5:oopm, 28th of January, 1891.

“BASTARD!” I cried. “Botter, you bastard, go and prepare The Bastard – time is of the essence, so we shall need a fast (if incredibly deranged) horse to take us into town with due haste!”

“Very good, my lord,” sighed Botter. I watched my man-servant slouch off, and chuckled to myself. I knew how much Botter dreaded tethering The Bastard to my carriage, as it usually resulted in Botter being kicked about the place like a rag-doll.

I returned to my bed-chamber and slipped out of my silk pyjamas, and into one of my finest suits. To be rather frank, all of my suits were particularly fine, so I could have worn any of them. I checked myself in the mirror, briefly contemplated masturbating furiously at the sight of my own incredibly ravishing reflection, and then decided to head outside to my awaiting carriage.

“Ah, good work, Botter,” I remarked, as my man-servant’s body whizzed past me, coming to a rather painful stop against a wall. “I see you have The Bastard prepared.”

“Y…yes my lord,” whimpered Botter, picking himself up off the ground. “No trouble at all.”

I grinned and boarded the carriage, while Botter gamely clambered onto his seat at the front. I produced a bottle of champagne from my inside-pocket, followed by a glass from another, and set about pouring myself a late afternoon drink. As I did so, Botter cracked the reins, and the carriage jolted forward like a rocket, sending champagne gushing forth about the place like an alcoholic geyser.

“EGAD, Botter! Control that beast, won’t you?” I shouted as the carriage shook and shuddered down the path.

“I’m trying, my lord!” whined my man-servant. “But he’s…well, he’s a bit of a bastard, my lord!”

The Bastard seemed to take this somewhat personally, and he lurched forward, sending my man-servant careening off of his seat, leaving him to hang off of the front of the carriage for dear life. Meanwhile, I was still getting no closer to enjoying my delicious beverage, which I was finding most inconvenient indeed.

Botter gradually pulled himself back onto his seat, but by then The Bastard was well and truly out of control, crashing through the lane at a tremendous lick, then crashing through the hedges, at least a dozen fences, two out-houses and an entire gypsy settlement.

“Bloody hell, Botter! What is going on up there?” I bellowed, as I poked a gypsy lady off of the side of the carriage, being far from interested in the lucky heather she was trying to sell to me.

Moments later, it seemed Lady Luck decided to kick me firmly in the balls for shunning her fortuitous fauna, for the next thing I knew The Bastard had decided to leap a river, causing the carriage to become disjointed from the mad horse, sending us tumbling backwards into the water below…

- Lord Likely.

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1:00pm,  January the 28th, 1891.

WHILE BOTTER went and changed out of his filth-encrusted trousers, I took the time to read the ‘Gentleman Killed By Hat’ article which had caught my aristocratic eye:

‘GENTLEMAN KILLED BY HAT

Scotland Yard: “We haven’t the faintest idea what happened here.”

London. A gentleman was killed yesterday, in what police are calling “a tragic hat-based accident”.

Mr. Cuthbert Hingetickle of Lower Soddington, was last seen doffing his hat to a lady on Regent Street, before apparently exploding before the startled lady’s eyes.

“It was terrible,” said Ms. Elaine Chalfont. “One moment the gentleman was smiling and tipping his hat, the next he exploded to pieces. Frankly, I though it rather rude of him, detonating in front of a lady like that.”

Scotland Yard are investigating the incident, but admit that so far they have not found any substantial leads. “We haven’t the faintest idea what happened here,” said Inspector Albert Spunkleford of the Yard. “We are looking into the possibility that Mr. Hingetickle’s hat may have been on too tight, or that there may have been a manufacturing defect in said item which would have caused him to go bang. When we find out what the deuce occurred, we shall issue a full statement.”‘

I smiled and lowered the paper. Poor Spunkleford, as terribly out of his depth as ever. Which was quite a feat, considering he never strayed from the shallow end. It looked like he was in desperate need of assistance – he needed the invaluable aid of Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! I resolved to get on the telephone immediately and make contact with the imbecilic inspector.

But first, I really needed to go to the lavatory. That quail’s egg baguette was playing merry hell with my colon.

But maybe I could wait until AFTER the telephone conversation…EGAD! Already this case was proving rather tricky.

- Lord Likely.

* What should Likely do? Telephone the inspector, or attend to his toilet? Vote ‘Spunk’ for Spunkleford, ‘Loo’ for lavatory! Leave a comment here, or make your suggestion on Twitter (using the #1score4 tag) and/or Facebook! Quick! Likely needs YOU!

12:00pm, January the 28th, 1891.

AS I awoke at twelve o’clock in the afternoon (as is my wont as an aristocrat who can do whatever he ruddy pleases), I had no inkling that the day ahead of me would transpire to be the longest day of my life thus far.

Not in a literal sense, of course. There were no extra hours tagged onto the end of the day, the earth’s rotation did not slow, or anything quite so fanciful. It was still the standard twenty-four hour day, but by God – each hour slapped me about the face like an insolent masseuse. I thought the day would never end.

It began quite innocently enough. I sat up in bed and waited for the arrival of my man-servant, Botter, and my breakfast (or lunch or whatever it was by now). After a few minutes of increasingly irritable waiting, I finally decided to pull the chord on the bell to summon the filthy wastrel to my side.

“Ah, there you are, Botter,” I remarked dryly as my man-servant huffed and puffed his way into my bed-chamber, having evidently dashed up the stairs in quite a haste. “What in the name of Dutch tossery took you so long? Were you laying the eggs yourself, perchance?”

“S-sorry, milord,” Botter panted as he laid my solid-gold breakfast tray upon my lap. “My-my watch stopped working again.”

“Honestly, Botter, you must get yourself a new watch, you know. That one works less than you do, I swear.”

“I…I would, milord, but watches are rather expensive and I fear I could not afford one on my humble wage,” Botter replied, leaving a pregnant pause hanging in the air, a pause so very pregnant that it could have given birth to a litter of tiny pauses had I let it remain there.

“Well, you shall just have to be awake all the time then, to be sure of being ready for when I call, shan’t you?” I grinned, picking up the morning’s edition of the London Sheet of News from off of my breakfast tray.

“Very good milord,” Botter said.

“Egad!” I exclaimed as I flicked through the news-paper idly. “I do wonder why I choose to have a paper delivered every morning. Look at this all! Death! War! Famine! Murder! Why, ’tis enough to put a gentleman quite off his delicious quail’s egg baguette, I can tell you.”

“Indeed, milord.”

“Do you know what would make this more palatable?” I asked, as I took a bite out of my breakfast.

“Um….some mayonnaise?” ventured my cretinous servant.

“I’m not referring to my breakfast, Botter you arse-tube. I’m referring to all this misery served up as news! Do you know what would make THAT more palatable?”

“No, my lord,” Botter answered.

“I shall tell you – if they had a picture of a scantily-clad maiden on the third page in, sharing with us her thoughts on the events of the day. Mmm, that would certainly make things more interesting! Botter, jot that down in my Ledger of Excellent Ideas!”

“Very good, my lord.”

“I know, I know,” I said absently, as I ran my eyes up and down the columns of text on the front page. It all seemed like the usual, dreary garbage, but my interest was piqued by one headline that stood out from the rest by quite a considerable margin.

‘GENTLEMAN KILLED BY HAT,’ the headline screamed.

“Ah-HA!” I cried, thumping the breakfast tray with such force that I wound up catapulting a fork into the wall by Botter’s head. “I smell ADVENTURE!” I paused and sniffed the air. “And have you soiled yourself, Botter?”

- Lord Likely.

Follow his lordship on Twitter and/or Facebook to keep up-to-date with the latest developments in this LIVE 24-hour adventure, and to influence upcoming chapters yourselves!

I HAVE had many a strange adventure in my time, but there are few stranger than the tale of The Man With the Improbable Leg, which sees me working alongside some sort of gentleman DUCK, and a telekinetic FISH.

I swear, I was not even drunk on this occasion. Well, not initially, at any rate.

Anyhow: this THRILLING TALE of MURDER, MYSTERY and MALLARDS  comes courtesy of the improbably excellent Mr. MCM, with added scrawls by my excellently improbable scribe, Mr. Fanton, Esquire. Huzzah!

And so, without further ado, may I present to you The Man with the Improbable Leg. Read it, cherish it, and even purchase it for use on your steam-powered book-reading device of choice. ‘Tis truly wondrous, and I am NOT pulling your leg!

Ha-ha! Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, very good.

IN OTHER NEWS: do not forget that my twenty-four hour adventure, ‘One Score and Four’ commences this very Thursday! Click ‘pon the banner below to learn more about the MOST THRILLING INTER-ACTIVE ADVENTURE YET!

Heavens, you are being DOUBLY SPOILED with my presence this week!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

HOLD ONTO your hats, dear readers – for my most ASTONISHING ADVENTURE yet is on the horizon!

YES! I, Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action – shall be embarking on a most THRILLING twenty-four hour escapade, with a fresh chapter arriving EVERY HOUR on the hour betwixt midday on the 28th of January, until midday on the 29th January! That is twenty four NEW chapters of my astonishing adventures, all in ONE DAY! Truly, you are all being spoiled rotten!

Each exciting episode of this extraordinary tale shall be written on the day itself by my scribe, Mr. Andrew D. Fanton, who has agreed to go without sleep for the duration of this adventure! (I say ‘agreed’, I mean ‘grudgingly assented to do so lest I battered his head to a pulp’) so you shall be able to WATCH in AMAZEMENT as the story unfolds RIGHT BEFORE your VERY (stunned) EYES!

Furthermore, if you are following my WILDLY ENTERTAINING antics ‘pon the Twittering Device or in the Book of Faces (which you jolly well should be, you know), YOU shall be able to help shape the story at key points! Imagine that, dear friends – Lord Likely at your very mercy!

It promises to be a SENSATIONAL SPECTACULAR, which will quite possibly leave the world CHANGED FOREVER, and for the better. Be sure not to miss out on this most magnificent of mysteries, dear readers, lest you be derided by your peers for ever more – might I suggest you take this opportunity to SUBSCRIBE to my journals so that you do not miss one ruddy thing!

So, in summary: that’s One Score and Four; a live, twenty-four hour adventure, commencing 12pm on the 28th January, and concluding at midday the following day.

Do please join me, for the TIME of your LIVES!

- Lord Likely.

Post-script: In far less interesting news, my scribe now has his very own website and web-log. Visit andyfanton.com if you want to see his scrawls, or if you are foolish enough to wish to hire the wretch!