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!

I think I may well attend this. Sounds like jolly good fun, I must say.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: We return you to our current adventure in progress, A Lesson in Murder!

humor-blogs.com once killed a man. Well, we say ‘kill’. We mean ‘touched inappropriately about the bathing-suit area’.

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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It was a good half an hour or so before the police, led in earnest by Inspector Albert Spunkleford, finally arrived on the scene. Two of the officers immediately set about untying Romanov from the chair upon which we had imprisoned him, while Spunkleford hastened over to Botter, who was busily tending to my wounded arm.

“Good evening, gents,” he said cheerily, clearly pleased as punch to be doing some proper police work for a change.

“Spunkleford.” I replied, in a terse and rather curt manner, designed to remind Spunkleford that not only was he not in my good books at present, but he was not even a footnote in the glossary at the back of my good books.

“Um…uh…good…good work,” Spunkleford stammered, clearly sensing my growing resentment. “Really…really first class job.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You thought me to be a criminal, Spunkleford. ” I said calmly.

“Well…uh…you…we…I…I…” the detective blabbered.

I allowed the Inspector to work himself up into quite a lather, before my heart softened and my anger faded. Spunkleford was not a bad man by any means, just a bad judge of character. And a terrible dresser.

“Do not concern yourself any further, Spunkleford,” I said, brightly. “We shall not let a little thing like a misdirected accusation of murder come between us. Although, you should be grateful that I am currently rather too weak to set about your face with a heavy, blunt object, as much as I would like to.”

Spunkleford seemed relieved, and broke out in a grin.

“Good man!” he cried, slapping me heartily on the back, causing me to wince slightly. “We’re all on the same side, are we not? Now, fill me in on the detail of this most fascinating of cases, you old dog!”

I relayed the story of Romanov’s ludicrous scheme as we left the Russian embassy and headed to a parked carriage outside. Spunkleford was fascinated, a fact that he imparted by exclaiming, “Fascinating!” at the end of each and every ruddy sentence. As I concluded my report, Romanov himself was led out of the building by two burly policemen.

“You have not seen the last of me, Likely,” the Russian said. “I will make you pay for what you have done to me. I will get you, Likely. I will get you…to DEATH!”

These words may have been more chilling had they not been delivered in an incredibly comic falsetto, caused by the introduction of my lordly knee to Romanov’s testicles earlier. Instead, the threat was rendered undeniably humourous, and I laughed heartily. Romanov failed to see the funny side, and continued squeaking further threats as he was led off to an awaiting police wagon.

“All’s well that end’s well, eh Likely?” said Spunkleford.

“Quite, Inspector, quite…” I began, but then I noticed another of the accursed ‘Wanted’ posters on a wall nearby, and my face furrowed into a frown.

“Botter, if you could…” I said, motioning towards the offending article.

“Right away, milord,” Botter said. He struggled free from the grip of The Bear, who had become rather attached to my man-servant in the most literal of ways, and obligingly tore the poster off of the wall. He handed it to me, then grudgingly returned to the awaiting embrace of his new admirer.

“Ah, yes…about that poster…um, naturally we will be printing a full retraction in tomorrow’s newspaper…” Spunkleford said, growing more flustered as he observed my cloudy demeanour. I rolled the poster up into a neat, tight cylinder, then smiled at the Inspector.

“Spunkleford, my dear fellow,” I beamed. “Please, bend over. I wish to…lodge a complaint…”

- Lord Likely.

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Having calmed myself down after having been utterly consumed with rage upon seeing that awful ‘Wanted’ poster, my mind began to race ahead of me, plotting out the course of action for when Botter and I arrived at the Russian embassy.

I was strolling along, deep in rumination, when Botter suddenly alerted me to the presence of something affixed to a nearby street-light.

It was yet another ‘Wanted’ poster. Behold:

“Do you mind if I evacuate the area before you go ballistic, sir?” inquired Botter, nervously stepping away from me.

I did not reply, instead I simply stared straight ahead at the poster.

“Sir? Should I run for the hills? It’s just that I’d rather not be on the end on one of your wild, frenzied cane attacks, if it is all the same to you, milord.”

“Botter!” I said, springing into life. “Why on Earth should I do such a thing?”

“Do I need to draw your attention to the poster where some vandal has scribbled a penis coming out of your forehead, again sir?”

“Tish, fipsy, pashaw and bollocks,” I snorted. “This does not bother me half as much as the original monstrosity. No, Botter, this is perfectly acceptable. In fact, I am rather impressed that some hoodlum chose to stay out in the cold, probably at night so as to avoid detection by the police, just to deface me. That sort of commitment is only to be applauded, Botter.”

“Are…are you sure you are alright, sir? You aren’t having one of your turns, are you?”

“Indeed not, Botter! Why, just consider the creativity on display here. The two cocks on my head are ingeniously placed, the fabulously diverse selection of swear-words deployed is astounding, there is an astonishing level of accuracy in both the grammar and the spelling, and well, I truly cannot argue with the statement that I, and I quote, ‘love cock.’ I do love cock, Botter, as you know all too well. No, it is near faultless in its ingenuity and bravado. The one issue I would take umbrage with is as to why the artist has felt the need to scrawl a moustache upon my face, when I already have one. Apart from that, superlative! If only the police were as equally creative.”

Botter stared at me, a quizzical look etched across his disgusting face.

“Come on, Botter!” I chirped, as I continued my preambulation. “We cannot afford to dilly-dally!”

Botter shrugged his shoulders, then followed after me.

- Lord Likely

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Botter and I, still sporting our crafty disguises, departed the Tackle-Tuck shop and headed back out into the spookily quiet streets of London Town at night-time.

“What’s my name, then, milord?” Botters asked, apropos of nothing at all.

“What?” I hissed, trying to keep a low profile.

“Well, I can’t just be ‘a Russian’, can I sir? I’ve got to have a name, and an identity, haven’t I?”

I rolled my eyes and turned to face my stupifying servant.

“Fine, Botter, fine. Tell me, did you have any suggestions for your new nom de plume?”

“Well, I dunno about that, sir, but I’ve got some ideas for my new name. I was thinking, Ivor is quite a common name in Russia, is it not? So how about either ‘Ivor Biggun’, or ‘Ivor Hugecock’. Get it? Pretty funny, eh, milord?”

“How would you like to be called Ivor Great-Big-Sword-In-My-Throat-Argh-Argh-I’m-Dying-Oh-The-Agony-Help-Me-Please?”

“That doesn’t have such a good ring to it, sir.”

“By the great bearded arse-crack of Zeus,” I said, suddenly noticing something behind Botter.

“You are not even trying, now sir.” Said Botter, oblivious as usual.

“Shut up, Botter. Shut up and look at this!” I pointed behind my man-servant, to a poster that had been affixed to the wall. This is what I saw:

“Oh,” said Botter. “Oh dear.”

“Oh dear is absolutely correct, Botter,” I said. “This is awful. Terrible, even. Awful and terrible.”

“Yes, milord. It seems the police are quite determined to ensure your capture, doesn’t it?”

“Hmmm?” I said, quite distractedly. “Oh, I’m not worried about that little annoyance, Botter. I’m more enraged about the fact they have clearly mis-spelt my name! Look at that! Anyone with half a brain knows it is spelt ‘k-e’, not ‘e-k’. Honestly, what kind of witless baboons do they have working on these things?”

“Ah, right,” said Botter.

“And furthermore,” I added, my indignation growing stronger by the second. “What kind of a mockery of a reward is ten guineas, for the capture of one as important and generally fantastic as I? It is a fucking pittance, and a damned cocking insult, is what it is!”

I furiously tore down the poster and held it aloft.

“I am in a good mind to take this shambles of a poster down to Scotland Yard and lodge a complaint. And then lodge this,” I said, waving the poster wildly in the air, “this shitty piece of shitting shit up the shitty back-side of the stupid bastard who wrote it, up there with the rest of the shit so that there becomes an overwhleming excess of shit in his shitty colon and the shit is forced up through his shitting mouth and he chokes to death on his own shitting shitty shit!”

“That…that’s a lot of shit,” observed Botter.

“Damn right that’s a lot of shit,” I shouted. “In fact, I think I shall go straight up to Scotland Yard now to carry out my shitty scheme!”

I began marching off, but Botter put a hand on my shoulder, and pulled me back.

“Uh, milord, while I obviously sympathise with your misgivings, don’t you think it’d be wiser to head away from the police, rather than head directly to them, what with you being a wanted criminal and all?”

I paused, and gave consideration to Botter’s unusually sensible words.

“My dear Botter,” I said, my rage subsiding. “Where would I be without you? You are quite correct, of course. We must proceed as planned, and not get distracted along the way. Besides, there will be plenty of time for me to pursue my shit-based vendetta later on. Come! Let us continue on.”

“Very good, milord,” said Botter.

“Oh, and Botter?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Touch me again without my permission, and I shall tear your fucking hands off. Do I make myself clear?”

“As crystal, my lord.”

“Jolly good, Botter.” I said. And with that, I tossed the crumpled remains of the offending poster over my shoulder, and we made our way onto the Russian Embassy.

All in all, it was a rather shitty day.

- Lord Likely.

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