12:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

“AH, IT’S Lord Likely, is it not?” someone asked, their voice cutting through the hubbub of the crowd like a word-knife cutting though air-butter.

“Gug-gak! Yes! ‘Tis…’tis me! Eck-excuse me if I don’t get up,” I grunted, finding myself trapped beneath the hulking great form of Mr. Wallops.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” said a pair of black leather shoes next to my head. I craned my head slightly and saw that the shoes belonged to Sir Rhubarb Muddick, the press baron and host of this charming shindig. Which was something of a relief, for talking shoes were not something I was quite prepared to deal with at this juncture. “Come on, Wallops, do get up off of our guest,” Muddick continued. “You’ll have to forgive Wallops, he’s a little hard of thinking, I’m afraid.”

“No, no, not at all,” I said as I was helped back to my feet. “Nothing wrong with a little bit of exercise before a night of drunken revelry and debauchery, eh?”

“Precisely!” chuckled Muddick. “May I get you a drink, your lordship?”

“I’d much rather you got me several, frankly,” I quipped, although I was actually being deadly serious, for I was drier than a nun’s mimsy and wanted lots, and lots of BOOZE.

“Ha!” Muddick laughed, snapping his fingers to summon a nearby waiter. “Ah, there you are – could you get the esteemed Lord Likely here a…whisky, is it not?”

“Indeed! You know me well!” I nodded.

“Ha, well you have had many column inches in my news-papers, you know!”

“I have done no such thing,” I snapped, before realising what the fellow was talking about. “Oh, yes! I see. Yes, I suppose I have!”

Muddick gave me a hearty slap on the back, before turning his attention back to the waiter, who had decided to go precisely nowhere.

“What are you waiting for, waiter?”

“It’s my job, sir.” came the lightning-fast riposte.

“No, I mean…why are you still here?” Muddick clarified. “You have our order, now go and fetch it for us, you cretin.”

The waiter, who was rather  a thin man with a thin face, a thin moustache and thinning hair, just smiled slowly, before dropping his serving-tray to the ground, and pulling a pistol from within the pocket of his apron.

“How ’bout this,” he snarled, his personality transforming in a flash. “You take OUR orders, and no-one gets hurt, right?”

I sighed again out of complete and utter dismay. When, when, when, WHEN was I going to get a cocking drink to-day?

- Lord Likely.

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~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Parts Nine and Ten ~

For the previous chapter, please click here.

“I AM afraid the wedding’s off, lady,” drawled Evan Hellsinger, as he trained his stake-loaded pistol upon my would-be -wife (and vicious vampiress) Helena Handbaskett. “But you’re just in time for your funeral!”

“I’m already dead, foolish mortal!” hissed Helena, baring her fangs.

“Oh yeah,” Hellsinger remembered. “Well, uh…prepare for your second funeral, then!”

Helena rolled her eyes in despair, and then in one swift, effortless motion, she grabbed Hellsinger by his collar and hurled him out of one of the stained-glass windows. I watched with dismay as the only vampire-slayer in the building crashed through the window and disappeared into the night outside, leaving a Hellsinger-shaped hole in the glass, through which bright, brilliant moonlight streamed into the church.

“It has risen!” Helena proclaimed excitedly.

“Well,” I smiled, getting increasingly frisky as the five bottles of whisky I had earlier consumed started to make their presence felt in my system. “You ARE wearing a very low-cut dress, m’dear…I am bound to get rather excited…”

“SILENCE!” Helena screamed. “The Blood Moon…it has risen! The time is here…the time is UPON US!”

I watched with mounting confusion as the various vampires in the building surged forward to revel in the moonlight, dancing and skipping in the beam like over-excited schoolchildren playing in the rain.

“This…this doesn’t look good,” I muttered to Inspector Spunkleford, who had come to my side to behold the freakish spectacle himself.

“I’ll say,” Spunkleford replied. “That window will cost hundreds to replace!”

I was about to refer to Spunkleford as a ‘blithering great anal-fissure’ when I suddenly noticed that Helena had gone very quiet, and was basking in the moonlight, her head tilted back,  almost as if she was absorbing the light through her very skin. Then she slowly began to rise into the air, gently turning in the beam as she rose up, until she came to a stop a few feet short of the church’s ceiling. She hung in the air for a moment, then her head suddenly snapped forward, and her eyelids flicked open, to reveal two blood-red eyes.

“LET THE BLOODENING…COMMENCE!” she growled.

“Oh dear,” I said to Spunkleford. “Either it is her time of the month, or she is planning to feast on our throats…either way, this is going to be an unpleasant experience for all concerned…”

“And so, my children!” Helena gestured to the vampires below. “It is coming to pass, just as the prophecy foretold! In the age of steel and smoke, on the night of the Blood Moon, a new queen shall rise in God’s house, and lead her followers into a new era of blood and darkness!” She paused as her blood-thirsty audience whooped and cheered their approval. “All we need now is the blood of a virgin, and the blood of a nobleman..” she smiled, turning to look at me.

“Well, I can certainly supply the noble blood, but if it is virgin’s blood you want, then I am sorry to report that you’re rather barking up the wrong tree. In fact, I’d go so far to say that you’re not even in the right ruddy forest…”

“Oh, we have our virgin, your lordship!” Helena grinned. “BRING THE WOMAN!” she cried, at which point two burly vampires appeared from the vestry, dragging a rather stout woman along with them. She was kicking and screaming quite loudly, demanding that she was unhanded immediately, and loudly proclaiming that the entire affair was such an outrage that she was going to write to her Member of Parliament post-haste to complain in the strongest possible terms.

“A-Agnes?” gasped Spunkleford, recognising his wife as she was led to the altar.

“ALBERT?” snapped Mrs. Spunkleford. “Is this your doing? Who are these people? Friends of yours, I suppose…”

“Hold on,” said I. “Mrs. Spunkleford is…a VIRGIN? Good heavens, Spunkleford! No wonder your dear lady wife is filing for a divorce!

“Well, I…ahem…I’ve been…busy,” Spunkleford blustered.

“BUSY? For twenty-three years?” screeched his wife. “Honestly, I think he’d have rather married the job than me, you know.”

“Now now, Agnes, do not be silly! One cannot marry an intangible entity…or at least that is what the registrar told me.”

“See?” Agnes snapped. “This is what I am talking about! It’s all work, work work with this man! He never treats me, never takes me out…”

“I beg to differ!” Spunkleford replied indignantly. “I took you out only last week!”

“Albert, it may shock you, but a trip to the morgue to examine a corpse is not every lady’s idea of a dream date, you know.”

“Well, that’s gratitude, all I – ”

“Ahem!” coughed Helena, who was still floating in mid-air. “Sorry to interrupt this little marriage guidance session, but might I remind you that I AM trying to bring about a new era of darkness and terror here?”

“Oh yes,” said Spunkleford sheepishly. “My apologies. Do carry on.”

“SO! Who’s blood shall I take first?” smiled Helena, nodding towards me. “The nobleman’s, or the virgin’s?”

“Well, as a gentleman of impeccable breeding, I have to say ladies first,” I replied, motioning at Mrs. Spunkleford.

“Likely!” hissed Spunkleford.

“‘Tis just the booze talking, Spunkleford!” I beamed, removing a hip-flask from my coat pocket. “Of course, I shall go first.”

“Excellent!” Helena grinned. “Soon, the world shall be mine…”

“Do you mind if I just finish this first?” I asked, waving my hip-flask gently in the air. “A dead man’s final wish?”

“Likely! What are you doing?” whispered Spunkleford. “You are already stupendously sozzled – I hardly think this is the – ”

Spunkleford’s protests were cut short as Helena nodded her approval of my proposition. I duly raised the flask to my lips, and chugged back the last of the whisky therein. As I did so, I felt the booze flow through me, causing every part of me to relax (yes, even THAT part) until, as the last drop slid down my throat, I was completely calm, and really rather drunk.

“Now, my dear,” I said as the warming whisky began to course through my veins. “I believe you were talking about sucking something, were you not?”

Helena drifted gently back down to the ground beside me. “Indeed I was, my lord,” she grinned.

And then, she sunk her fangs right into my noble neck.

~ Part Ten ~

From the Diary of Inspector Albert Spunkleford.

I WATCHED, horrified, as that damned vampire woman plunged her fangs into Likely’s neck, and began to drain the very lifeblood from him. Likely did not resist in the slightest, and simply  stood there with a rather sloppy grin on his face. Poor fool, I thought. The beggar’s too drunk to realise what’s going on. Either that, or he is getting some sort of pleasure from the whole exchange.

“Right,” gasped Ms. Handbaskett, as she let Likely’s unconscious form drop to the floor. “Now it is time for the virgin’s blood…” she continued, advancing toward Agnes.

“Now, stop there!” I protested, holding a wooden cross in front of me. “And…erm…get back, you…uh, fiend!”

“Oh, Albert!” squealed Agnes. “You’re so brave!”

Ms. Handbaskett cocked her head and then burst out laughing. “HA! A cross? Ha-ha! We are in a CHURCH, you silly little man. Do you think we’d have come here if we were terrified of crosses? Ha-ha! Now please, move out of the way so I can – HIC! – ” Helena stopped short, taken aback by her involuntary hiccup. She put her hand to her chest, and looked rather embarrassed. “Excuse me,” she apologised. “I must have drunk his lordship’s blood rather too qui – HIC! ”

I observed with increasing curiosity as Helena thumped her chest in an attempt to stop her hiccuping, but rather than abating, they seemed to increase in frequency. In addition, she started to stagger rather wildly, almost as if she were…

I looked at the comatose from of Likely, now being looked after by his ever dutiful man-servant, and smiled. The sly old dog! For once, his lordship had not been merely getting drunk – he’d been formulating a dashed cunning plan! Either that, or he HAD just been getting drunk, and had gotten rather lucky.

“Musht…HIC! – musht have the virgin’sh blood,” slurred Ms. Handbaskett, wobbling uneasily towards Agnes and I. “Musht – HIC! – musht feed again!”

“Get behind me, Agnes!” I warned my wife, as I feebly tried to keep the decidedly sloshed succubus at bay with my crucifix while I tried to think of a suitable course of action. Fortuitously, my decision was made for me, as Helena attempted to rush at me, but in her inebriated state she instead tripped over her own feet, and impaled herself upon the very cross in my hand.

Ms. Handbaskett let out a blood-curdling scream as she pulled away from me, the cross wedged firmly in her chest. She began to writhe in pain, an act mirrored by the other assembled vampires, and then, one by one, they all exploded in a spectacularly messy fashion, until just Ms. Handbaskett was left.

“Currrrssssse you!” she snarled. “I curse you all to He – HIC!”

And then, with that final hiccup, she too burst apart before our very eyes, like an evil balloon, covering me in smatterings of gore and guts in the process. I picked a kidney from my hat, and then turned to check on the wife.

“It’s all over now, Agnes,” I said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “There there.”

“Look at the state of you, Albert!” Agnes barked, wiping a lump of flesh from my collar. “This will take me an age to put right, you know! You really should be more careful!”

“Does…does that mean you aren’t going to…” I began.

“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking, Albert…I’ve seen you in a whole new light tonight, all dashing and brave and that. I…I think I’d like to stay, yes. We can give it another chance, can’t we?”

“Agnes,” I said, holding my wife’s hands in mine. “If you can spare five minutes in between washing bits of dead vampire from my clothes and cooking me a hot meal, I would very much like to attend to an oversight I have made on my part these past years…”

“Oh, Albert! I say!” blushed Agnes.

“Oh, Agnes!” I sighed, contentedly.

From the Journal of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

I AWOKE to find Botter’s awful face baring down on me, concern etched all over his miserable little face.

“Milord! You are alive!” he beamed.

“So it would seem,” I said, disappointed not to find myself surrounded by comely angels in the afterlife. “Please, Botter, do stop fussing so!” I snapped as Botter tried to help me up. “One pain in the neck is more than enough, thank you very much.”

I hauled myself up to my feet and took a moment to get my bearings. “Eurh, how revolting,” I remarked as I looked about.

“I know, milord. They all just burst apart – it was really disgusting.”

“No, not that – THAT,” I clarified, pointing ahead of me where Inspector Spunkleford and his wife were currently locking lips. “Now there is a sight to turn one’s stomach! Egad, what a turn up, eh Botter? An adventure where Spunkleford winds up being the one to walk off with the lady! What is the world coming to?” I shook my head sadly and picked up my hat and cane from the floor. “Well, enough with the slaying, and on with the laying, I say! Let’s get out of here and find me a couple of whores, hmm? Everything seems to have been wrapped up nicely here…”

- Lord Likely.

From the Journal of Evan Hellsinger, Vampire Slayer

SO I woke up to find myself lying in among hundreds of tiny shards of colored glass, in a churchyard, in the early hours of the morning. Groggily, I got to my feet as the previous night’s events began to filter through my aching head. Oh God, I thought – the vampires!

I picked up my pistol and ran around the side of the church, and burst in through the front doors, my weapon primed.

“Everyone get down, I’m back and I’m ready to – oh!”

The place was empty, save for a few messy piles of guts and bones gently smouldering away on the floor. Damn, I thought, looks like I missed one helluva party.

I holstered my pistol and walked out of the church. What now for Evan Hellsinger? What does a vampire slayer do when the vampires have been slayed, I pondered as I sat up on the church wall.

As I sat in deep contemplation, I suddenly became aware of someone standing near me. The figure coughed gently to better attract my attention, and looking up I saw a smartly-dressed man stood on the street.

“Yeah?” I said wearily.

“Good day, kind sir,” said the man, doffing his hat. “I am Mr. Jonathan Harker. Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you could help me…I am trying to locate this Count, and I -”

“Listen, pal – you want the police, okay?” I replied wearily. “I think there’s a station a few streets that way…”

“Oh, right…I…I see,” said Mr. Harker. “Um…thank you, sir.”

I shook my head sadly as I watched this Mr. Harker disappear down the road. Some people – they just don’t know how to find that which they seek. Damn fools…

The End.

IF YOU have enjoyed this thrilling tale of murder and matrimony, then mayhaps you would care to donate a few shillings to demonstrate your appreciation for a job bloody well done! All contributions gratefully received!

Hmmm, now where was I?

Ah yes. I had apparently lost my home and my entire estate to a couple of swarthy Italians in a drunken wager, and my man-servant and I were now attempting to sneak our way back into the Likely Estate via a secret tunnel, when all of a sudden something was scurrying out of the darkness towards us.

I believe that should bring you all bang-up-to-date…now, let us continue!

So, there we were, stuck in a rather tight spot. Usually, being stuck in a rather tight spot is something I relish, but on this occasion I feared that the creature heading towards us might have a taste for upper-class flesh, and did not wish to become the mid-afternoon snack of some foul beast.

“Botter,” I said to my petrified man-servant. “I fear you may have to lay down your life for the greater good.”

“Greater good?” Botter replied.

“Yes. I am greater and far more good than you, hence I should live and you should perish at the jaws of some slavering monster.”

“Oh,” Botter said.

Before we could properly say good-bye to one another, the creature was upon us. I braced myself for the worse, but was rather surprised to find the abomination did not tear us from limb to limb, but merely stopped and said calmly; “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you chaps, but you wouldn’t happen to know how where the exit is, would you?”

I allowed myself to look at the creature, and saw that it was in fact no creature at all; instead, standing in front of us was an incredibly unkempt naked man, with long straggly hair and a beard to match, long yellowing finger-nails and toe-nails and a surprisingly short penis. He was certainly foul, but not a beast.

“What the Dickens?” I exclaimed. “Who the tit are you?”

The man looked at me, then looked at me much closer, his awful face craning towards mine, allowing me to catch a whiff of his frankly vomit-inducing scent.

“Likely?” he finally said. “Likely? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is I – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action!” I bellowed.

“Likely!” cried the man, throwing himself upon me and taking me in a full embrace. “You came back! You finally came back!”

“Oh God!” I lamented. “It is touching me! Help me, Botter! Find me a crucifix and a priest, pronto!”

“Don’t you recognise me, Likely?” beamed the man, revealing a smile bereft of several teeth. “It is I, Tugger!”

My mind raced backwards trying to recollect where I may have met this fellow before, until I finally found a match. Tugger had been one of my fellow students at St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys, a decent enough chap, who had become rather well-known due to his habit of constantly masturbating during classes – hence his nickname, ‘Tugger’.

“Tugger?” I repeated slowly. “Tugger Johnson?”

“In the flesh!” grinned Tugger.

“And little else,” I noted, wryly.

“Yes, well, you shall have to forgive my appearence, Likely. I have been trapped in these tunnels for the past God knows how many years, ever since that night we were down here…remember?”

Despite having been pumped full of alcohol over the years, I was surprised to find that my memory was able to clealry recollect the day in question.

It was back in my school-days, not long after I had made the discovery of the very tunnel we now stood in. Such a discovery excited the younger Likely greatly, especially when I realised I could use the tunnel to bunk off from school and slink back into the Likely Estate unnoticed, get blind drunk and return to school completely pissed as the proverbial fart. Happy days.

One day, however, I was confronted by Tugger and that awful little shit-box Harold Loathsome, who had noticed my inebriated state and wanted to know how I was getting hold of booze during school hours. As I was pissed at the time, I gladly gave up the information, which served only to excite the boys further, and they pleaded with me to allow them to accompany me on my next trip. I agreed to permit Tugger to join me, but I denied the same prvilege to Loathsome.

“But why won’t you let me let come?” whined Loathsome.

“Because you are a wretched, whiny little ball-sack,” I had replied. “And in addition, you smell like ham.”

“You rotter, Likely!” spat Loathsome. “You will pay for this, you’ll see!”

I ignored the little twat’s words, and the very next day Tugger and I set off to raid my father’s liquor cabinet and drink our weight in gin. However, as we trotted through the tunnel, we suddenly found our way blocked by the imposing figure of my father, Lord Eustace Likely (now missing, presumed dead).

Tugger had fled in fear, leaving me to face the wratch of my father. He was deeply furious, not because I had been drinking in school, but because I had been drinking his booze. My father boarded up the entrances to the tunnel and I received quite a thrashing that night, but the next day I was sent to school with a hip-flask full of whisky – the very same hip flask I carry to this day. My father was nothing if not fair.

Of course, I knew that Harold Loathsome had grassed me up to my father, as he was a weasly little runt who delighted in putting a stop to other people’s fun. This fact was later confirmed when he came up to me in the Common Room that afternoon.

“How did your little expedition go, Likely?” he had sneered. “Did your daddy approve?”

“Well,” I smiled, removing the hip flask from my pocket. “You might well say that he did.”

With that, I had taken a swig of whisky, and spat it out in Loathsome’s eyes. Then, for good measure, I hurled the pathetic urchin through a window. For that action, I received another thrashing upon my noble buttocks that afternoon, but it had been worth it. Loathsome really was utterly loathsome.

Loathsome certainly has figured in a lot of my reminiscences of late. I wonder if that will prove to be important later on?

Anyway, back to the present day. I snapped out of my recolections to find Botter and Tugger sat on the ground, quietly chatting to one another.

“Oh!” exclaimed Botter, as he noticed me. “I do believe milord has stopped having a flashback now.”

“Indeed I have,” I stated. “Was I gone long?”

“About forty-five minutes, milord,” Botter answered.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, leaning back against a wall.

“Tugger was telling me how he’s been trapped down here ever since the day your father caught you, and that he survuved by eating rats, and that over the course of the past thirty years he has masturbated over every inch of this tunnel. Incredible, is it not?”

“Incredible,” I agreed, quickly moving myself away from the wall. “Well, Tugger, it has been a pleasure, but we must depart, for we have to rescue my home from filthy Italians!”

“I quite understand,” Tugger nodded. “We have all been in that position at some point or other.”

Tugger and I shook hands (and then Botter wiped my hands clean for me), and I bade my former classmate farewell, giving him clear directions on how to finally escape from his current dilema. He thanked me profusely, and headed off into the darkness.

Botter and I continued on without further incident, save for one moment when my man-servant broke wind rather violently, which I bore the brunt of as I was following behind him at the time. After another half an hour or so, we finally reched the end of the tunnel, and the entrance into the Likely Estate.

There was indeed light at the end of this particular tunnel, but what I would darken my mood considerably…

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely Mourns A Loss!

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Good day, all. And how the devil are you?

- Lord Likely.

Everyone at humor-blogs.com wishes they could be Lord Likely. Or at the vear least, they wish they could be in him.

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“Botter,” I said, as I strode into the living room of my luxurious mansion on a sunny, April morn. “Get yourself packed, my good man. We are going!”

“Going?” repeated Botter, adhering to a lifelong pattern of complete befuddlement and utter bewilderment. “Going where, milord?”

“I do not know, Botter. All I do know is that we are most definitely going.”

Botter looked at me quizzically.

“Are you sure you’re alright, milord? Are you sure you still have a full compliment of marbles?”

“Good heavens, Botter! Is this concept really too much for you to grasp? I have the wanderlust, you ridiculous arse-pipe, and as such I wish to wander. Where to? I do not know. All I do know is that I wish to just…go. There is so much world out there left to explore; unimaginable adventures to be had; exotic, foreign ladies to be pumped full of my lordly sperm…we should grab the world by the buttocks, Botter, and thrust ourselves deeply within it. And as my uncle, the renowned watch-maker ‘Big’ Ben Likely once said: ‘There is no time like the present!’ Or was it ‘there is no present like the time?’ It might have been a sales pitch. I forget now. At any rate, we are going! So prepare to pack, Botter! Let us get to it, pronto!”

“Y-yes, milord,” Botter stammered. “Right away!”

“Good chap. We shall have to travel lightly, Botter. We do not want to weigh ourselves down with any unnecessary baggage!”

“Very good, milord,” Botter mumbled.

I stood in the grounds of the Likely Estate, surveying the distant horizon, and the untold possibilities beyond it. The thought of taking this exciting, much-needed holiday was appealing to me more and more, and I simply could not wait to start.

“Come on, Botter!” I yelled to my infuriatingly slow man-servant. “We haven’t got all day.”

“C-coming!” wheezed Botter, as he staggered to my side, laden with my luggage. “A-are you sure you really need all these things, milord? It…it does not strike me as travelling very lightly, if I may say so.”

Botter and I prepare to embark upon our next Astonishing Adventure.

“Nonsense, Botter! Why, look! I have only packed one crate of whisky, for heaven’s sake! And I managed to whittle down my prized collection of erotic lithographs to a mere suitcase full, which was no easy task, I can tell you. There was much concentrated deliberation over the final selection.”

“B-but a toilet, milord? I…I’m sure they will have toilets abroad…”

“Filthy, foreign toilets, Botter! My word, if I wanted something dirty and strange entering my anus, then I would at least like to be bought several drinks first. Just be thankful I did not chose to bring my solid-gold lavatory with me.”

“V-very good, milord,” puffed Botter.

“Right then! So we are set! I think we shall go….thataway!” I exclaimed, pointing due West. “I believe there is a public house in that direction where we might stop for a quick drink. Although, there is a particularly attractive bar-maid in the pub in the other direction…”

“Whu-whatever you like, milord,” Botter gasped as he struggled with my various cases. “C-can we just get moving? Muh-my back is killing me!”

“That’s the spirit, Botter!” I smiled, punching my man-servant playfully upon his shoulder. “Onwards and upwards, eh? Well then, as the French say: ‘mon pantalon a été mangé par les chiens sauvages‘! No, wait. That means ‘my trousers have been eaten by wild dogs’. That’s not right at all….what was it, now?…”

“A-allez?” said Botter, wearily.

“A lay? I dare say there shall be a lot of laying, Botter, but I do not see how that helps me remember my French…ah, well. Never mind. Never did care much for the French, anyway. They have sex with horses, don’t you know?”

“Ruh-really.” said Botter.

“Mmm. Quite so. Alright, then,” I beamed, clapping my hands together. “Let’s go! Come on, Botter! Allez! Allez!”

And with that, Botter and I set off on our exciting expedition. I dare say there shall be scant time to continue keeping a diary while I am on holiday, so I fear I shall have to bid your a fond farewell for now.

Suffice to say, I shall regale you with the tales of my travels whence I return, provided I still have the power of sight, and have not been sexed to death by cock-hungry Amazonians.

Until then, toodle-pip, dear readers. Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Editor’s note: Lord Likely shall be away on his astonishing adventure holiday for the next two to three weeks, but fear not, dear readers! While Lord Likely is away, a selection of scintillating scribes and wondrous writers shall be penning some astonishing articles for his lordship’s web-log, beginning this week with the Reverend Qelqoth. Also lined up are Mr. Don Lewis, Mr. Relax Max and the delectable Miss. Claire, to name a few.

If you should also like to write a guest post in his lordship’s absence, then do feel free to contact us through the magic of electronical mail, via this very address: lord likely at gmail dot com. All ideas considered, nudes a speciality!

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Needless to say, after being caught with his trousers around his ankles with a solitary playing card sticking out of his arse-crack, Archibald the Entirely Adequate looked more than slightly embarrassed, and less than entirely adequate.

“And what is going on here?” I asked, with mock outrage in my voice.

“Good heavens! Likely!” my old school-chum gasped, recognising my handsome features in a flash. “Um…this? This…well, this… is a new trick I’m…um…practicing,” Archie stuttered.

“Really?” I sniffed. “Or is it merely a rather feeble attempt to get a lady to touch your buttocks?”

“Uh…” Archie dithered, his brain resolutely failing to proffer forth anything even vaguely approaching a witty retort.

“Same old Archie,” I mused, snatching the playing card from the conjurer’s crevice and presenting it to Archie’s bemused-looking female assistant. “Was this your card, my dear?” I asked.

“Well, um, to be truthful, sir, no. No it was not.” The scantily-clad siren replied.

“Just as I thought. Well this,” I said, producing a smaller card from thin air. “This is my card. Do get in touch, my dear, and maybe I could show you a disappearing act that shall make your eyes water.”

The woman blushed a bright shade of crimson, took the card and then scurried out of the room, pausing only to glance back at my resplendent glory before she departed. I allowed myself a satisfied smile.

“Gosh, Likely!” Exclaimed Archie, hurriedly hoisting his trousers back up. “You always were quite a winner with the ladies. I see you still have that legendary charm.”

“It is a blessing, and a curse, I fear,” I replied.

“Gosh. Really?”

“No, not really. It is entirely a blessing. But enough about that! How are you, Archibald? Long time no see, and all that!”

“Crikey, I’ll say! It’s been….what? Nineteen? Twenty years?”

“Indeed, indeed. I see you are now in the business of show, Archie! How is that working out for you?”

“Oh, well enough, I suppose,” Archie said, rifling through a nearby drinks cabinet. “I am earning a fair enough wage, and I get to travel the country a lot. I have yet to top the bill, but I have a new trick that I have been working on that I think will finally make me rich and famous, by George!”

“If it’s the card-in-the-bum trick, Archie, I would consider ditching it.”

“Oh, no. This one is much more spectacular! I’m unveiling it in the show tonight, as a matter of fact. Drink?”

“Whisky, thank you. Well, that all sounds… nice. Of course, you will no doubt be familiar with my recent activities.”

“I’ll say! I was reading about your recent travels to America just the other day! Why, you must be almost as famous as Silas Surprise, I’ll bet!”

“Hmph.” I bristled, my pride battered. “I believe I am considerably more famous than that fellow. And richer. And in possession of a far larger todger.”

“I still cannot quite believe you are here, Likely! Gosh, I was just thinking – do you remember that awful boy at school…what was his name? Hateful?”

“Loathsome.” I corrected. “Harold Loathsome. Curiously enough, I did find myself recalling that wretched swine just the other week, in fact. He was an utter cock-rash, and no mistake.”

“Do you recall that time when he dobbed you into the House Master about you slipping out of school to visit a local prostitute? The House Master was furious, and when you returned he dragged you up in front of the class and gave you a sound caning in front of everyone.”

“Ah, yes. Fortunately for myself, I had just paid that self-same prostitute a most handsome sum of money to exact a similar thrashing upon my buttocks, mere moments beforehand. Hence, my arse was entirely numb already, thus I was left immune to the Master’s punitive beatings. Needless to say, I had the last laugh that day.” I knocked back the rest of the whisky. “That is, until two days later, when I found I had contracted gonorrhea…”

“What about that time Loathsome started that rumour that you had no penis? And then you challenged him to a duel?…”

“A cock duel!” I laughed, as Archie topped up my glass. “Suffice to say, my proud Lord Palmerston made short work of his minuscule member!”

“I wonder what became of Loathsome?” Archie asked.

“The last I heard, he had been exiled to Africa. With any luck, he would have been either raped by savages, or torn apart by tigers.” I paused. “Or vice versa.”

We roared with laughter in unison.

“What about that odd little fellow…Ginger Harrison, I think his name was?” said Archie.

“Ha! Ginger! I do remember him! I could never quite fathom out why he was called Ginger. He had black hair, as I recall.”

“Ah! Therein lies another funny tale!” Archie beamed, pouring more whisky into my glass. “I think it was in the second year of school – possibly the third – when Harrison was caught in flagrante delicto with the school cat…”

“…Ginger!” I bellowed. “Yes, I do recall that particular pussy. Poor creature. Curiosity very nearly killed the cat on that day.”

We laughed uproariously once more, the years melting away as we reminisced about our terribly sordid school days.

By the time I left Archie’s dressing room, I was rather drunk, and it took me a terribly long time to make my way back to the theatre in my inebriated state. My progress was further hindered when I drunkenly stumbled into the chorus-girls’ room again, entirely accidentally.

Well, I say ‘accidentally‘. I of course mean, ‘entirely on purpose, with a view to ploughing as many of the girls as I could mange before curtain up.‘

I exited the girls’ dressing-room a further thirty minutes later, feeling rather pleased with myself. I staggered back to the auditorium, which was enveloped in near-darkness now, a fact which only helped to compound my disoriented state. I stumbled over several of the theatre’s patrons in an effort to locate my seat, vomiting in the lap of one particularly unfortunate chap as I went, until I finally sat down heavily next to my man-servant, Botter.

“Bugger me!” I exclaimed. “My scrotum does not half ache after being ball-deep in all that fanny, let me tell you.” I groaned, turning to Botter. It was then that I discovered that far from being seated next to my man-servant, I was in fact sat next to a distinctly unimpressed-looking nun. I smiled apologetically, doffed my hat politely, and then made my excuses and left.

By the time I managed to locate my correct seat, the curtain had been raised and the night’s entertainments had begun in earnest. And what an unforgettable show it would prove to be…

- Lord Likely.

Now Open: We are very pleased to announce the unveiling of The Upper Crust, a very special web-based community for all those loyal to his lordship to engage in friendly discussion, befriend one another, share items of interest and to get blind, roaring drunk. It is absolutely free to join, and his lordship hopes to see you there. Please bring a bottle.

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Due to all my recent adventuring, and my time spent in the United States of America, I completely overlooked the birthday celebrations of our current, reigning monarch, Queen Victoria.

This is a terrible oversight on my part. I usually make quite an occasion of her Majesty’s birthday (that being the twenty-fourth of May), as not only do I find her to be a truly inspirational and formidable woman, but I also will use any old excuse to have a ruddy great piss up, and get completely and utterly sloshed, and maybe pick a fight with a street urchin or two.

In an attempt to rectify my glaring oversight, I would now just like to take a moment to honour Her Majesty, under whose reign Great Britain has become even greater. This land has been transformed into a powerful, industrious and wealthy country, with an Empire that covers a quarter of the world, including Canada. Not too bad, for a woman.

At first, I must admit that I found the idea of a woman leading our great nation laughable, because as everyone knows women are far less intelligent than men, and are only fit for carrying out menial tasks such as washing and cooking, as well as the odd vigourous bout of intercourse. However, my initial concerns have been swept aside by this most magnificent of women, who has led the country with grace, dignity and supreme confidence, that often makes me quite forget that she does not have a penis. She has managed to overcome her gender-based disabilities with aplomb.

I thereby raise a glass of whisky to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria – our Sovereign, our leader, our ruler. I stand proud before her, and am happy to be at her service.

Plus, she also has a cracking pair of tits.

- Lord Likely.

Post-script: I promise to commence the transcription of my American adventure henceforth, just as soon as I have finished celebrating. That is, should my eyesight return promptly, and should Botter be able to pry me from my bed-chamber.

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“That was a very satisfactory bout of intercourse,” I said, adjusting my now-wonky top hat. “You have done yourself proud, Miss Nipples, and I applaud you.”

Readers of this journal may feel cheated at the omission of a detailed description of my afternoon’s love-making, maybe accompanied by suitably erotic lithographs of our sexual congress, but alas a true gentle-man never tells.

I will declare this though, Miss Eileen Nipples fucks live a woman possessed by a sex-devil.

I will also add that in our few short hours, we did manage to go through half of the Karma Sutra, utilising such positions as ‘The Whippet’, ‘The Chimney-Sweep’s Son’, ‘The Hairy Pig’ and ‘The Fallen Nun’.

I did, also, keep my hat on throughout, and did not spill one drop of the whisky I was drinking at the time.

“Thank you, Lord Likely,” said Miss Nipples. “You have done me a great service by servicing me here to-day. I am very much obliged.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” I said, gazing out upon the streets below. “It was my pleasure. And now that we have the formalities out of the way, maybe we can finally settle down and focus on the mystery of the runaway Romanov.”

I turned to face Miss Nipples, who now stood naked before me, a large vase raised above her head.

‘They really are magnificent norks,’ I thought to myself, and then Miss Eileen Nipples bought the vase crashing down on my head.

“Women,” I snarled, then everything went black.

– Lord Likely.

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The day began much like any other. That is to say, it started with the morning.

I was busily waxing my moustache when I heard Botter return from the shops, where he had been sent to purchase essential items for the house.

I finished off styling my proud whiskers, then hastened downstairs to the drawing room.

“Ah, my lord,” said Botter, emptying the contents of a bag onto the table. “I have done the shopping.”

“Good show, Botter. I trust you got everything on my list?”

“Everything, your lordship. Everything, except one item.”

“Then I fail to see how that can be classed as ‘everything’, Botter, you wretched buffoon.”

“Oh, right. Well, they didn’t have any lubricant, my lord.”

“Hmmm. No matter. I’m afraid it’ll just mean this evening will leave you felling rather more sore than usual, Botter.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“Now, to more important matters – did you purchase today’s newspaper?”

Botter proudly flourished a news-sheet before my eyes, beaming proudly as he did so.

“Botter, please wipe that stupid grin from your face, or else I shall be forced to remove it myself, using my sword.” I snatched the paper from him, and adjourned to the comfort of my chair.

“Will that be all, my lord?” Botter asked.

“Hmmm? Oh, could you prepare me my morning whisky, Botter? Then you are free to do whatever foul and unmentionable activities you usually occupy your awful self with.”

“Very good, milord,” said Botter, and he scurried away.

I opened up my copy of The Daily English News, and began reading. It was full of the usual garbage, the proletariat robbing and killing each other, members of the government caught engaging in sordid acts with prostitutes, old men dying of old age….then one article caught my stately eye, and made me rise out of my chair in excitement. Unfortunately, at this point Botter had returned with my whisky, and my sudden elevation had caused the drink to be spilt all over his shirt.

“Botter!” I exclaimed. “There is adventure afoot! The Russian ambassador to Great Britain, Ivan Romanov, has apparently vanished without trace, not ten feet from his own embassy! The police are, according to this article, ‘stumped’. I think this sounds like exactly the sort of mystery I should like to solve. Botter…we are going to the capital! Immediately! Just after I have had my morning whisky!”

I set eyes upon my dampened servant.

“Hmmm…Botter, I do not recall asking you to wear my drink. You shall fix me another beverage, then I shall beat you for spilling the first one and THEN we shall head for the capital.”

“Very good, milord,” muttered Botter, and he squelched off to the kitchen.

I sat back down, contented. A delicious glass of whisky, the chance to administer a severe thrashing to my useless man-servant AND an adventure?

This was turning out to be a glorious day indeed.

- Lord Likely.

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If this is your first visit here, then where in the name of dickery have you been? You’ve missed a hell of a lot of astonishing adventures, let me tell you. But it’s alright. I forgive you. We all have to start somewhere, I suppose.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Likely, Victorian aristocrat, adventurer and full-time hedonist. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am a legend in my own life-time, and I rather fancy I shall be a legend in everyone’s lifetime henceforth. I really am cocking-well fantastic.

When I am not attending to my lordly duties, such as attending banquets and balls, or lounging about languidly in my spacious mansion here on the Likely Estate, I like nothing more than finding myself embroiled in a fresh new mystery or embarking on an unplanned expedition. It really does get my blood pumping, and my heart racing, and makes for the most invigorating distraction from my day-to-day chores.

Accompanying me on my adventures is my man-servant, the eternally foul and completely wretched oaf, Botter. Botter has been in my employ for nigh on twenty-two years now, and quite frankly it does feel like a day too much. Still, he does do his job with something approaching competence, and if he ever talks back or demands payment or complains that I have accidentally shot him in the leg again, then he is quickly silenced with a firm beating from my cane. It does make for a jolly rigourous exercise, I can tell you.

I am also joined in my exploits by another faithful companion: Lord Palmerston, not to be confused with the current Prime Minister of Great Britain with whom he shares the name. My Lord Palmerston is in fact a nick-name I have bestowed upon my proud, mighty penis, an organ so gargantuan that I usually wind up having to buy it a ticket should I ever find myself forced to use public transport. My Lord Palmerston and I are extremely close, almost like we are joined at the groin. Which, of course, we are.

Lord Palmerston is kept very active on my adventures, as I have an extremely healthy sexual appetite. So ravenous is my hunger for intercourse that were one to replace women with pies in this equation, I dare say I would be morbidly obese and probably heading for my fifteenth heart-attack. I cannot help it, though. I just find women so God-damned attractive. I love everything about them, especially their breasts and vaginas. God Almighty certainly got things right when he designed the female form. Good show, Heavenly Father!

When I am not pumping ladies left, right and centre (and in countless other directions besides), I do manage to aid the police force in solving all manner of mystifying mysteries and curious cases. Indeed, I think at the last count the tally of solved crimes was firmly in my favour, a fact which has not escaped London’s police force, resulting in my constant re-employment by the city’s officers whenever they find themselves stumped by a crime, which is very frequently indeed.

Among my contacts within the department is one Inspector Albert Spunkleford, a rather clueless fellow who seems to be constantly on the verge of some kind of psychological breakdown. He also always seems to be berating me for failing to follow one procedure or other, or for having sex when I should be searching for clues. Spunkleford chastises me so often, that sometimes I think my first name is ‘Jesus Christ’, on account of the amount of times I have heard the phrase, “Jesus Christ Likely!” uttered in reference to my wondrous self.

Aside from all that, I also enjoy a drop of whisky (more than one drop is preferable, however;) I adore fencing and sword-play; I am infatuated with Her Majesty, Queen Victoria and I am also partial to kicking beggars when I am out and about in the town. Grasping little bastards.

In conclusion, then, dear reader: I am, quite simply, fucking amazing.

Enjoy the journals.

- Lord Likely.

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