “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing with my wife?” To which I reply, “Well, if you do not recognise the act that I am performing with your wife, it is no wonder she has embarked ‘pon this affair with me, sir.” Ah, how foolish they feel thereafter, chums!

People also often ask me how one goes about publishing one’s journals ‘pon the inter-connected net-work of computation devices, to which I usually reply, “Bugger off, can you not see I am busy humping your wife?”

However, I thought I would take this opportunity today to reveal to you, my dear readers, the process involved in getting my Astonishing Adventures delivered to your eyeballs ev’ry week, so that you might fully appreciate the sheer magnitude of the work behind each episode, and maybe even pick up some handy hints for your own endeavours.

So, without further ado, let me present to you my Guide to Publishing a Webbed-Log for Distribution ‘Pon the Inter-Connected Net-Work of Computation Devices!

1. Do Something Worth Writing About.

THE FIRST step is to ensure that you have something sufficiently interesting and/or exciting to share with the globe. As an Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I am never short of thrilling tales to impart, but sadly not every one can be quite as damnably wondrous as I. If the highlight of your week is picking fluff from your naval, then you probably have nothing of interest to offer the masses, and I’d suggest that you keep such musings to yourself, or possibly publish them ‘pon the Book of Many Faces.

2. Ensure You Have the Correct Tools.

THEY SAY that it is a poor workman who blames his tools, but if ‘they’ had ever tried to build a house using nothing but a teaspoon and some glue, or repair a carriage using nothing more than a half-cooked sausage, I’d wager ‘they’ would quickly change their STUPID minds. Finding the right tool for the job is paramount to ensuring high-quality work, which is why I always insist on nothing but the VERY BEST for my Astonishing Adventures – tools such as:

PAPER, taken from trees in the ridiculously over-crowded rainforests of the Amazon.

QUILLS, made out from the feathers of the beautiful (if rather dangerous) Golden-Nibbed Eagle of the American west.

INK, extracted from the Giant Biro Octopus of the Adriatic.

Only the finest is good enough for you, dear readers!

3. Write, Or Find Someone to Write For You.

ONCE YOU have your tools, ’tis time to sit down and actually write the words themselves. Now, of course, as a busy socialite and man about town, I cannot be well expected to spend hours hunched over a desk, scribbling away into the small hours. Thankfully, that is where my scribe, Mr. Fanton, comes into play. Taking the notes I make on my adventures, it is Mr. Fanton’s job to string them together into episodic chapters, using only the very best adjectives, verbs and nouns money can buy…LEST I FLAY HIM TO WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS WRETCHED, WORTHLESS LIFE!

4. Feed The Words Into A Computational Device.

Once MR. Fanton has written up my adventures, I check over them to ensure they meet my exacting standards. If there is so much as one mis-placed apostrophe, the brute is clamped in stocks, and pelted with bricks as punishment. However, if all seems well, then the words are taken from him, and fed into a computation device, ready to be transmitted ‘cross the Empire. In my case, the device in question is called The Astonishizer Engine, a remarkable contraption developed by a Mr. Charles Babbage, which not only stores my documents and transforms my words into top-quality protons and electrons, but which also optimises them for absolute astonishment. Here is said device:

I confess I do not have an inkling as to how this machine works – I suspect some kind of supernatural influence, but Mr. Babbage assures me that it is pure science. But then, he would say that, being POSSESSED BY DEMONS.

5. Transmit Your Words.

AFTER THE Astonishizer Engine has finished its work, then the journal entry in question is ready to be TRANSMITTED across the GLOBE, and directly into the homes and eyeballs of my eager followers. Once again, how the transmission is achieved remains something of a mystery to me, but it has something to do with wires and electricity and a giant antennae atop Likely Towers. Either that, or tiny, near-invisible pigeons carry the words off across the planet, I am not entirely sure.

6. The World Rejoices!

And so, with another instalment of my Astonishing Adventures arriving in homes everywhere, all that is left to do is to bask in the glow which comes from knowing that men and women everywhere are thrilling to my latest escapades. Ah, a job well done – now onto the next chapter! Egad!

- Lord Likely.

PLEASE help us to continue funding this highly expensive and time-consuming process, by donating below, and let us continue to bring you more Astonishing Adventures for ever more!

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances Part Five ~

For the previous chapter, please click here.

THREE DAYS had passed since I had soundly defeated the nefarious neck-biter Mr. Strix, a skirmish which had resulted in the blood-sucking bounder dissolving into a pile of bones, guts and well-tailored clothing. Naturally, the whole spectacle rather perturbed Strx’s housemaid, Helena Handbaskett, leaving her deeply traumatised. Of course, being a naturally caring and benevolent fellow, I immediately offered her lodgings at Likely Towers, where I spent the following three days comforting the poor girl, offering her a shoulder to cry on, and a penis to wildly straddle, both of which she gladly accepted.

After three days of such strenuous counsel, wherein I offered solace to the lady in numerous different positions and locales, we wound up back in my magnificent bed-chamber. Helena lay on her back, with me holding her legs in the air, pumping away at her quivering mound like a piston on a particularly well-oiled (and damnably attractive) machine. With each impressive thrust Helena moaned and gasped with delight, as in the manner of many a lady before her, and dare I say, many a lady after her as well.

“RULE BRITANNIA!” I bellowed, as I shot my ennobled ejaculate into Helena’s silken flesh-purse at the precise point at which she climaxed with all the force of a raging river crashing through a damn. Sweaty and utterly sated, I rolled off the gasping form of the maid and lit myself a cigarette.

“Do you always smoke after intercourse, my lord?” asked Helena as she caught her breath.

“Sometimes,” I replied, dragging on my cigarette. “Sometimes, I smoke during intercourse. The friction can be incredible, you know.”

A post-coital silence fell upon us as we both lay back on the pillows, a silence that lasted up until the point that Helena spoke once more.

“My lord, may I ask you a question?” she spake.

“Well, you have already asked two question, including that one, so I cannot see what difference a third would make.”

“Very well,” Helena responded, “My lord…are we to be married now?”

I nearly swallowed my cigarette in shock at this abrupt suggestion.

“M-m-married?” I stuttered in a stunned staccato. “Why on earth would you want to go and ruin a perfectly good relationship by getting married?”

“But my lord, you have laid with me these past few days…surely you must be planning to wed me as well?”

“Good heavens no, dear,” I said. “I have something of a distrust of the institution of marriage. I liken it to glueing together two fifty pound notes…far from ending up with one, crisp hundred pound note, all you have is a messy lump of glue and paper that is worth considerably less than the two component parts.”

“My lord!” raged Helena, her face turning scarlet, which actually complimented her red hair rather nicely. “You must make an honest woman of me!”

“You are a woman, honestly!” I retorted. “I should know, I’ve seen a few. Look, dear Helena, you are a sweet, innocent girl but I am…I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! I am a bachelor, a man-about-town, a wild and free spirit. Think of me as being a lithe, world-class race-horse. You do not get yourself a champion racer and then tether it to a large, heavy carriage, expecting it to drag the blasted thing about with it all day and all night. Why, to do so would be absolute insanity, and would only serve to crush the spirit and drain the soul of the poor creature.”

“Oh! So I am a ‘large, heavy carriage’ now, am I?” wailed Helena, rising up out of the bed with the sheets wrapped around her slender frame.

“Only in a metaphorical sense,” I cooed. “In actuality you are rather pleasingly assembled indeed.”

Helena stared out of the bed-room window for a while, then turned back to me. “Fine, my lord. I see that you have your beliefs, and are quite certain of yourself. I can accept that.” She sat back down beside me, and placed a hand on my arm, while she gazed deeply into my eyes. “But I am completely certain that you shall change your mind in no time at all, and that you shall very soon acquiesce to my demands to marry me.”

I stared into her dark eyes, for what seemed like an eternity.There was something about them, something intangible that seemed to hold one’s gaze, drawing one further and further in. Everything else seemed to fade away into the background, and all that was left were the eyes, those dark, beautiful eyes…

I shook my head sharply to free myself of the daze that I had found myself in.

“Sorry, my dear? You were saying?”

“I was just wondering, my lord,” Helena said, taking my hand and holding it close to her. “Shall we get married?”

I smiled.

“Why, most certainly, my dear! How about tomorrow?”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Nice Day For A Bite Wedding!

Enjoyed? Then do please donate! Times are hard at Likely Towers – indeed, my wretched scribe, Mr. Fanton, nears ever closer to complete financial, physical and mental collapse. To prevent him from passing out and thus ceasing all work on my journals, please do toss a farthing or two his way. All help is muchly appreciated, and those who help now receive access to his lordship’s top-secret Member’s Lounge! HUZZAH!

“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!

DESPITE having practically plastered London with ‘Lost Cat’ posters, and having scoured the capital myself, I seemed no closer to finding my beloved pet lion, Thundercock. The police had even offered to help me search as well, promising to look ‘high and low’ for my poor pet, which I thought was rather inefficient of them, unless they hoped to see my lion soaring across the skies in a hot air balloon or something.

Anyway, in spite of all these efforts, I was still no closer to locating dear Thundercock, and so it was in a rather depressive state my man-servant found me as he slithered into the drawing room of Likely Towers.

“Milord?” he asked tentatively. “I just thought I’d -”

“Oh, do sod off, Botter. I am not in the mood to even attempt to converse with the likes of you today,” I sighed, turning away to gaze out of the window in deep, handsome contemplation. After a while, however, it became quite apparent that Botter had failed to heed my words, and had resolutely failed to sod off.

“Why have you not sodded off yet?” I snapped, swinging round in my chair to find my man-servant still standing there, his head bowed as he nervously fumbled a piece of paper in his hands.

“Um…well, I…it’s just that you have been so down of late, milord…I thought…I thought this might cheer you up a bit,” Botter replied meekly, proffering the paper towards me.

“It had better be a warrant for your immediate execution, Botter,” I snarled, grabbing the sheet from my servant’s filthy grasp. “I fear only that would bring me any amount of joy on this greyest of days.”

“It is better than that, milord,” Botter brightened. “It seems like there is an adventure afoot!”

“An adventure, eh?” I exclaimed excitedly, momentarily forgetting my woes. There really is nothing like the prospect of a jolly good adventure to clear the senses, focus the mind and stiffen one’s todger, and thus I eagerly digested the note with a renewed sense of excitement.

The note was, in fact, a telegram from my contact at Scotland Yard, Inspector Albert Spunkleford, asking for my help in apprehending a rather deranged game hunter who was running rampant through the city with a rifle, taking pot-shots at all and sundry, while heading to the city’s zoological park.

It hardly sounded like the most thrilling of adventures, but I was pleased for any diversion from my worries, so instructed Botter to ready the carriage for our departure.

*****

BOTTER and I were welcomed to the zoo by scenes of utter confusion. There was a rather unkempt and wild-eyed man yelling at a group of police officers huddled together at the zoo’s gates, a man whom I presumed to be the hunter in question, judging by the rather tatty safari suit he was sporting and the large rifle he was wielding (it is keen observations like these which separate the common man from the great). This fellow occasionally interrupted his garbled tirade against the police to fire a shot into the brickwork or in the officers’ vague direction, after which he’d resume his rant.

Spunkleford, meanwhile, was providing valiant support by cowering behind a nearby carriage, covering his ears and rocking gently backwards and forwards.

“Ah, Inspector! I see you have things covered here…specifically, your ears,” I quipped as I snuck down beside him.

“Likely!” beamed Spunkleford, removing his hands from the side of his head and squeezing my arms with joy. “Am I ever glad to see you!”

“Most assuredly,” I replied. “So then, Inspector…what in the name of twattery is going on here, precisely?”

“Well, you see that bounder there?” Spunkleford asked, indicating towards the lunatic gunman. “That there is Colonel Cackshott. Used to be a rather respected figure, though you wouldn’t think that to look at him now. He had been in Africa on safari with a hunting party, until he was caught getting rather…ahem…intimate with the carcass of a recently-shot gazelle.”

“Heavens! Maybe he misunderstood the instruction to ‘mount’ the animals?” I responded wittily.

“Anyway,” Spunkleford continued, choosing to ignore my humourous quip. “Cackshott was sent back to England shortly thereafter, massively disgraced and incredibly humiliated. I fear the chap’s gone rather off the rails.”

“By the sounds of it, dear inspector, I do not think Cackshott was ever on the rails, or anywhere near them. So, it is safe to assume that this cad has not come to the zoo for an innocent day out, then? Clearly he is looking to shoot and or hump something, yes?”

“I believe so, yes,” Spunkleford replied, shaking his head sadly.

“Rightio,” I said as I drew my pistol from within my coat. “I think it is time to see that this necrophiliac zoophile is put down, eh?”

With that I broke cover and strode out into the street, training my pistol on Cackshott, who was busily screaming at the increasingly befuddled police officers.

“Cackshott,” I bellowed, pulling back the hammer on my gun. “‘ Tis Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! The game is up! Throw down your weapon or I shall shoot you where you stand, sir!”

Cackshott swivelled round and let off a shot, which whizzed harmlessly past my head.Thank heavens Cackshott lived up to his name.

“I warned you, Cackshott,” I snarled. “No second chances.” Then, I pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Then I realised: with my mind preoccupied with worry about my pet lion, I had quite forgotten to check that my pistol was loaded. I cursed under my breath, vowed to dock Botter’s pay for neglecting to remind me, and then I braced myself for Cackshott to take advantage of my folly.

Cackshott, however, seemed quite uninterested in my mistake, and was looking past and behind me, his eyes wide, his tongue licking his dry, cracked lips with considerable relish. My brow furrowed in confusion. Damnation, I thought. ‘Tis awfully rude not to pay attention when in a fight for one’s life.

Cackshott’s gaze didn’t falter from the spot behind me, and so, curiosity finally getting the better of me, I turned to see what it was that was holding the colonel’s attention.

There in the street behind me, standing in all his majestic and magnificent glory, was my precious Thundercock.

“Thundercock!” I grinned, almost overcome with elation upon seeing my proud pet once more. But before I could rejoice any further, I heard the tell-tale sound of a rifle being cocked behind me.

I spun around again and my blood froze;  Cackshott had his weapon aimed at the lion, and looked rather like he was planning to shoot Thundercock dead.

And then, no doubt, he planned to stuff him.

- Lord Likely.

Is this the end of the lion for Likely? Will Cackshott shoot Thundercok, or is he lion? Will Likely take this lion down? And how many more terrible ‘lion’ puns can we make? Be here promptly for the fantastic finale of Lord Likely and the Lost Cat to find out!

February 27th, 1858.

YES, dear readers, it is true – I need YOU! For to-day is truly an historic day, for it was on this very day, two short years ago, that I began to chronicle my Astonishing Adventures!And such a momentous occasion cannot possibly go by unheeded, which is why I need you to come and join me in a massive, spectacular two-week celebration of my continued excellence and sheer, bloody incredibility.

Since February the 27th, 1856, and over the course of some two-hundred and twenty thrill-packed entries, I have continued to dazzle, entertain and arouse my many magnificent readers. I have done battle with killer prostitutes; travelled to the United States of America and come face-to-face with unruly, homosexual savages; tackled randy beasts; defeated maniacal mad-men and beaten off many a cad and a bounder. (No, not like that, you swine).

After so long being so ruddy fabulous, I recently decided I needed a change of scenery to refresh my weary bones (being so relentlessly wonderful is extremely tiring work, you know), hence the decision to blow up the Likely Estate (I did not want it falling into the hands of ruffians or – urgh – commoners) and my relocation to my glorious new abode, here at Likely Towers -  a glorious new residence which thrusts into the sky, a powerful erection making love to the Heavens.

Of course, transporting all of my priceless possessions was hard work, hence why I employed the use of an elephant to help me move my things to my new home. My extensive collection of pornography itself took two whole days to rehouse, but it was well worth the effort. I simply cannot be without my vast supply of smut, you know.

Now I am settled in, I am ready to throw the mother, father and great uncle of all parties, to which you are all duly invited, of course.

Over the next two weeks, I shall be playing host to some breath-taking tributes to my stupendous self, from artists and writers of great repute. Of course, if any of my loyal follwers also wish to produce such a work – maybe a poem detailing my many great achievements, or an erotic portrait, or a song about how excellent I am, then do feel free, and I shall share it with the masses over the next fortnight.

Send such homages to hislordship@lordlikely.com

But for now, let us eat, drink and be naked – for it is a time of celebration and great cheer.

Bottoms up!

- Lord Likely.

(Post-Script: I also wish to make it clear that despite Inspector Spunkleford’s asertions, I did not have intercourse with his wife. His sister, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether).

(Post-Post-Script: also celebrating today is dear Meilin Miranda, who’s own scintillating serial, ‘An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom‘, is celebrating one year of greatness! Congratulations, m’dear!)