The horse and carriage hurriedly swung through the gates of the estate, and quickly rattled on up the driveway of a large and impressive estate, which lead to a suitably large and impressive manor house with large and impressive windows, and a large and impressive door at which stood a distinctly small and less-than-impressive man, who seemed to be waiting anxiously for the carriage to arrive.

With a loud and slightly over-theatrical ‘woooooah!’, the cabbie drew the vehicle to a halt outside the doors of the house (both of which were large and impressive, lest we forget) and touched the brim of his hat in greeting to the concerned man in the doorway.

“How is he?” enquired the small man, nervously toying with a bowler hat in his hands.

“Not good, I’m afraid mate,” the cabbie replied, hopping down from his seat. “‘E seems delirious, frankly, mumblin’ and mutterin’ away to himself, so ‘e was. An’ he’s been sick at least three times on the way ‘ere.”

“Oh dear,” the worried man replied, running a shaky hand through a mess of blonde curls atop his head. “That does not sound good at all. Not at all.” He put his bowler hat back on his head, and a look of grim determination crept over his face. “Well,” he sighed, “let’s get him out of there, then.”

The cabbie nodded solemnly, and pulled open the door of his cab to allow its passenger to alight. No-one emerged. The two men exchanged worried glances, and just as they stepped forward to investigate further, the passenger suddenly sprung forth from within the carriage, loudly proclaimed something about aliens, before completely missing the steps of the cab and landing in a heap on the stony ground below. The two men looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“It is as I feared,” observed the small, blonde man sadly. “His lordship is completely and utterly drunk again.”

“I demand the immediate execution of both the cabbie and his ruddy unfriendly cab,” I mumbled from my undignified position on the floor, for it had been my handsome form which had sprung forth from the hansom cab.

The blonde man hurried to my side. “Are you quite alright, milord?” he enquired, trying to help me up.

“Unhand me, Botter!” I roared at my man-servant (for it was he). “I am not incapapapapable, you know.”

“Yes, milord,” Botter replied, stepping back and watching as I slowly and shakily got to my feet.

“There,” I beamed triumphantly, swaying slightly in the moonlight. “A cake of piss.”

And then I’m afraid to say, dear reader, that your noble and entirely humpable narrator lost his footing and fell to the ground once more.

Botter rolled his eyes, and came to my side once more.

“Good night, was it milord?” he asked as he helped me back to a state of absolute verticality. “It certainly seems like there was plentiful alcohol on supply, at any rate.”

I disentangled myself from my man-servant’s grasp, teetered slightly, but thankfully remained as gloriously erect as my mighty manhood in the company of a room full of harlots.

“I may have partaken of a tipple or twenty-three,” I finally replied. “But I am not pished.” I added. “By God, Botter, you truly do have a face like a horse’s arse, you know.”

“That’d be because that IS a horse’s arse, milord. I’m over here.” Botter responded. I rubbed my eyes and saw that I was indeed addressing the backside of one of the cabby’s horses. I tipped my hat and turned back to face my man-servant.

“Are you sure everything is alright, milord?” the oik continued. “Only you were shouting something about ‘aliens’ as you stepped out of the cab a moment ago.”

“Aliens!” I repeated, my eyes widening in terror. “Egad, yes! I was surrounded by them! Dozens upon dozens of aliens!”

“Aliens, milord? Really?” Botter asked.

“Yes, Botter! Aliens! You know….foreign types. Foreigners. Everywhere, they were. Everywhere!”

“Oh, I see. Well, you were at a party at the Indian Embassy, milord. I’d imagine there would be some foreign faces there.”

“And foreign bodies!” I remarked. “Some rather delectable foreign bodies, now that I think about it,” I recalled, stroking my luxurious moustache as I reminisced. “Although that damned ambassador seemed to take umbrage with me when I asked his wife to demonstrate all the positions from the Karma Sutra upon my person. Quite a humourless cove, that one.”

“I see, milord,” Botter nodded.

“PISS!” I bellowed suddenly, lurching forward.

“Pardon?”

“Piss! I desperately need to piss, Botter!”

“Oh, well if you just wait a moment, milord, we shall get you inside and – “

“Buggeration!” I roared. “There’s no time for all that flim-flam. I’ll simply relieve myself in a bush over there,” I said, pointing a shaky finger.

“Milord, you have a perfectly serviceable toilet, you know…” Botter began.

“Arse gravy!” I interrupted, staggering over to the bushes. “What is the point of me having this large and impressive estate if I can’t relieve myself in it once in a while, eh?”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed. “I shall just pay for the cab and meet you back in the house when you’re done.”

I grunted in response and continued to make my way falteringly to my makeshift lavatory. Once there, I spent a good few minutes wrestling with the damned buttons on my trousers, but as I went to unsheath my Lord Palmerston I was stopped in my tracks by something apparently moving through the soil below.

“What in the name of Satan’s scarlet scrotum is that?” I asked myself, peering closer into the dark. At once, I saw it move again, and this time got a glimpse of the mystery interloper. It was long and green, and looked to all intents and purposes like a large snake, wriggling through the soil of my flowerbed.

“Well I’ll be damnmnmned,” I slurred, as I peered closer. “Some sort of pervert snake hoping to get a peek at my tally whacker, I’d wager. Well, we shall see about that!” I exclaimed, searching about for a rake or a hoe I might deploy in the disposal of said invertebrate. But my quick search revealed nothing, and upon turning back to the garden I noticed the creature had vanished. I shrugged my shoulders and resumed my efforts to urinate, at which point the snake-like beast shot out from the ground, wrapped itself around my neck, and lifted me a good thirty feet into the air.

I could tell then that this was no common or garden snake with which I was dealing.

“Unhand me, sir!” I shouted at the foul creature. However, my request fell on deaf ears, for the beast possessed neither hands nor – as it subsequently transpired – ears.

From my vantage point, I saw my man-servant dash over to assist me, but another tentacle shot out from the bushes and caught him square in the stomach, sending him flying backwards into a distinctly unconscious heap. Ruddy good help, I noted sadly, is so hard to find.

I could feel the creature’s tentacular grip around my neck tightening as it thrashed me around like an overenthusiastic dominatrix (the best sort, I find) but to my alarm I now found myself being reeled in towards its gaping maw. Truly this time I was heading for the French kiss of death: the petite mort of oblivion.

But then: salvation! There was a sudden rustling in the bushes and a cry of “Take that!” With a dreadful howl, the creature released me and I plummeted to the ground, landing on my arse in a pile of compost. From my undignified vantage point I watched in admiration as my rescuer proceeded to despatch my alien assailant with clinically efficient swordsmanship.

Then my saviour stepped forward into the moonlight and to my utter astonishment she was revealed to be a woman!

“Great heavens, ma’am,” I cried, “How can I ever thank you?” (Although I have to say my mind was already considering the possibilities – now that I could get a glimpse, I could see she was a most becoming filly.)

However, she would not meet my eye.

“Sir,” she said, “Your pistol appears to be cocked.”

I was nonplussed at this, for I had no weapon on my person.

“The meat is … on the counter,” she continued. “The worm is out of its lair. Jack is out of his box. Master Willy is waving hello – ”

At last I understood. She was, in her elegant way, referring to my penis, which was still on display and treating her to a sneak preview. I reluctantly tucked it away again, for the time being at least, and hauled myself to my feet. I bowed to her and attempted to recommence intercourse.

“So to whom do I owe this lucky escape from almost certain death?” I said.

“My name is Elizabeth Darcy, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.”

Great heavens, I realised, this must be the wife of that old fart Fitzwilliam Darcy! Which would make her one of the notorious Bennet sisters! Five-in-a-bed, here we come, I thought. But I had to make conversation first.

“How did you come to be so adept with a weapon?” I said “Surely that is man’s work, is it not?”

“I have been trained by a Mr Wickham,” she explained. “He is a Lieutenant seconded to the Department of Unusual Affairs. He hunts aliens. Like this one.”

She looked down at the mass of severed tentacles.

“By jingo!” I ejaculated. “Are there more of these things?”

“I fear ’tis true. We have won a battle or two, but the war is not yet over. One day, someone will write a great book about our adventures so far, but there may yet be many sequels. As well as vignettes such as this one – although no doubt there will be debates amongst the aficionados as to whether it is a true part of the canon.”

“Madam, you talk in riddles!” I exclaimed. This was getting needlessly post- modern.

Elizabeth sheathed her weapon and looked about her consiprationally. “I fear I have said too much, sir,” she whispered. “If I tell you any more, I fear I may have to kill you.”

“Ha-ha!” I chuckled, enjoying what I thought had been a rather witty bit of banter, but the deadly serious look on the pretty woman’s face quickly told me that this had been no joke. I coughed and swiftly changed the subject. “Madam, I could not help but notice the energy and verve with which you tackled the giant, thrashing tendril. If you would be kind enough to join me in the house, I am sure I could offer you a similar experience with my very own ‘trouser tendril’, if I may be so blunt.”

The woman’s jaw dropped, not in amazement at the generosity of the offer, alas, but in disbelief that I had even chosen to breach the subject of possible intercourse. “Sir!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “I am betrothed to another, in case you were not aware!”

“I am well aware, m’dear,” I smiled. “You can bring him along, if you must. I am always game for what the French call….wait, what is it? Ah, yes – ‘three people humping’.”

*You filthy brute!” rejoined Elizabeth, before punctuating her displeasure with a swift boot to my nether regions. I fell to my knees, my hands clutched to my battered ball-bag.

Elizabeth grunted satisfactorily, then turned sharply on her heels and stalked off, muttering under her breath something about men and how they were worse than any foul being from outer space, and then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived.

My man-servant Botter, having by now regained consciousness, hastened over to me once again. “Milord?” he said, somehow managing to turn a single word into an enquiry with the ruthless degree of economy so typical of his class.

“First the tentacles,” I squeaked, “and now my testicles. What a woman! I do believe I am quite, quite smitten.”

“Who is she? What did you say to her? What happened, exactly?” asked Botter, helping me to my feet.

“Let us just say this,” I said, as we hobbled back to the house. “I have my pride, and that dear lady suffers no prejudice…”

Fin.

Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy features in the new paperback novel ‘Mrs. Darcy versus the Aliens’, penned by the scurrilous scribe of the age, Mr. Jonathan Pinnock. For further information about the book, and to read an extract, do please visit the webbed-page at www.mrsdarcyvsthealiens.com

Finally, you may purchase her new adventure from the British and American tendrils of the almighty Amazon corporation. Huzzah!

I PURCHASED a copy of the brand-new news-sheet, The News of the World today (see cover above).

It does look like a very fine journal indeed, full of integrity and the very finest journalism. I fully expect it to keep running for anywhere up to one hundred and sixty-eight years.

For now, I’m off to knock one out over the pictures of gloveless ladies. Egad, would you look at the fingers on THAT?

- Lord Likely.

A Brand New Astonishing Adventure!

THIS TALE commences with your not-at-all-humble narrator incapacitated after sustaining a particularly nasty injury in the field of combat; to whit, I recently found myself in a heated argument with a tuppenny trollop over the matter of payment for what I considered to be her rather lacklustre services.

As one may baulk at paying the bill for a lukewarm and foul-tasting meal, or as one may refuse to hand over money for a knackered and useless old nag, so I had refused to remunerate this harlot for providing nothing more than rather pedestrian and unexciting intercourse. The prostitute had taken a certain umbrage with my decision, and so we found ourselves in a heated exchange (which, ironically, was far more passionate than the love-making which had preceded it) before the whore chose to end the impasse by firmly grabbing my tumescent tally-whacker and twisting it with such force that I now fear that any children I sire in the future shall undoubtedly be born with a terrible limp.

And so you find my glorious self cooped up in bed in the Likely Estate, unable to partake in any of my usual pleasures due to the sheer, agonising pain emanating from my poor, paralysed Lord Palmerston. A terrible state of affairs, I am sure you will agree. More terrible still when you consider the fact that this left me in the company of my complete arse-pipe of a man-servant, Botter, who was fussing over me as if I were an injured sparrow or something, and tried raising my spirits by regaling me with God-awful stories about his youth in the East-End, accompanied by soul-crushing renditions of his favourite Cockney sing-alongs. I would have twatted the bounder and told him to eff off, were it not for the fact that any sudden movement caused a searing shockwave of pain to ripple through my body from my marmalised manhood.

When not having to endure Botter’s woeful working-class whimsy, I made an effort to pass the time by reading through some of my correspondence. Being an Astonishing Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I receive quite literal barrow-fulls of fan-mail and letters, much to the continued annoyance of my whining, moaning old cock-smear of a post-man. Usually, I would be much too busy getting drunk or fornicating to pay the mail much heed, but in my current state I finally had the time to attend to these bulging sacks of mine.

‘Twas a mixed and varied collection of correspondence, it has to be said. There were hundreds of requests for marriage from many a love-struck spinster, nude photographs of nubile young ladies (which caused a twitch in my loins that bought about more searing pain, so I had to discard those letters rather quickly), the occasional blood-soaked missive from deranged criminals threatening to cause me harm and venomous letters from enraged husbands and boyfriends, threatening to send deranged criminals my way to cause me harm for my having laid with their significant others. Some people really are much too uptight, I mused.

Then there were countless tedious pamphlets and leaflets trying to sell me some completely unnecessary service or product or other, such as this startlingly misdirected sales-pitch:

Sir,

Do YOU wish to last LONGER in BED? Does you LADY demand more SATISFACTION in the boudoir than you are able to provide due to an EMBARRASSING INADEQUACY in your GENITAL AREA? Is your FLACCID and LIMP penis the cause of much SCORN and DERISION? Are you not REALLY a MAN?

Well, FEAR NOT, for with DOCTOR COCKFOSTER’S patented PENILE ERECTION KIT, you will now be able to remain fully engorged for longer, and thus able to satisfy your special lady again and again and again, without WORRY!

Thanks to our innovative system of PULLEYS, LEVERS and STEEL GIRDERS, your much-maligned member can remain PROUD and UPSTANDING for hours upon end, finally putting an end to your end’s abrupt endings.

Do not DELAY! Send a cheque for ONE HUNDRED guineas to: Doctor Cockfoster, Cockfoster’s Cock Fosters, Cockfoster House, Cockfoster Forest, Cockfosterham. Do it TODAY, lest you forever more remain a PATHETIC, ENFEEBLED MOCKERY OF MASCULINITY!

- Dr. Cockfoster.

I sighed and shook my head sadly. Truly, this Doctor Cockfoster had failed to do adequate market research before sending out this clap-trap; I have no problem remaining firm and terrifically turgid…although I had to concede that in my current condition, my poor pump-pistol could barely even support a semi-semi. I sighed again, scrunched up the letter and hurled it aside. That particular pamphlet had served only to depress me further, confound it.

However, the next missive raised my spirits somewhat:

Dear Lord Likely,

I write to you in the hope that you may be able to come to my aid, as I am at my wit’s end and know not what other course of action to take. Having heard of your considerable skills and talents in the field of deduction and crime-solving, I believe that only you can possibly help me at all.

I smiled. Appealing directly to my ego is a sure-fire way of grabbing my attention. I read on.

This being the case, I ask for your assistance in tracking down my darling wife, Daphne Phingerphuckk, who has now been missing for some three days, and I fear that she may have been abducted by undesirables…such awful thoughts whirl through my mind when I consider what atrocity could have befallen her that I am quite unable to sleep, and grow increasingly sick with worry.

If anyone can trace her and bring her back safely to me, it is you, your lordship. Please do say that you shall assist me, I shall ensure that you are handsomely reimbursed.

Sincerely and fretfully yours,

Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk.

I lowered the letter and pondered for a moment or two, and then snatched up my note-book and pen, and scribbled out my reply.

Dear Mr. Phingerphuckk,

Your recent call for help has touched my noble heart, and my bulging wallet. I would, of course, be delighted to aid you in the relocation of your dear wife Daphne, for to do anything less would be criminal.

However, I must inform you that a minor inconvenience has befallen me of late (I shall not go into detail, but should you ever be in London Town and chance upon a sordid strumpet named Sandy Straddleton, I advise you to steer clear and instead thrust your todger into a half-eaten melon, for it shall have much the same effect as plunging it into her fetid, disease-ridden mimsy).

But while I now remain bed-bound as a result of my misfortune, I see it as no obstacle to investigating the mystery you present before me. Indeed, the idea of solving such a riddle from the comfort of my bed-chamber offers me something of a thrill and a challenge, to which I obligingly rise.

In short, yes, Mr. Phingerphuckk – I shall TAKE THE CASE!

- Lord Likely.

…To Be Continued!

Write To Likely And Appear In The Next Chapter!

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly! Compose a letter to his lordship, and if it passes muster he shall read it out in the next chapter of this exhilarating epistolary escapade, along with a hyper-link to a webbed-site of your choosing should you be successful! It can be whatever you like, declarations of love, sales-pitches, requests for his services or letters demanding his blood – just write, write, WRITE, DAMMIT!

Send your missives to hislordship@lordlikely.com, or leave them as a comment below, or contact his lordship via such social-media spots as Face-Book or the Twittering Device.

We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

]]> http://lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/the-likely-letters/the-likely-letters-part-one/feed 5 http://lordlikely.com/archives/random-insertions/words-of-wisdom http://lordlikely.com/archives/random-insertions/words-of-wisdom#comments Fri, 04 Feb 2011 01:24:21 +0000 Lord Likely http://www.lordlikely.com/?p=1532

NEVER MIND all that ‘keep calm and carry on‘ bollockery, the motto above is truly the only one which any respecting gentle-man or lady would wish adorned ‘pon their chests or walls, or have etched indelibly on the face of one’s man-servant using a piping-hot BRANDING IRON.

And now YOU (yes, you – to whom the ruddy arse did you think I was referring??) can sport these words upon your person, thanks to this latest dashing additions to my Emprioum of Excellence!

Behold – ‘Shut Up and Bugger Off‘ T-shaped shirts! Posters! Prints and MUCH MORE BESIDES!

Huzzah!

Now…SHUT UP AND BUGGER OFF.

- Lord Likely.

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!

AND SO the Prime Minister of Great Britain has finally announced the date for the General Election, sending shockwaves of apathy and disinterest running throughout the country.

Nothing sends me to sleep quite like politics. I may be a member of the House of Lords, but try to frequent its tomb-like corridors as little as possible, so interminably dull are the coffin-dodging codgers there. And as for the House of Commons…well, I ne’er set foot there, for ’tis full of filthy, wretched COMMONERS.

Besides all that, let us not forget the dishonesty and deception coursing through the veins of these politicians like a cheap and terribly nasty rum. While I am the first to admit that I lead a far from blameless existence, at least I am damnably honest about my non-stop boozing, continued use of prostitutes and my hobby of bludgeoning of paupers with a stick. There are no skeletons in my closet, ladies and gentleman! They would not fit inside there, on account of all of those expensive suits I purchased from London’s most exclusive tailor, before claiming them back as expenses later on. Huzzah!

In fact, I rather fancy myself as a leader. Heavens, I fancy myself full stop! But I would not wish to be merely Prime Minister! No, I should rather like to lord over a much larger estate…say, the WORLD?

Hmmm…yes. I do like the sound of that. LORD OF THE WORLD!

So, dear readers, let us make it happen forthwith! Let us unite in one, large, throbbing mass, and thrust my glorious self into my rightful place – ABOVE YOU ALL!

Of course, I cannot expect you to support me without an idea of what is to come during my despotic, tyrannical benevolent rule, so here are my main pledges to you, the people:

i. Free GROPES for all ladies! And maybe, in certain circumstances, some gentle-men as well.

ii. A giant likeness of my handsome FACE to be carved ‘pon the surface of the Moon, so whene’er you look up at the night sky, you shall all see me looking down upon you.

iii. I propose to put an END to the CLASS WAR, by using all of the Empire’s military might to finally wipe out the stinking lower classes.

iv. Hats MANDATORY.

v. Clothing OPTIONAL (especially for ladies).

vi. THREE more years of ASTONISHING ADVENTURES, and EXHILARATING ESCAPADES.

vii. I shall BEAT you with REEDS if you do not support me.

There! Surely those are the sort of ideas we can all get behind, and take firmly and strongly?

Show your support for me and my plan for world domination in the following ways:

* Save the above image, and post it up where e’er you can! Affix it to walls up and down the land, place it ‘pon your Face-Book page, your Twittering Account, or nail it to people’s foreheads!

* SPREAD THE WORD! Tell your friends, family and even your enemies of my magnificence, so they may join our growing ranks! And tell them all to visit www.lordlikely.com to hear the latest decrees from my lordly mouth.

* Join my Face-Book group, or follow me ‘pon the Twittering Device!

* Put one of these delightful banners ‘pon your web-site or webbed-log, to show the world you SUPPORT the LORD!

* PURCHASE fine goods bearing the ‘Grope‘ design – available as high-quality t-shirts, sweaters and even hoodies (whatever that is), or as cards, posters and prints! (Click the buy/preview links to see the full REMARKABLE range!)

* DONATE to the ‘party funds’ (i.e my drink fund) by clicking the button below. Running the Astonishing Adventures does sadly cost money, and your invaluable contributions really do help! No, REALLY!

Now, go forth, dear readers! Go forth and TELL the WORLD that LORD LIKELY must be their master! Together, we can FORCE change upon the populace! Go, go, GO!

I shall wait here.

Toodle-pip!

11:36am, 29th of January, 1891.

I CAME to moments later, a hand furiously tugging at the sleeve of my coat. I blearily looked round to see Felicity Boondoggles eagerly trying to rouse me from my explosion-induced stupor.

“Quick, Likely!” she hissed. “We’ve got to keep moving!”

“How is it,” I enquired groggily. “How is it that you appear to be fine, my dear, while I feel rather like…well, rather like I’ve just been in a ruddy big explosion?”

“Maybe I’m just made of stronger stuff, your lordship!” Felicity winked. “That, and the fact I was wearing a reinforced corset,” she added, tapping her midriff proudly. “Now come along, we have a Queen to save!”

“Where are we?” I muttered, slowly getting to my feet.

“We are inside Buckingham Palace, your lordship,” Felicity said. “That explosion hurled us clear over the gates, and through one of the front windows. ‘Tis one way of navigating past the guards,” she chuckled.

“Your hat, milord,” said my man-servant, Botter, proffering forth my terrific topper.

“Oh, I see you are quite alright as well, more the pity,” I remarked. “Don’t tell me that you were wearing a reinforced corset as well, eh?” I laughed.

Botter lowered his eyes. “Your hat, milord,” he repeated.

I gave Botter a curious glance, snatched my hat from his grubby mitts, and then we all raced down the hall to try and locate Her Majesty before that twisted terrorist Samuel Ben-London could place his bomb-laden crown ‘pon her august head.

We zig-zagged through resplendent hallway after resplendent hallway, each adorned with the finest furnishings and decorations, with row after row of portraits of round, ruddy-faced kings and queens peering down at us from their elevated position ‘pon the walls, almost as if they were willing us on in our mission to save the Queen, the country and the entire EMPIRE.  I ran on ever harder, ever more determined. I was DAMNED if I was going to let a collection of paintings down, confound it.

We wound our way up an ornate, winding staircase, whereupon we met a footman heading down the stairs.

“Where’s Vicky?” I demanded, grabbing the footman by the arms.

“Whom?” asked the footman.

“Vicky..Victoria…gah! Queen Victoria…you know, sits ‘pon the throne, rules over us all…”

“Ah! Her Majesty is in the Crowning Room,” intoned the footman.

“They have an entire room for putting on the crown?” whispered Felicity.

“Either that, or Her Majesty is giving birth again,” I replied. “Either way, we need to get there as soon as ruddy possible! Sir!” I continued, turning back to the footman. “Where is the Crowning Room? We have URGENT business with Her Majesty!”

“Well, ’tis just at the end of the hall, here,” indicated the footman. “B-but who are you? I cannot just let anyone burst in on Her Majesty, you know!”

“I’m not just anyone!” I snapped, flourishing a small business-card from my pocket. “I am Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action!”

“This says, ‘For A Thoroughly Good Rogering, Please Visit Madam Underlay‘…” replied the footman.

“Bugger…wrong card,” I noted. “Look, you’re the footman, yes?”

“Yes?”

“Well hop it, then!” I snapped, and with the poor devil reeling from my verbal dexterity, we dashed off to the Crowning Room, pausing momentarily to allow myself to admire my handsome reflection in a nearby mirror, to make sure that I was looking my very best while heroically saving Her Majesty from armed lunatics. Satisfied that I was looking as incredibly debonair as ever, I consulted my pocket-watch.

It was 11:52am. We could ill-afford to dilly-dally any further….

“HOLD EVERYTHING!” I yelled, as Felicity, Botter and I finally burst into the Crowning Room.

“How very forward of you,” replied Her Majesty, coolly and calmly, as befitting one who has seen and heard it all. “Might I suggest that you at least have the common decency to buy me a drink, first?”

Egad, I thought as I beheld the bewitching form of the Queen stood before me, in all her regal splendour. While she was undoubtedly in her twilight years now, she was still a fine, full figure of a woman, and was still rather attractive, probably due in no small part to the fact that she currently ruled over of a quarter of the globe. Power is after all an aphrodisiac, and with that sort of power at one’s command I was surprised that Her Majesty wasn’t constantly chock-full of cock, to be frank.

“Your majesty,” I said, regaining my composure long enough to form words. “You are in great danger!”

“The only danger I can foresee is that my morning is in danger of being irreparably ruined by this intrusion…what is the meaning of this, sir?” the Queen replied.

“Your highness, Miss Boondoggles and I have very good reason to believe that there are sinister forces at work who wish to end your life…” I looked around at the two maids who were helping Her Majesty dress for the day, one of whom was clutching a velvet pillow, upon which lay what could only be the booby-trapped crown we had been seeking.  ”With THAT very crown!”

“Ha-ha-ha! Ridiculous!” chuckled the maid carrying the aforementioned article. “This man is clearly a lunatic, your majesty! Shall I call the guards to remove him?”

Her Majesty eyed me cautiously. “My dear,” she said to the maid. “I have not survived numerous assassination attempts on my life without being cautious and considerate,” she continued. “Let me hear this gentleman out.”

“Thank you , your highness,” I beamed, bowing. “If I may?” I asked, motioning to the deadly diadem. The Queen nodded, and I strode into the room and carefully plucked the crown from it’s velveteen plinth. “Hmmm…yes, I see…hmmmm…yes, of course…” I said as I slowly turned the crown over and over in my hands. And then, before anyone could stop me, I spun round and punched the maid right in the jaw.

“What in the name of me do you think you are doing to that poor maid?” exclaimed the Queen, clearly shocked.

“Allow me to explain, your majesty,” I said as I roughly dragged the maiden to her feet. “This is no maid – but a MALE!” I proclaimed, whipping the curly blonde wig from the maid’s head, to reveal the considerably less coiffured locks of Samuel Ben-London, the terrorist leader of the Anti-Hat League.

“Curse you, Likely!” he spat. “How on earth did you know?”

“Well, firstly the style of maid’s uniform in which you are dressed is out of date by a good four or five years, sir. Secondly, the crown is heavier by quite a few pounds, suggesting to me that something has been added onto it – an explosive device, no doubt. And finally,” I continued, pointing straight at Ben-London’s upper-lip. “Your moustache was rather a keen giveaway, I’m afraid.”

“Damn you! Damn you to Hades! But not to worry!” cackled Ben-London, swiping the crown from my hands. “I still have this! I can set it to go off RIGHT NOW, destroying the Empire’s most powerful hat FOREVER! And once that is gone, a NEW world order shall rise, with THE PEOPLE in control!”

“But people are damned fools,” I reasoned. “You clearly have not thought this through.”

“Gah! Enough of this! Mr. Wallops, get them!” he shouted to the other maid, who turned out to be the big, brutish cad I had come up against at Sir Rhubarb Muddick’s gala ball earlier. As he advanced toward me, Felicity suddenly stepped in front of him, hitched her dress up and delivered a rather stunning round-house kick to the oaf’s head. The blaggard stumbled backward, crashing into a full-length mirror as he did so. Slightly dazed, Wallops staggered back to his feet, but before he could fully regain his composure Felicity was upon him, fists raining down upon his head like a most violent rainstorm.

“Don’t just bloody stand there, Likely!” she called out to me as she drubbed the bounder senseless. “Go and save the Queen!”

I turned to see Ben-London edging slowly backwards to a set of double-doors leading onto a balcony, forcing Her Majesty to follow him by pressing the loaded crown to her temple as if it were a pistol.

“Now, now, yer lordship,” sneered the bastard bomb-maker. “Don’t try any funny business, right? Else Her Royal Highness shall become Her Royal Sky-Highness!”

“You unhand that monarch immediately, you fiend!” I bellowed.

“Hahahaha!” guffawed Ben-London. “You can’t stop me now!”

“Maybe he cannot, but I am jolly well certain I can!” interjected the Queen, thrusting her elbow so hard into the rogue’s ribs that she not only succeeded in knocking the wind out of him, but also sent him careening through the double-doors and onto the balcony outside.

“Oh! Well played, your majesty,” I smiled, applauding politely.

“Yuh…(cough)…you sh-shall regret that, yer..(cough)…majesty…” wheezed Ben-London, as he picked himself up and shook the shards of glass from his person. “Yer…yer all going to be blown to bloody bits, now!” He said, triumphantyl holding the crown above him. But, as he did so, a pigeon suddenly flew at him from nowhere, flapping wildly about him, its wings beating the wretch about his face.

“Grrrarrrgh!” Ben-London cried, as he tried to shake the pigeon off him. “Get off me, you blasted bird!”

I saw my chance, and I quickly leapt forward and wrestled the bugger to the ground, wrenching the crown from his grasp. As Ben-London flailed uselessly at me, trying to get the accursed head-wear back, I quickly turned a small dial on the base of the crown, and then in a flash, rammed the crown firmly on the bastard’s bonce.

“Congratulations on your coronation, dear boy!” I beamed, and then I tipped the felon over the side of the balcony. Ben-London cursed loudly as he fell, and then suddenly he exploded like a fire-work, except with less pretty colours and more flying entrails.

“Poor sod. I fear he rather let it all go to his head,” I quipped wryly, as Felicity and Her Majesty joined me on the balcony to watch the show.

“We are quite amused,” said the Queen.

As we observed the ongoing explosion, the heroic pigeon fluttered gently down onto my shoulder, whereupon I noticed it had a small note attached to its leg. I carefully opened the note and read:

At: Samuel Ben-London: This is the police! Give yourself up, you are surrounded! From: Inspector Spunkleford.

I peered over the edge again, to see Spunkleford and some officers down below. He waved, and I waved back, never before having been so pleased to see him and his frankly ludicrous Twittering Messaging Service.

“I must thank you for your sterling service to not only myself, but the whole Empire,” said the Queen, turning to face me. “Naturally, You shall be honoured, and medals shall be awarded for your heroic deeds.”

“Victoria Cross?” I asked.

“No, I am very pleased,” Her Majesty replied, a small smile creeping across those stern lips of hers. I smiled in return, and she departed, ferried away by a score of worried assistants and servants.

“Well, it has been…interesting working alongside you, your lordship,” said Felicity. “But I must go. Heaven knows I shall have a mountain of paperwork to complete now.”

“Must you go so soon?” I enquired, laying a hand softly on Felicity’s shoulder. “I did bring this along, after all,” I continued, drawing from my pocket the lady’s self-pleasuring device which I had taken from the offices of CTUN earlier. “It seems a shame not to make use of it…”

Felicity raised an eyebrow, and grinned. “I suppose so…”

And so, after a day of explosions and bombings, the banging continued long into the night…

- Lord Likely.

* His lordship would like to thank each and every one of you who supported this attempt at a twenty-four hour adventure. While his useless scribe, Mr. Fanton, only managed twenty-one hours in a row, we hope you still enjoyed this rip-roaring tale nonetheless! Many thanks to you ALL! HUZZAH!

If you have enjoyed One Score and Four, or indeed any of his lordship’s wonderments, please feel free to donate to allow us to buy a few beers so that we may drink ourselves delirious in celebration! Many thanks, chums.

11:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

AND SO, with myself armed and dangerously handsome, Miss Felicity Boondoggles, my man-servant Botter and I left the headquarters of the CTUN, and scrambled onto the bustling streets of the capital, eager to get to Buckingham Palace to save the Queen from having her noble noggin blown apart by a booby-trapped crown.

“I just hope we are not too late,” Felicity said as she tried to flag down one of the many hansom cabs trundling past, by lifting her dress ever-so slightly to allow the red-blooded cabbies a tantalising glimpse of her shapely ankle.

“I very much doubt it, m’dear.” I opined, trying in vain not to become terribly aroused by the slither of naked flesh on display. “We in the ruling elite rarely rise before ten-thirty, and are never usually dressed before lunch-time. I think we’ve got until midday, at least.”

“Less than an hour,” Felicity mused, consulting a small, wrist-mounted clock on her arm. “Time is of the essence.”

I nodded in an agreement, and left Felicity to continue her seductive efforts in securing us transport to the palace. As I waited, I noticed a smartly-dressed gentleman sporting a fine topper walking my way. As is the way of polite gentlefolk in the city, he smiled amiably as he acknowledged me, and went to tip his hat, as I went to tip mine.

And then, before I knew quite what was happening, I was thrown to the floor by Felicity, just as the man fully tipped his hat and his entire head EXPLODED before my very eyes.

“What in the name of mater-pumping millinery is going on?” I spluttered, as I plucked an eyeball from my breast-pocket.

“It’s as we’d feared,” Felicity replied grimly. “The Anti-Hat League have managed to get some of their bomb-laden hats into the public domain. Who knows how many there are out here now?”

A distant explosion and the sound of screams quickly confirmed that it was most definitely more than one, at least.

“How dashed unsporting,” I said. “By the way, do not think I did not notice how quick you were to get me on my back, my dear!” I beamed, as Felicity lifted herself off of my splendid form.

“Don’t get used to it,” she curtly replied.

“My lord, I’ve found us a cab!” Botter interjected.

“How…how did YOU manage where dear Felicity failed, you cretin?” I exclaimed. Botter shrugged and turned to present the cab behind him as evidence. The cab-driver peered out from his position at the reigns, and gave Botter a coy little wave. “Oh!” I exclaimed again, as the light dawned upon me. “Well, there is no accounting for taste, I suppose. Come on, TO THE PALACE!”

*****

MOMENTS LATER we were inside said cab, speeding down the cobbled streets as if propelled by rocket-powered engine. As we sped through the city, I watched through the window with dismay as innocent gents found their day irreversibly inconvenienced by their heads suddenly becoming separated from their bodies after they’d doffed their hats to passers-by.

“Damn that Ben-London!” I spat, cursing the wretched ring-leader of the Anti-Hat League. “He has turned our nation’s great civility against us! Why, at this rate people shall refuse to sport any head-wear in the future, and we shall become nothing more than a country of hatless barbarians. Damn him again! Damn him all the way to Lowestoft!”

“That is why we must not let him win,” Felicity said sternly. “We cannot let him make Great Britain less great through his terrible acts of terror! We MUST stand firm!”

There was a brief pause. “Well, I am certainly sitting firm,” I grinned. “How about a quick spot of ‘how’s-your-father’ before we seek audience with Her Majesty, eh?”

Felicity rolled her beautiful eyes. “Do try and focus,” she sighed. “Besides which, look – we are here!”

I peered out of the carriage’s window to see we had indeed arrived at the palace, the great building looking as mightily impressive as ever, the Union Jack flying proudly atop it. Such a sight did little to quell my rather tumescent state; if anything, it only compounded it.

“Right, let us save the entire ruddy Empire, then!” I barked, disembarking from the cab and helping Felicity down. “Thank you cabby,” I nodded to the driver. “You may take your fee out of my man-servant’s sphinctoral passage if you so desire!”

“Much obliged, sir!” the cab-driver beamed, reaching for the brim of his hat…

“NO!” I cried, and everything seemed to slow to a crawl as I stepped forward to prevent the inevitable hat-tip. But it was too late – the hat was well and truly doffed. The last thing I recall was the look of surprise in the cabby’s eyes as they flew from their sockets due to the force of the ensuing explosion, and then everything went black.

- Lord Likely.

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10:30am, 29th of January, 1891.

IT WAS clear from the Anti-Hat League’s latest threat that their forthcoming ‘crowning achievement’ was going to be an audacious attempt on the most powerful hat in the Empire – the crown of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria…an attempt I would thwart if it was the last thing I ever did.

Miss Felicity Boondoggles and I wound our way through the headquarters of the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team (or CTUN for short, to prevent people passing out in shock at the actual acronym), until we turned a corner into another dull corridor, at which point Felicity suddenly stopped short, and quickly pulled me into a nearby room.

It was pitch-black in the room, and I felt Felicity’s hand leave my arm. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll go and turn the lighting on.”

There was a momentary silence, save for the gentle click-click sound of a gas-lamp being lit, and then the room was bathed in a warm glow.

“Right, ”tis time we made sure you were properly equipped…oh!” Felicity said, tailing off as she turned to face me, only to find me standing in the doorway with my trousers and underpants around my ankles, my Lord Palmerston hanging freely betwixt my legs.

“As you can clearly see, my dear, I am very well equipped indeed!” I smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Gracious! Cover yourself up, sir! What on earth do you think you are doing?” she gasped.

“Well, when you dragged me in here I naturally assumed it was to ravish me senseless, m’dear!” I protested.

“No! NO! I wanted to collect some items from here – the CTUN control room!” she said with a flourish, affording me the first proper look at my surroundings. The room was full of large, imposing machines, replete with a multitude of buttons and levers, their cogs churning, pistons pumping, and steam issuing forth from pipes hither and thither. ‘Twas rather akin to stumbling into a clockwork orgy, or something.

“Egad! What in the name of mechanized arse is all this?” I spluttered.

“This is our central computation device. We keep files on all of the Empire’s most-wanted felons in here.” Felicity explained, tapping the side of one of the contraptions with almost maternal pride.

“Oh, really?” I sighed, my distinct lack of interest permeating my voice like a cannon-ball tearing through a giant, wet tissue. “Do please show me!”

“Fine! I shall!” snapped Felicity, pulling a lever beside her. The machine creaked into action; wheels turned, gears crunched, sparks fizzed, a horn blew, steam gushed forth and then…a little drawer slid open before me, filled with brown-coloured files. Felicity smiled, rifled through them and then drew one out triumphantly. “See? Rather impressive, yes?”

“It strikes me as nothing more than a rather elaborate filing cabinet,” I observed haughtily.

Felicity shot me an angry glare, and opened the file in her hands. “Here, look,” she said, thrusting a photographic print into my hands. “This is the ring-leader of the Anti-Hat League – Samuel Ben-London. I think if we can put him out of action, the entire group will swiftly tumble behind him.”

I gave the picture a cursory glance, and noted that the fellow in question was the same thin-moustached miscreant who had been masquerading as a waiter at Muddick’s gala ball. I had despised him then, but now I knew he was the mastermind behind a despicable plot to explode the monarch’s crown, I LOATHED him and wanted his HEAD on a very, very sharp SPIKE. ABLAZE.

“Right, let us dilly-dally no more!” I resolved, straightening my tie, and adjusting my trousers. “We must put a stop to this terrible plan IMMEDIATELY! Now, where did you put my possessions, m’dear? I cannot help but note that I am lighter to the tune of one pistol, one cane, my top-hat and my hip-flask of whisky. Oh, and my man-servant, Botter.”

“All your belongings have been stored away safely since we bought you here, your lordship.” Felicity stated, turning another lever. Machinery jolted into action once more, and then a cupboard door swung open next to me, with my personal effects located within.

“Ah, good,” I nodded. “And Botter?”

“‘Tis as I said, all your belongings have been stored safely away,” Felicity replied, flicking a switch. Another cupboard door fell open, to reveal Botter stashed inside, like a rather unsightly item of luggage.

“Good mornin, your lordship!” he smiled, as he struggled out of the cupboard.

“Well, marvellous, I have everything I need, so -” I began.

“Not quite,” Felicity interrupted, spinning a dial on another wretched contraption. Another drawer noisily slid out a recess within a wall, laden with various items and objects. “You shall need some extra fire-power, your lordship.”

“This,” I said, picking up an umbrella from the drawer. “This is an umbrella, my dear.”

“Not quite,” said Felicity, grabbing the brolly from my hands. She held it out at arm’s length, pressed a button on the handle, and a jet of fire blazed out from the umbrella’s tip.

“Heavens!” I exclaimed. “This shall prove extremely useful for flambéing. I dare say I could toast a beggar in SECONDS with this thing!”

“Then there is this,” Felicity continued, taking a fob-watch from the drawer. “While it looks like an ordinary fob-watch, it actually is not…” Felicity turned the dial on the watch, causing some rather sharp spikes to pop out around the outside of the base. Then, holding onto the chain, Felicity spun the watch out across the room, until it embedded itself in a wall.

“Impressive,” I noted. “And let me hazard a guess,” I said, picking up what appeared to be a large dildo from within the drawer. “I suppose this contains some sort of compact cannon within it, which can blast holes through walls, hmm?”

“No,” Felicity answered, taking the dildo from my hands. “It brings me to a screaming orgasm whene’er I thrust it deeply and repeatedly within my aching mimsy. Now, choose your weapon, your lordship, and let us go and save Her Majesty!”

I watched Felicity leave, my mouth positively AGOG.

- Lord Likely.

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10:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

DESPITE HIS complete and utter twattery, Ms. Felicity Boondoggles and I decided to let Inspector Spunkleford in nonetheless.

“My word, what is this place?” enquired Spunkleford as he entered the rather sparse room we had been holed up in.

“This is the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team headquarters,” Felicity replied.

“The criminal what now?” Spunkleford blustered. “I’ve never heard of it! Surely I should know of any other departments in the Yard?”

“We operate outside of Scotland Yard, inspector,” Felicity said coolly.

“I can see that,” Spunkleford nodded. “Scotland Yard is across the street, there.”

“Hmmm…well enough of this illuminating chit-chat,” I interjected, before the inspector had further opportunity to make his inherent buffonery more apparent. “What brings you here, inspector?”

“Well, the -”

“And if you say ‘the cab’, I shall twot you.”

“Oh. Well, as you know, Likely, I took some officers down to Mr. Cockduster’s Millinery earlier. We managed to catch some of those Anti-Hat League bounders in the act of rigging some of the hats with their damned explosive devices. Jolly successful operation, all in all. Anyhow, we took these cads back to the station, and managed to get some information out of one of them via some intense interrogation!”

“You thrashed them with sticks?” I suggested.

“Precisely. Worked a treat! One of them gave us a hint as to what the League are planning next…just bear with me a moment, I jotted it down somewhere…” said Spunkleford, opening up his coat to reveal several pigeons, a few of which fluttered out from within his pockets and flew around the room. “Ah, yes, here we go,” Spunkleford exclaimed, pulling a pigeon from an interior pocket and scrutinizing it carefully. “I’m sure I left the message around here somewhere! Ah-ha!” he cried triumphantly, pulling a rolled-up piece of paper from the poor pigeon’s posterior.

“Oh, charming,” I grimaced as Spunkleford passed me the roll. “I see you stored it in your pigeon-hole.”

Spunkleford nodded blankly, while I gingerly unfurled the paper and read the message contained within:

Re-Tweet, Mr. Terrorist Fellow: ‘You think you’ve stopped us copper, but we ain’t even started. You all wait ’til you see our crownin’ achievement!’

“‘Re-tweet‘, Spunkleford?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, you have lost your cocking marbles.”

“Shut up both of you and give me that!” snapped Felicity, grabbing the paper from my hand and scanning the two lines of text again. “Hmmm…are you thinking what I’m thinking, Likely?”

“I hope so. And if so, the answer is ‘yes’ and ‘on all fours’.”

“No! The message from the Anti-Hat League, you lecherous fop! ‘Crowning achievement‘, it says…”

“Egad! You mean – ?” I began.

“I think so,” Felicity concluded.

“Buggeration! Then we have not a moment to lose!” I declared, as Felicity and I dashed out of the door with due haste.

“I’m not sure I understand what the devil is going on, Mr. Speckles,” said Spunkleford, stroking his pigeon’s feathers gently.

- Lord Likely.

* Be back here in the WEEK, for the FINAL two chapters of ‘One Score and Four’, chums!

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