AND SO there I was, stood betwixt a rifle-toting huntsman and my prized pet lion Thundercock, outside London Zoo. The atmosphere was so tense you could have cut the air with a knife, taken a slice and made yourself a very strained sandwich. It really was very tense indeed.

“Cackshott,” I said, addressing the crazed hunter carefully. “Lower the rifle. Come on, just put it down now.”

“Not until I’ve bagged that creature!” Colonel Cackshott cried in return.

“You shall not be ‘bagging’ anything, you miscreant.”

“Oh no?” Cackshott retorted, raising his rifle up as he took aim at the lion.

“No.” I said sternly, moving myself between Cackshott’s rifle and dear Thundercock. “If you want to shoot that lion, you shall have to go through me first.” I paused. “And if you want to go through me, you shall have to go through my man-servant before that.”

“What?” Botter exclaimed, peeking his head out from his hiding place behind a nearby cab.

“‘Tis in your contract, you know,” I explained patiently.

“I don’t have a contract.”

“Well, I have a copy. I keep it in my head. Trust me, that clause is most definitely there.”

Botter and I continued to discuss the small print of his entirely fictitious contract; not only because I enjoy tormenting my wretched servant, but also because I had noticed Inspector Spunkleford creeping out from behind the back of the cab, and I was discreetly watching him silently motioning to the police officers outside the zoo. I reasoned that Spunkleford was formulating some sort of ambush on Cackshott while he was distracted, and thus I had hoped my continued contractual dispute with Botter would buy the officers ample time to carry out their plan.

“…milord? ” Botter continued, having gone unheard whilst I had been observing Spunkleford’s machinations.

“Hmm? What?” I said, half-watching the officers slowly sneaking toward the increasingly agitated Cackshott.

“I said, ‘is there any way that my lawyer can see this contract, milord’?”

“You don’t have a lawyer, Botter.”

“No, but I can imagine one,” Botter replied. “And I was thinking that an imaginary lawyer would be very well qualified to examine an imaginary contract.”

“Botter, that is surprisingly witty for you,” I exclaimed. “Of course, you do realise that there is a clause in your contract stating that you shall never attempt to be funnier than your master, so I am afraid you are in direct breach of your terms of employment, and -”

“SHUT UP!” screamed Cackshott, finally growing impatient of our banter. “By jove, you two do speak a load of old rot, you know.”

“Charming,” I mumbled, as I watched the policemen cautiously advance upon Cackshott.

And then everything went to hell in a handbasket.

First, one of the officers stood on a stick – or it might well have been a stick-insect which had managed to escape from the zoo itself, I cannot be sure. At any rate, it snapped under the policeman’s foot with a loud crack, causing Cackshott to swivel round quickly.

“Stop right there!” he bellowed, pointing his rifle straight at the clod-footed copper. “One more move and I shall blast you all to kingdom-bloody-come!”

While Cackshott screamed blue murder at the policemen, I saw my chance to take him down myself. Well, if you want a job done properly, leave it to an aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action, after all. I began dashing toward Cackshott, but he was on high alert by now, and he swung back around to face me, his gun trained on my lordly form. I skidded to a halt a few feet shy of my target.

“No second chances!” yelled Cackshott, as he raised his gun.

I braced myself for the impending bullet and a woefully unspectacular demise at the hand of a nut-bar in a terribly dishevelled safari suit.

Cackshott pulled the trigger, and time slowed to a crawl.

There was a deafening roar, something struck me hard, and then there was nothing but complete and utter blackness.

*****

OF course, it does not take a genius to realise that I had not been killed, else how would I have written up this astonishing adventure? No, instead I regained consciousness on the street, Botter’s filthy face being the first sight my eyes beheld as they flickered open.

“Eurrrrggh…” I moaned. “Is this hell?”

“Milord!” Botter beamed, gently mopping my brow with a wet towel. “You are alright!”

“Argh! Tits on stilts!” I gasped as I moved to sit up, pain flashing through the right-hand side of my body. “What the ruddy hell happened? All I remember is being hit by something…”

“Allow me to field that one!” chirped Spunkleford, suddenly coming into view beside me. “It was incredible, Likely! Absolutely incredible!”

“What was? What in the name of Dickens’ dick-end are you babbling about?”

“Well, Cackshott went to shoot you, but then – oh, my! Your pet lion suddenly bounded on up like a locomotive, and knocked you clear from danger! He saved you, Likely! He saved your very life!”

I grinned. “Oh, Thundercock! A more loyal pet one could not possibly ask for! You’d do well to learn by his example, Botter,” I said, turning to my man-servant. “So, where is dear Thundercock? I should like to thank him personally!”

Botter and Spunkleford exchanged solemn glances.

“Erm…well, you see…Thundercock did save your life…but…well, it was at a cost, I am afraid…” Spunkleford sighed. “He didn’t just knock you clear from the firing line, Likely. He took the bullet, as well.”

“What? So…so where is he? Where is Thundercock?” I asked, as I scrambled to my feet, looking around for my proud pet. “Answer me, damn your eyes!”

Spunkleford gently removed his hat and lowered his head. “I…I am afraid we lost him, Likely. I am so very sorry.”

“No!” I shouted, dropping back down to my knees. “It…it cannot be! Not dear Thundercock! Dear God, no! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Um…” Spunkleford interjected, ruining a perfectly good dramatic moment. “We…we did find him again, though.”

“What?” I said, mid-outcry.

“Oh, yes. You see, Thundercock DID take the bullet, that much is true. We thought he was done for, but as my men pounced on Cackshott and took him away, that old lion starts stirring, then he starts sniffing the air, and then lo and behold, he gets back up!” Spunkleford shook his head in disbelief as he recounted the events. “Before we know what’s happening, that lion of yours goes bounding off into the zoo! We managed to track him down, to the big cat enclosure. It turns out that he caught the scent of a couple of lionesses there…and…well, he went to…erm…well, you know…”

A wide grin spread across my face. “Ha-ha! That old devil! Takes a bullet and still has time for the ladies! Ha! Clearly, he takes after his beloved master, eh?”

And with that we all fell into helpless laughter, such was the hilarity of my humourous observation.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

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!

Yes, dear readers – it is true. I have lost my prized pet lion, Thundercock.

The last I saw of him was when he was out playing on the lawn, merrily chasing a door-to-door salesman around the garden, playfully tearing at the man’s clothing with his ferocious claws. Ah, what a loyal pet he is!

However, a couple of hours later, I went to go and feed him with my man-servant, Botter (by which I mean I accompanied Botter who was performing said task, not that I was feeding the wretch to Thundercock himself, though I have come close on occasion). To my utter shock, horror and dismay,  my poor pet had seemingly vanished into thin air.

If anyone has seen him, please do leave a comment letting me know where he is, and whether or not he has savaged any dignitaries or paupers (so that I know whether to reprimand him, or praise him).

Alternatively, send me an electrical letter, or leave me a short missive using my Twittering Device or a note in my Handsome Face Book.

‘Tis imperative dear Thundercock is returned to me, lest he falls into…common hands. Heavens! The very notion makes me want to vomit into my own hat.

Many thanks indeed, ladies and gentle-men.

- Lord Likely.

NEW! Show your support for Likely’s Thundercock by sporting one of our smashing new shirts, available to purchase HERE or indeed HERE! Huzzah!

Well, what a fine Christmas-time I am having this year.

Not only have I already enjoyed urinating on a beggar, and having intercourse with a ghost, but today I received a rather marvelous present from my wretched man-servant, Botter.

I rose early on Christmas morn, and was looking forward to thrashing my man-servant to within an inch of his miserable life, as a festive treat to myself. However, when I ventured downstairs, I found that Botter looked like he had been given a thorough going-over already. His clothes were in tatters (rather more so than is usual for one as unkempt as he), his hair was ruffled and he bore large, terrible scratches about his face and arms.

“What in the blazes have you been up to, Botter?” I enquired. “You look as if you have been dragged through a bush backwards, and then beaten up by the bush. What have you been doing?”

“Sorry, milord,” Botter apologised, lightly dabbing at his seeping wounds with a handkerchief. “I was trying to wrap your Christmas present, but it proved rather more difficult than I had hoped.”

“Slap my arsehole, Botter! What in the name of Spanish sodomy have you bought me that could cause you such injuries? Have you perchance purchased me a set of dangerously-sharp daggers for Christmas?”

“No, milord…if…if you would care to follow me, I have stored your gift in the drawing-room.”

I regarded Botter with a puzzled expression, and then followed him down to the drawing-room. As we neared the door, I could hear the sound of something crashing about inside.

“Ye Gods!” I exclaimed, gripping my cane tightly. “Are we being burgled? Whoever is in there had better scarper quick, lest they taste my mighty cane!” I paused. “And by ‘mighty cane’, I do not mean my penis, this time.”

“Milord! Please, wait, I have to -” cried out Botter, as I turned the door-handle and strode inside.

No sooner had I laid a foot upon the plush carpet of the room, than I was knocked to the floor by something so powerful that it left me quite winded. As I laid on the floor, gasping for breath, a shadow fell over me, and I was suddenly face-to-face with a giant, ferocious lion.

Well, there are worse ways to go out, I thought to myself. At least I was not mauled to death by a terrier, or a rabid squirrel.

“I had not seen such a powerful beast since I went to the toilet this morning”

I braced myself for the lion’s final, terrible attack, but was surprised to find that rather than tearing my face off in his powerful jaws, the beast merely leant closer, and licked my face.

“Good lord!” I exclaimed. “It seems I am truly irresistible to all of God’s creatures!”

“He likes you,” observed Botter, as the lion continued to lick my lordly face.

“Well, indeed,” I agreed, as I stroked the creature’s mane. “It is not all that surprising, really. He clearly acknowledges that he is in the presence of an Alpha-Male, and has conceded accordingly. It happens to me all of the time. Here, Botter, come and help me back on to my feet, will you?”

Botter gingerly moved forward, at which point the lion unleashed a nut-shatteringly loud roar, and bared his teeth at my terrified servant.

“Hm. He does not care for you too much, Botter. I dare say he did not take too kindly to your earlier misguided attempt to gift-wrap him for me,” I said, hauling myself out from underneath the beast. “I mean, honestly. Who tries to gift-wrap a lion?”

“I had a lovely red ribbon to tie on his tail as well,” lamented Botter.

“I am continually staggered by your incredible stupidity, sometimes,” I grunted, as I freed myself from the lion. “Nonetheless, I must say he is a most magnificent animal, he really is. I have not seen such a powerful beast since I went to the toilet this morning. Where on Earth did you get him, pray tell?”

“He used to belong to Mr. Silas Surprise,” replied Botter from behind the door-frame to where he had retreated. “Once Mr. Surprise was arrested, all his possessions were impounded, including this here lion. However, it seemed the animal did not take too kindly to being impounded , and after he unburdened two police-officers of their arms, the police were rather keen to get rid of the creature. So, I volunteered to take him off of their remaining hands, and, well, give him to you. Happy Christmas, milord!”

“I suppose you could say that he is my…mane present this year, eh?” I chortled.

“Yes, he is your main present this year, milord,” Botter replied, missing my most excellent pun altogether.

“Never mind, Botter. Don’t strain yourself…well, this beast shall make for a most marvelous new pet. Does he have a name?” I asked, as the lion nonchalantly chewed upon my couch.

“Mr. Surprise called him Princey, I think,” returned my man-servant.

“Ugh.” I pulled a disgusted face. “That will not do at all. This fine creature demands a name that reflects his majesty, his power, his strength…”

“What about Leo?” suggested Botter.

“Good gracious,” I sighed. “That is possibly even more insipid and uninspired than Princey. No, I think I shall call him…Thundercock.”

“Thundercock?”

“Yes, Thundercock. A bold name for a bold beast! Isn’t that right, Thundercock?” I cooed, scratching under the animal’s chin. “Well, many thanks indeed, Botter. I am genuinely touched by this most glorious of gifts.”

“You…you’re more than welcome, milord,” Botter replied, clearly confused by the notion of being congratulated for something.

“However,” I added, “I shall naturally have to dock your pay for to cover the cost of the considerable damage the creature has done to my drawing-room.”

“Oh. Right,” replied Botter, blankly.

“Well, if you would be so good as to start clearing up in here, I shall go and take Thundercock for a walk through the village. With any luck, he’ll savage a few carol-singers or take a chunk out of a vicar’s neck. Merry Christmas!“

At this juncture, I would just like to remind you all that a lion is for life, and not just for Christmas. Man-servants, however, are entirely expendable.

- Lord Likely.

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It was a freezing cold, damp and drizzly November evening, and rather than being snugly ensconced in the warmth of my luxurious mansion, I was outside, standing in the rain, getting wetter and more irate with each passing second.

“What in the name of blue-arsed buggery am I doing here?” I snapped angrily.

“Um…it was your idea, milord,” replied my equally sodden man-servant, Botter.

“My idea?!” I snorted. “It was my idea to come and stand in the pouring rain, freezing my balls off, with only you for company? I find that very hard to believe.”

“Well, milord, you did say that…”

“Botter, please, do not tell me my own mind. That will only enrage me, and then you shall be beaten about the head. Do you understand?”

“But I – “

And so, rather inevitably, I clouted Botter around the head with my cane. He yelped in pain.

“Now let that be a lesson to you, Botter, I do not want to…what-ho!” I said, suddenly espying a poster upon the wall nearby. “Look, Botter, there’s that show I wanted to see!”

“Milord, that is what I was trying to tell you – we ARE going to see that show! You read an advertisement in the news-paper for this production, and then you got so excited that you demanded we head to London immediately. Along the way, you drank an enormous amount of whisky, and when you ran out of whisky you started on the brandy. After that, you went on to the gas from the carriage’s gas-lamps, and then fell asleep. And now, we’re here – standin’ out in the rain, waitin’ to get into this here theatre!”

“Well, what a pleasant surprise!” I beamed. “I really should get blind, steaming drunk more often, you know. Every day is a fresh barrage of unexpected delights when one is in a semi-permanent state of alcohol-induced amnesia, I must say.”

“Still…an apology would be nice,” muttered Botter, rubbing the back of his head rather over-theatrically.

“Botter, Botter, Botter. Being a member of the upper class means I never need apologise, you know that!” I said, as I inspected the theatrical poster more closely. “Good heavens! I went to school with this fellow!”

“You went to school with Silas Surprise?” asked Botter, somewhat awe-struck.

“Hmmm? Oh, no, not him. This chap, here,” I said, indicating to the far smaller print at the bottom of the page. “‘Archibald the Entirely-Adequate‘. That’s the one! Funnily enough, he had exactly the same nickname at school. Ha! Poor old Archibald.” I paused a moment. “Hold on! Do you suppose that this is the reason why I wanted to come here? To catch up with my old chum Archie?”

“No, you just said you wanted to see a woman getting viciously penetrated by a wild lion.”

“Well, quite,” I mused. “It is not every day you get to see such a spectacle. Still, maybe I shall drop in on Archie whilst I am here. It should be nice to see the old boy again, and besides which it is always infinitely entertaining to meet up with past classmates, if only to rub my enormous success and considerable wealth in their wretchedly unfulfilled faces!”

“Very good, milord.”

“Egads! This queue is moving damnably slow, is it not?” I griped, as the line shuffled slowly forwards towards the theatre. “Damn it all to Hades! I should not have to suffer the inconvenience of queuing with the rest of the proletariat now, should I? I am a ruddy aristocrat, after all! I shall go and have a word with the doorman, and see if I cannot use my high-standing and VIP status to get us in quicker.”

Botter sighed as I broke free from the queue, and strode purposefully down to the front of the line. Without breaking my pace, I walked up the steps and toward the open doors.

“Excuse me, sir, where do you think you are going?” the doorman enquired, blocking my path with a thick, tree-trunk like arm. “You will have to join the queue, I’m afraid.”

“A pox on you and your ruddy queue!” I shouted. “Do you not know who I am?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” replied the doorman, shrugging his hefty shoulders.

“Well, I am very important indeed, let me tell you. I think you shall find my name upon that list of guests you are holding, there,” I said, noticing the sheet of paper clutched in the Neanderthal man’s fat mitt.

“Oh! I’m sorry, sir,” replied the ape. “And you are?…”

“I’m just here,” I interjected, jabbing my finger blindly on the page.

“You’re Mrs. Gobblerod?”

“Well, no, clearly not. I’m just down a bit…” I said, running my finger down the list. “I should be just…HERE!” And with that, I whipped my fist off from the bottom of the sheet, and straight into the doorman’s groin. The man exhaled deeply, then crumpled to the floor, clutching his badly-bruised ball-sack.

“Hm.” I casually rested my cane upon my shoulder as I regarded my handiwork. “Crude, but undeniably effective. Come, Botter!” I cried out, turning to the theatre’s doors. “It is show-time!”

- Lord Likely.

Now Open: We are very pleased to announce the unveiling of The Upper Crust, a very special web-based community for all those loyal to his lordship to engage in friendly discussion, befriend one another, share items of interest and to get blind, roaring drunk. It is absolutely free to join, and his lordship hopes to see you there. Please bring a bottle.

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