AS A reader of my journals, you are already well aware that they are the most thrilling, exciting, arousing and most downright hilarious writings that have e’er seen print, or indeed that will e’er see print.

Now, finally, it seems that the rest of the world are also becoming aware of this indisputable fact, as The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely has been short-listed as a nominee for The Funniest Web-Log in Great Britain And Her Colonies, by The Dog’s Doodahs, a fine emporium specialising in personalised cards and gifts. HUZZAH!

In such instances, it is customary for the nominee to remain humble and say what an honour it is to be nominated, and how overwhelming it is to be among such good company, but as you all know ‘humble’ is not a word in my dictionary (which, it has to be said, is a cocking FANTASTIC leather-bound dictionary, which is easily better than all other dictionaries put together).

Instead, I urge you to ignore the so-called ‘competition’, and do the only sensible thing and vote for my Astonishing Adventures to win this contest.

So, without further ado, please do click ‘pon these words here, and cast your vote for lordlikely.com! It only takes a few mere seconds to vote, so there really is no ruddy excuse. Also, there are chances for voters to win a ten-pound voucher for personalised cards, should the knowledge that you’ve done the right thing not be enough to prompt you into voting. Voting closes at midnight on the 31st of January.

VOTE LIKELY! Or I shall have to break out the riding-crop and flay you ALL.

Many thanks indeed.

- Lord Likely.

Like the ‘Grope’ poster above? Buy it as a print or a t-shaped shirt to-day!

A VERY Merry Christmas to all of my loyal readers and ardent admirers! May you all eat, drink and be so merry that you pass out comatose beneath the Christmas tree.

Be sure to return hither soon, for I have something BIG coming up next year. And this time I am not referring to my penis (though I should state for clarity that it too is big, and well worth celebrating).

I am off to go and enjoy some of this festive spirit – several glasses of it, in fact! Bottoms up!

Toodle-pip, chums!

- Lord Likely.

AS A RICH, powerful, incredibly handsome and overwhelmingly male human being, I enjoy exclusive membership of London’s notorious ‘Bullion Club’ (motto: NIL PAUPERUM). ‘Tis a lovely, luxurious and opulent environment, where I can take time out from a busy day battering my man-servant (not a euphemism) or polishing my cane (a euphemism) and indulge in some raucous banter with my fellow millionaires, while lighting our fat cigars on unused bank-notes and mortgage deeds. Truly, it is like a home away from home to me, except with better service.

It was a balmy autumnal afternoon, and I was enjoying a few drinks with the chaps at the club, while reminiscing about one of my many astonishing adventures.

“And so there I was, surrounded by a dozen female pirates, with the captain demanding that I draw my weapon.” I paused, and thoughtfully swirled the whisky about in my glass, while simultaneously becoming faintly aware of some sort of dull, thudding noise emanating from the main hall down the corridor. “So, what else could I do, but drop my trousers…” Another pause. More noise. I pressed on with my story. “Needless to say, the entire crew were really quite amazed at the sight of my gargantuan…COCK IT!” I roared, unable to concentrate for the infernal racket nearby. “What in the name of Beelzebub’s blistering ball-bag is that unholy din?”

“Oh, that? I think it’s the new chap,” replied one of my companions, Colonel Avery Mann-Phorrimself. “He joined the club recently, don’t you know? Believe he’s some sort of singer, rather popular in the music halls.”

I pulled a face. “Ugh. An entertainer, eh? Heavens, they’ll let any old riff-raff in here these days,” I grimaced, rising up out of my seat. “Well, I simply am not standing for it any more!”

“Yes you are, old bean, you’re standing right now!” the Colonel pointed out. I chose to ignore his entirely accurate observation, however, and made my way towards the main hall to give this bounder a piece of my mind; specifically the piece that said SHUT UP OR I SHALL PLANT MY FOOT FIRMLY IN YOUR BALLBAG.

As I advanced nearer the main hall, the cacophony grew louder, sounding very much like a man yelling at a dustbin that was being kicked down some stairs. I nodded sadly. If this was modern music, then I’d rather have rusty needles thrust into my ears.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GREEK BUGGERY IS GOING ON IN HERE?” I bellowed into the room, as I flung open the doors in a most dramatic (and rather impressive) manner.

Alas, no-one could hear me above the tumultuous caterwauling that was coming from a rather scruffy-looking oik in a shabby safari suit and pith helmet, who was prancing about at the back of the hall singing (and I use the word in the loosest and wrongest sense possible) a dirgesome ditty entitled ‘Cup of Brown Joy’ to a group of rapt onlookers:

Once the performance had finished, and the (quite undeserved) applause had subsided, the only sound that could be heard in the hall was my slow clapping.

“Oh, bravo, sir. BRAVO,” I said, sarcasm not merely dripping from my voice, but positively gushing forth in a sarcastic waterfall. “I have not seen such a diverting show since I last visited the zoological gardens.”

The singer – let us call him that for want of a better and much more apt word – smiled. “Ah, you must be Lord Likely. I have heard much about you.”

“I wish I could say I had heard anything about you at all, Mister?…”

“Professor. Professor Elemental, at your service,” said the man, doffing his ludicrous-looking pith helmet in greeting.

“And what precisely are you a professor of, professor?” I enquired. “Perhaps you have a doctorate in Dressing Up Like A Giant Breast And Dancing About The Place As If Undergoing Electrolysis?”

A shocked gasp rose from the assembled crowd. Elemental simply smiled again. ” I sir, am professor of the potent punchline and powerful, punchy pugilism.” He paused thoughtfully. “And alliteration. But what are you lord of sir? Have you a title and no purpose? Like an owl with no beak; very decorative but essentially useless.”

More gasps from the crowd, as a dozen heads swivelled around in my direction, waiting for my riposte.

“I am going to ruddy bash your teeth down your scrawny throat,” I rejoined. Possibly not the wittiest of retorts, but by golly I had an overwhelming urge to batter this arse-pipe.

The crowd dutifully parted as I made my way toward the oaf, the smell of combat gleefully filling their nostrils.

“Oh, so it is a scrap you want, eh?” Elemental said, lighting his pipe. “Well, in that case I shall need to don my fighting trousers!”

“Fighting trousers?”

“FIGHTING TROUSERS!” affirmed the professor, and then the bounder burst into song again:

“Well, sir,” I said, removing my topper. “In that case, allow me to put on my ‘pummelling hat’.”

“I’d put up your dukes, if I were you, sir!” said Elemental, circling me with his fists raised.

“Oh, you’d better be ready, sir, for I shall bring forth the pain!”

But as we squared up to each other, our duel was brought to a standstill by a voice out from the doorway. And that voice said the following words:

“Nobody move! I have a gun!”

The voice belonged to a rather dishevelled looking chap, who was indeed brandishing a pistol which he held with shaking hands. His eyes looked wild and frantic, like those of a rabid dog.

“Everybody put your hands up! And no funny business!” the man shrieked loudly.

“I think he must have heard your act,” I whispered to Elemental, as everybody raised their arms, filling the room with a forest of self-preservation.

“Well, well, well,” sneered the man, rubbing his grubby chin in contemplation, with an equally grubby hand. “Look what we ‘ave ‘ere. A room full of well-to-do gents, with wallets just ripe for pinchin’, I reckon! Yes, yes, I could make a pretty packet robbin’ this room! Heh-heh!”

And so the fiend began walking through the crowd, prodding people with his gun and demanding they empty their valuables into his grubby sack. I was practically shaking with rage.

“Don’t worry, your lordship,” whispered Elemental. “As well as being a most excellent musician, I am also an explorer and an inventor. I do believe I have the perfect contraption with which to disarm this scoundrel and…no, wait. I’m wearing my fighting trousers. The device is in my incapacitating felons trousers. Confound it!”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, luckily, as an aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action, I have formulated a plan to apprehend this swine. All I need to do is to pretend I am going for my wallet, and then swiftly deploy a quick judo chop to the blighter’s gun-hand, and then -”

But before I could reveal the full splendour of my amazing plan, there was a loud screeching noise and some unidentified creature dashed forth from the back of the hall. On closer inspection, the creature appeared to be an orangutan in a tuxedo, and I watched with amazement as the beast leapt onto the robber, and began clawing at the criminal’s countenance whilst shrieking wildly.

“What the -?” I began.

“Ah-ha!” beamed Elemental. “That is Geoffrey, my monkey butler! As punctual as ever – remarkably good time-keeping for an ape, you know.”

“You have a monkey for a butler?” I said, somewhat surprised.

“Absolutely!” grinned Elemental, proudly.

“That is rather impressive, I have to admit,” I admitted. “And you mentioned that you are an explorer and an inventor, too?”

“Indeed I am,” the professor nodded. “I have had quite some adventures, let me tell you!”

“As have I,” I said. “You know, there is a possibility that I may have misjudged you, Elemental. I’m willing to take back at least two-thirds of the things I said about you.”

“Likewise, your lordship,” beamed the professor, holding out a hand. “I like a fellow who’s not afraid to step up and get scrapping if needs must.”

“Perhaps we should adjourn to the lounge for a few brandies, eh, and share a few tales?” I smiled, shaking Elemental firmly by the hand.

“Splendid!”, said Elemental.

“Splendid!” said I.

“SPLENDID!“, we said in unison.

- Lord Likely.

For more from Professor Elemental, why not visit his webbed-site HITHER, where one may listen to more of his ditties, purchase his recordings and keep up-to-date with his latest exploits.

This tale is based on actual, real-life exchanges betwixt professor and lord, as originated on the Twitter device by @lordlikely @prof_elemental

Splendid!

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.

For the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

MORE DAYS passed as I continued my convalescence, nursing my poor mangled manhood back to health after it was so cruelly injured by a wicked, wicked whore a couple of weeks or so previously.

At one point, a doctor paid me a visit to check on my progress, but soon had to seek medical help himself, after he gazed upon my proud Lord Palmerston, and promptly passed out through the shock of having seen such a mighty organ. You would think a medical man would have seen it all, but then again I cannot deny that I am a most impressively endowed specimen.

My man-servant, Botter, continued to fuss and fret over me, like some kind of hideously malformed nurse-maid. Back and forth he went, bringing bowl after ruddy bowl of soup, explaining that it would help me ‘get my strength back’. I tested his theory by hurling the umpteenth bowl directly at his head, which smashed satisfyingly upon his wretched bonce. “It seems you are correct, Botter,” I chortled as my man-servant dashed off to tend to his facial burns.

When not hurling broth at my man-servant, I kept myself amused by continuing to trawl through the huge sacks of post regularly delivered to the house. I was eagerly anticipating a reply from Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk, whose wife had gone missing, a case I had agreed to take on even while confined to my sick-bed. That is how astonishing I am, dear reader.

There were all sorts of letters in the post that week, from Nigerian businessmen offering me hard cash in return for my banking details, to advertisements from apothecaries claiming they could make me ‘last longer in bed’. I snorted. I had already been in bed for a fortnight, the ignorant arse-pipes.

There were some far more interesting items of mail, however, such as this fascinating missive:

I’m writing to bring to your attention a matter of great importance. I do not wish to alarm his Lordship during his convalesce but I’ve come to believe that your country may need you.

Lady Ann of Euphrania

I made a note of the sender’s name and the return address. I would have to let this good lady enjoy my magnificent balls one day.

The next letter also raised my spirits somewhat:

You seem so familiar. Have we met before? Was that you on the beach in Kiribati? I was, I have to admit, a little beyond drunk at the time, so I can’t be sure.

Crystal, fellow adventurer.

I tore open another envelope.

It has come to my attention that you have been gravely wounded by a former employee of mine. I run a respectable business and do not tolerate such action.She went out on her own to get business for herself, because of that and your treatment she has been relived of her position.

PS: In my haste I forgot to tell you the name of my establishment, it is Russian Belles. We maybe prostitutes but we are ladies.

Next came an offer of aid:

News of your injury has spread quickly throughout London. Indeed, the very lack of your presence among the ladies of the night these past few days has lead some to wonder as to your early demise. If indeed your Lord Palmerston has been mangled by an irate member of the world’s oldest profession, I shall be happy to design a harness of sorts to at least make you more ambulatory during your convalescence with a minimum of pain. If there is a contagious element to your affliction, that likewise can be treated with a my patented formula injected by a very large needle, driven directly through to deal with the matter at its source. Such treatment is not for the faint of heart, of course.

Dr. Darien James Mason

And so I continued to rifle through the mail-bags, seeking more correspondence from Mr. Phingerphuckk, but there was seemingly nothing to be found. But then I found a rather bulky-looking envelope, which seemed to contain more than a letter inside. My curiosity piqued, I tore it open.

Out fell a lock of hair, and a rather menacing note:

A FriENd.

- 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, as those lucky people in this week’s chapter were! 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! We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

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.

AND SO with a murderous snowman on the loose, there was only one thing to do. We waited.

After a couple of days of waiting, the snow had thawed substantially, leaving some of the snowmen in the street looking as flaccid as an old man’s todger – all except for one, which stood as firm and as proudly as…well, MY todger.

Using my exceptional deductive powers, I ascertained that the non-melted snowman MUST be an imposter, and after threatening to knock its head off with a shovel, my suspicions were confirmed, as a rather weedy-looking fellow emerged from within his snowy disguise.

It turned out that this chap – Mr. Arthur Funtwhistle – had murdered poor Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny after becoming consumed with jealousy over the far superior Christmas decorations adorning the front of Clutchpenny’s house. Funtwhistle, it seemed, lacked some of the seasonal goodwill towards his fellow man.

Needless to say, Funtwhistle was arrested, trialled, found completely and utterly guilty and then on Boxing Day he received the belated Christmas gift of a rather tight-fitting rope tie; to whit, he was hung by the neck until dead.

HUZZAH!

Now, I know what some of you are thinking – ‘well, Likely, after three weeks of waiting that seemed to be a most hasty conclusion to this Astonishing Adventure!’ To which I would remind you all that since I began transcribing this tale, both Christmas AND New Year celebrations have come and gone, leaving me with a hangover so enormous, I fear I may never again be able to see straight.

Hopefully, however, I shall be as right as rain before too long, and ready to THRILL, DELIGHT and AROUSE you all with more corking adventures over the course of this coming year!

In the meantime – HAPPY NEW YEAR, chums! Have a drink on me (literally, if you are a rather attractive female who wishes to lap gin from my taut and muscular torso).

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

IT WAS mid-December, and London had been left under a thick blanket of snow, as if the lord God above had looked down ‘pon the glorious British Empire, and had decided it looked so damnably attractive that he had whipped out His tremendous tallywhacker and sprayed the land with His holy horn-paste.

Truly ’twas a sight to behold, as I pointed out to my miserable man-servant, Botter, as we trudged our way through the snow to meet Inspector Spunkleford, who had summoned us to meet him on a matter of some urgency. Botter, however, seemed less than impressed with my poetic observation about the current climate.

“‘S too cold, that’s what it is, milord. Too blinkin’ cold!” he muttered.

“Cold? For heaven’s sake, Botter, do grow a scrotum!”

“‘S alright for you, milord, you had a nice, warm bed for the night. I ‘ad to sleep in a bleedin’ hen-house.” Botter continued, shoving his hands under his armpits to warm them.

“Now, Botter, we have been through this,” I countered. “I cannot very well have my prize-winning hens out in the cold. Nobody enjoys a frozen egg, least of all me. That is why I decided to let them have the use of your quarters.”

“B-but it’s inhumane, milord!” Botter cried.

“Nonsense, they were extremely comfortable indeed. I think I even saw one making use of the bidet, at one point.”

“Not your stupid hens, milord! Me! It’s inhumane to leave me to freeze to death in some rickety old hen-house!” Botter wailed.

“Botter, if you keep up this incessant moaning I simply shall not unlock the hen-house in the morning, and leave you in there forever!”

We continued to crunch our way through the snow as Botter fell into a mopey silence, which rather suited me fine, as I really did not want to listen to any more of his wearisome wafflings anyway.

We turned into a small street and seemed to find ourselves instantly transported to some kind of astonishing winter wonderland. The gardens and houses all along the street were decorated in the most eye-popping manner possible, with various Christmas lights dotted throughout, tinsel hanging from every branch of every available tree and plant, and large, ornate carvings depicting Father Christmas or angels or reindeer looming out from all sides. It was rather like someone had eaten an entire box of Christmas cards, and then vomited the contents out onto the street.

“Well, this is the right place,” I sighed, noting the road-sign nearby. “Fezziwig Lane. I really hope Spunkleford hasn’t called us half-way across the city just to show us his baubles. Come on, Botter.”

We ventured on up the road until we came to a house which was swarming with police-men, bustling back and forth and looking generally perplexed. In among the blue tide I spotted Spunkleford, who was closely consulting a note-book while chewing upon the end of a pencil in a most contemplative manner.

“Good day, Inspector,” I said, slapping Spunkleford so heartily on the back that he almost wound up excreting graphite. “What is all this hubbub about, then?”

“Oh, Likely, old boy!” Spunkleford exclaimed, clearly pleased to see me (as people usually are). “I have got a queer old case here, I don’t mind saying. Very queer indeed!”

“Hmmm,” I pondered, looking about to find a dark patch of crimson seeping through the snow on the ground. “Well, I assume either someone has been rather careless with the cranberry sauce, or there has been a murder here, yes?”

“Yes indeed, Likely. But if only it were that simple! The victim was the home-owner, a Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny, by all accounts a well-respected and well-liked member of the local community. He was discovered dead at the scene this morning by one of his neighbours, a Mrs. Penelope Twigglebottom. Poor thing, has been in shock ever since.”

“Maybe I should offer her a shoulder to cry on?” I offered. “Of course, when I say ‘shoulder’ I do of course mean ‘penis’. And when I say ‘cry’ I mean ‘sit.’”

Spunkleford carried on, brushing aside my carnal desires as was his wont.

“Now here is where things get…peculiar. We’ve had an eyewitness come forward who swears blind that he saw Mr. Clutchpenny being attacked by…someone. He’s even given us a full description…” Spunkleford explained, waving his notebook in my direction.

“And?”

“Well, apparently the assailant was white, about five-foot four, dressed in a top hat and scarf…” Spunkleford glanced up at me, then back down at his notebook. “Ahem. He had a long, carrot-shaped nose, and eyes…eyes as black as coal…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Spunkleford, what you have just described to me there is a snowman.”

Spunkleford nodded. “I know. And naturally I would not normally take such a thing seriously, if it were not for the fact…well, there was a break-in down at the docks last night as well. And a witness there gave my officers a description of one of the culprits…”

“…And that too was a snowman?”

Spunkleford nodded again. “He even gave the details to a sketch-artist, and…well, look.” Spunkleford held up a piece of paper on which was drawn a (rather well rendered) picture of a snowman.

“This…” I said slowly, “…is indeed peculiar.”

- Lord Likely.

To Be Furthered!

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IF YOU’RE wondering why there has been a lack of updates to my thrilling tales of late, then blame it on the above periodical, a children’s comic currently playing host to my scribe’s wretched doodles, thus keeping him from his duties on my Astonishing Adventures! Gah!

The aptly-named Dandy – apparently Britain’s longest-running child’s comic – is running a comic-strip entitled ‘George vs Dragon’, written and drawn by my wordsmith, Mr. A.D Fanton, esquire. He claims such work keeps him very busy, and his obligations to my journals have fallen behind, as he focuses on a job that apparently pays him. PAYS HIM? Whatever next? Truly, the mind doth boggle at the thought that ANYONE should find his daubings worthy of remuneration!

Anyway, I was all set to thrash the fetid effluence from Mr. Fanton’s bony body in light of his shockingly lax attitude, when he offered to draw me into one of these strips, thus preserving my handsomeness in printed form for all eternity! Naturally, I loved the idea, and spared him a full beating, choosing instead to merely twat him about the skull with a polo mallet.

Once he’d recovered, he kept true to his word and inked my dashing likeness into an episode of George vs Dragon. BEHOLD THE WONDER BELOW!

Yes, there I am, purchasing a fine-looking horse (replete with luxurious moustache) from a horse market. I concur that it is a fleeting appearance, but even in such a small cameo, I cannot help but think that I steal the entire show from under the main character’s stupid, over-sized noses. HUZZAH FOR ME!

You can see my noble self in this week’s issue of The Dandy (issue number 3513, pictured at the top of this entry) on sale now for a mere one pound and fifty of our English pence – a bargain for such a piece of historical cartoonery, I am sure you shall agree!

There is another cameo from my noble self coming soon, so do keep your eyes peeled for that! I shall not rest until they have renamed the publication ‘The Dandy Lord Likely’, confound it!

Finally, you may as well peruse my scribe’s woeful web-log, for any further news about his burgeoning, so-called ‘cartooning career’. And rest assured, he SHALL be returning to his scribing duties for me very soon, lest he wishes to receive further drubbings.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

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