Moustache No.3: ‘The Bastard’
Taken from ‘Lord Likely’s Extra-Ordinary Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama‘.

THE THIRD moustache for my ‘Moustache-A-Day Movember Marathon‘ is a cheeky little number I like to call ‘The Bastard’ (pictured ‘pon my top lip in the picture above).

This particular style is well-suited to any villains out there, as it automatically lends a dastardly, evil air to the bearer. Furthermore, the long, curled sides are perfect for twiddling in a devious manner whilst tying a damsel to a rail-way line and indulging in a spot of diabolical gloating.

A word of warning, however – be careful not to grow the moustache TOO long, as there is then a real danger of it getting entangled in the rail tracks, or getting caught up in the rope tied around the lady in question, leading to both you and your hapless victim winding up as a smear ‘pon the tracks when the 8.15 from Manchester comes trundling past. (Unless you are both saved by a dashing hero such as myself, of course!)

The Bastard, then – perfect for ANY bastard.

- Lord Likely.

LIKED today’s ‘tash? Then please DONATE to Likely for Movember!

Be here tomorrow for another Magnificent Moustache!

- Lord Likely.

A Very Important Update! Lord Likely Tosses One Off!
His greatness, Lord Likely, has just completed composing an article about masturbation for the entirely excellent British Speak web-log. Go there immediately to read his lordship’s fantastic offering, and discover some brand new euphemisms along the way. Entertaining AND arousing.


Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely:

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Preparing myself for the worst, I armed myself with the pistol Ludlow had given me, and edged towards the door of my carriage. These red-skinned savages had already killed two men, and I would be buggered if I would let myself become their third victim.

I pulled back the hammer on the pistol, took two deep breaths, then threw the carriage door open. I hit the ground hard, performed a rather spectacular forward roll and came up with my pistol pointed in the direction of our attackers.

“Nobody move, or I swear to cockery I will fill you so full of ruddy lead that you will be able to use your penis as a pencil,” I yelled, trying to make out the assailants through the cloud of dust thrown up by my exertions.

There was silence.

“Well, hark at HIM,” came a rather fey voice, and then the speaker stepped through the dust cloud.

Now, I may not have actually met a Red Indian face-to-face, but from the images I have seen I know what one should look like; they should look lean and mean, wearing simple clothing made from animal hide, their faces adorned with face-paint, that sort of thing.

The fellow I found myself confronted with did not fit the mental picture I had created in my mind. He was supremely over dressed, in bright, vivid colours, with a head-dress so full of feathers that it looked like he had an entire company of parrots nesting on his head. And his face-paint was also similarly extravagant, and seemed to have been applied with far too much care and attention. In short, he looked like he was better suited to the chorus-line of a theatrical musical production, rather than life on the open range.

“Well, hello there!” the man squealed. “How delightful to meet you!”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” I said, rising to my feet.

“Oh, don’t get up! You were quite alright where you were, if you know what I mean!” the man giggled.

“Oh, you didn’t!” cried another, equally garishly-garbed man, joining his accomplice. “I swear, you are the living end!”

“I couldn’t help myself, really I couldn’t!” simpered the first man.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend, here,” the second man said to me. “He’s a randy little bugger at times. Usually between dawn and dusk!”

There was more raucous laughter from the two men.

“Oh, but how rude are we?” the first chap exclaimed. “We haven’t introduced ourselves! I am Chief Spurting Cock, and this handsome devil here is Fulsome Buttocks. We’re from the Red Rump tribe…I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how we got that name!” The pair collapsed into paroxysms of laughter once more.

“I see. Gay Red Indians, is it?” I said. The pair immediately stopped giggling , their faces turning deadly serious.

“We prefer to think of ourselves as homosexual Native Americans, if it is all the same to you,” sniffed Spurting Cock.

“What a savage!” added Fulsome Buttocks, nodding his head sadly.

“Well, whatever you prefer to call yourselves, I call you cold-blooded killers and my previous threat remains. If any of you so much as lay one finger upon my lordly frame, I will shoot you a new arsehole.”

“Oooh. A new arsehole? Sounds like fun!” squealed Fulsome Buttocks.

“We are not cold-blooded killers, sir!” snapped Chief Spurting Cock. We are a peaceful tribe, who want nothing more than to spend our days balls-deep in anus, thank you very much!”

“Peaceful? Try telling that to the two poor men you killed!” I shouted, pointing at the bodies of the two train-drivers lying dead on the ground.

“Ah, yes. That was terrible. It’s Sucking Pole, I’m afraid. He insists on bringing a bow and arrow with him when we go out, says it makes him look more butch. I say it makes him look like a queen with a quiver, but he won’t listen. You don’t listen, do you Sucking Pole?” said Spurting Cock, addressing the small group of gaily-coloured men behind him.

“Sorry. Dreadfully sorry. It went off by accident,” Sucking Pole said, looking at the floor forlornly.

“Oooh, I bet he says that to all the boys!” cried Spurting Cock, and everyone collapsed into helpless laughter again.

“He means well, bless him,” said Fulsome Buttocks, his make-up streaming from his tears of laughter. “Well, that’s enough about us. Who are you, tall, dark and handsome?”

“I am Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of -”

“Likely?” asked Spurting Cock. “Did you say your name was Lord Likely?”

“I did, for it is,” I replied. The two Natives exchanged knowing glances.

“I think we have someone you may know back at our camp,” said Spurting Cock. “He calls himself Lightnin’ Lance Likely…”

“Lance?” I cried. “You have met Lance?”

“Oh, yes,” said Spurting Cock. “And he lives up to his name, let me tell you. Well, I don’t know about the ‘Lightnin”, but I can safely vouch for the lance! I swear, he could be the world’s first nude jousting champion!”

More laughter.

“You have to take me to see him at once!” I declared, ignoring their tawdry innuendos.

“Oh, do we now? Hark at her,” sneered Spurting Cock. “It seems we have something you want, and you,” he leant in closer. “You have something we want, your loveliness.”

I felt a feeling of dread swell up inside of me, as I was fairly certain the man was not referring to a monetary reward, and I was not sure I wanted to indulge in another homosexual act so soon after I had bedded Mr. Abraham Lincoln. How on Earth could I escape a fate worse than buggery?

“Alright, milord?” came a voice behind me. It was Botter, arriving at precisely the right moment. “I heard gunshot, and I came as fast as I could, but that luggage compartment is awfully cramped and I kept tripping over suitcases and getting tangled in handles and straps but then I – “

“You may take your fee out of the backside of my man-servant, Botter, here,” I proclaimed, pushing Botter in front of me. “He is most obliging, and relatively hygienic.”

The Indians huddled together in frantic discussion, occasionally glancing our way as if they were sizing us up. Which is probably what they were doing, in fact.

“Erm, what’s going on milord?” asked a confused Botter.

“You are helping me to meet my half-brother Lance,” I said, putting a hand on Botter’s shoulder. “You are to be commended, dear Botter. I shall see you get a medal for this!”

“The VC?”

“The Victoria Cross? No, probably more like…like…the VD.”

“The VD? What’s that, milord?”

“It’s…it’s a special reward, Botter, it…um, ah! Here comes the Chief!” I cried, as Chief Spurting Cock broke away from the group and approached us.

“We agree to your terms, Lord Lovely. We have a deal. Let us shake on it,” said the Chief. I extended my hand to him, but the Chief just looked at it with puzzled amusement. “Who said anything about shaking hands?” cried Spurting Cock, causing his whole tribe to erupt with laughter.

I sighed. This was going to be a very long day.

- Lord Likely.

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Botter and I stood silently on the platform, awaiting the train that would take us to Disaster, and no doubt onto further astonishing adventures.

“The ruddy train is late,” I said, breaking the silence.

“I only make it thirty seconds late, milord,” Botter replied, observing a clock on the wall behind us.

“Late is late, Botter.” I snapped. “I do so hate being kept waiting. It is the height of bad manners, and jolly bad form all round.”

Right on cue, as if it had heard my complaint, the train pulled into the station. It was a large, powerful-looking machine, resplendent in it’s jet-black paint and red trim. It drew up beside us, and came to a gradual stop, before a small, bearded man in a train-driver’s uniform descended from it and hurried over to us.

“Good day, folks! You here to ride aboard The Steamed Eagle?” he exclaimed, picking up my suitcase.

“No, I am here to ride the train,” I replied.

“Why, that is the train, sir! We call her The Steamed Eagle,” he exclaimed, waving towards the engine with a proud flourish. “She’s entirely at your service!”

“Well, she could do with being rather more prompt,” I snorted. “You do realise that you are fifty-three seconds late, don’t you?”

“Well, don’t you worry, sir! Your destination ain’t gonna be going anywhere!”

“And neither will you, with two broken legs.”

“I haven’t got two broken legs, sir!”

“Not yet, you haven’t. Now, here are my tickets – which one is the First Class carriage?”

“Right over there, sir,” the man indicated to a fine-looking carriage behind him. “Just you two, is it?”

“Well, I shall be travelling first class, certainly. My man-servant here will be travelling with the luggage, after all he is pretty much just a bag on legs,” I said, ignoring Botter’s silent protests.

“But you paid for two first class tickets, right?” The man asked, scratching his head.

“I did, that is true. One for me, and one for my Lord Palmerston. He is a first class passenger, make no mistake.”

“Where is this Lord Palmerston, then, sir?” the man enquired, looking around the station.

“In my trousers, you utter ignoramus.”

“In your trousers?”

“‘Lord Palmerston’ is the nickname I have given to my gentleman’s organ, my good man. He is of such a substantial size and importance that I feel obliged to purchase a ticket for him, so he may ride in comfort. Now, are there any further questions, or would you like me to display my Lord Palmerston to you, so that you might check his bags?”

“Uh, no, sir. That won’t be necessary. You go ahead, and have a pleasant journey. The, uh, both of you. And you, sir,” he said, turning to the despondent form of my man-servant. “The luggage compartment is the last carriage, down there.”

Botter took my case from the man, and shuffled off to his designated carriage, while I clambered aboard my first-class compartment. It was certainly first-class, of that there could be no doubt, with large, comfortable seats, fine furnishings, a drinks cabinet, a large fish-tank and a small orchestra playing beautiful music in the corner. I smiled a big, contented smile, took a bottle of whisky from the drinks cabinet and sat down in one of the seats, which I found to be extremely comfortable indeed. So comfortable, in fact, that I soon found myself drifting off to sleep as the train slowly pulled out of the station.

I do not know how long I had been asleep for, or how far we had travelled before I was rudely awoken by a cry from outside the train. I sat bolt upright, spilling some of my whisky, and looked out of the window. We were stationary, and the short man with a beard who I had been talking to earlier was lying dead on the grass beside us, a large arrow sticking out of his chest. Then another man, dressed in uniform, ran at full pelt past my window, stopping only to fire a few shots from a pistol at some unseen assailants. He turned to run, catching a quick glance in my direction as he did.

“Injuns!” he cried to me, pointing towards the front of the train. “Injuns! Save yourself! Ruuuun!”

I sat back in my extremely comfortable seat, trying to decipher exactly what it was the man had said. Engines? In gins? On Genes? What in the name of French cockery was he trying to say? I leant forward again, to see the man still running at full speed, until another arrow sailed through the air and found it’s home in his back. He fell to the floor, managing to squeeze off one more shot from his pistol, firing it aimlessly into the air.

I leant back again, and took a swig of whisky, thoughts racing through my lordly head.

Indians, I thought. He meant Indians.

I took another swig.

Shit, I thought. Indians.

- Lord Likely.

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And so, with my birthday celebrations well and truly over, we must now return to the continued chronicles of my Astonishing American Adventure, an adventure so massive that it has so far taken some four months to transcribe. But then, would have you expected anything less sizable from my good self?

Let us now rejoin our exciting exploits in the former colonies…

July, 1856.

So, Botter and I left the New York abode of my half-brother Ludlow Likely, and took a hansom cab to the nearest train station, ready to travel out to the American South in the hope of locating my other half-brother, the criminal gun-slinger and cattle rapist, Lightnin’ Lance Likely.

We arrived at the train station by lunch-time, and as we departed the carriage of our ride I made sure to tip the driver, my tip being, “Never stick your todger in a grinder”, sound advice for anyone. Anyone with a todger, of course. That done, Botter and I then strode up to the station’s ticket booth to purchase our tickets for the next leg of our journey.

“Two tickets to Around Here,” I said to the bored-looking elderly man in the booth.

“Around here?” Said the old fool. “But you’re already around here, sirs! Why on Earth would you want to buy tickets to get to a destination you are already at, I wonder?”

“Ah. I see what has happened here,” I replied. “There has been an almost comical mix-up. You see, I wish to go to Around Here, in Dinkle County, and not ‘around here’, as you have said.”

“Around Here? Dinkle County? Why, they sound like made-up names, dreamt up by a lunatic, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”

“Well, I do mind you saying so. In fact, so much do I mind you saying so, I may well clamber into that booth at any moment, and demonstrate how very much I mind you saying so by slamming your face into the window, if you don’t mind me saying so.” I snarled, causing the old man to become rather flustered.

“Okay, sir, okay. Let me just consult my map, here,” the old goon babbled, unfolding a large map and spreading it across his desk. He poured over it for a few minutes, before finally locating our desired destination. “Well, blow me!” He exclaimed. “Whaddya know! There IS an Around Here, in Dinkle County. Forgive me sir, it’s just that it sounded so ridiculous I thought you’d made it up! Heh-heh!”

“Yes, I suppose it does sound rather amusing,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

“I mean, who calls a place ‘Around Here’, anyways? That’s just plain crazy,” the old man continued. “Just crazy! Okay, what you need to do, sir, is to take the train to Disaster, in Spittlesburg, and from there you have to take a short carriage ride to Brown Hole Gorge, near Shit Creek. From there, you can take another train through Spermatozoa, up past Crusty Flaps Gulch, and into Hemorrhoid. From Hemorrhoid you have to get yourself another carriage, and ride down through Sodomite Valley, into West Vagina, pass on by the Pissypants River, up into the Hairy Minge Hills and finally down into Felch City, near Cockshaft Canyon. Up over the Canyon you’ll find Around Here.” The old man looked up from his map, beaming with pride.

“I…see,” I said, raising an eyebrow in quizzical surprise. “That was most…edifying. And when is the next train to Disaster, may I ask?”

“Well, let me see…oh! Oh dear! I am terribly sorry sirs, but it seems you have missed the last train to Disaster by a whole… five and a half hours,” the old man said, consulting a pocket-watch. “There won’t be another train passing through until tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

“I beg your cocking pardon?” I snapped, simmering with barely-concealed rage.

“Ah! No, wait! You are actually early!” the old man corrected himself. “I was holding my watch upside-down. The last train to Disaster will be along in fifteen minutes. My mistake, sirs!”

“Marvelous.” I said, through gritted teeth. “We shall take two for that, then, if we may. First class, naturally.”

“There you go, sirs,” the old man grinned, pushing two tickets across the counter. “Have a nice day!”

“Well, I cannot see how it can get any worse,” I replied, scooping up the tickets and turning sharply on my heels.

Little did I know, as Botter and I boarded that last train to Disaster, that the rest of my day was going to get a lot worse. A lot bloody worse indeed.

- Lord Likely.

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