ONE OF the reasons for the sheer QUALITY of the prose in my astonishing adventures is that I, being a well-bred, well-educated sort of a chap, have learnt how to hold my pen correctly.

Some people – especially commoners – seem mystified by the correct usage of this writing implement, and clutch it between their teeth, or hold it firmly betwixt their buttocks, or simply lay it on the desk and bat at it, like a curious cat. Some even wind up jabbing it into their own eyeball and proceed to run about the room screaming in agony that writing is pain, which it can be but normally it entices mental rather than physical discomfort.

So, in order to help these soft-brained simpletons and to cut down on the number of emergency ward admissions, you shall find a guide to the CORRECT way to hold one’s pen above, as found by the delightfully-named Graphics Fairy.

I, of course, have ne’er had trouble holding my own.

- Lord Likely.

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!

I am a fountain of knowledge. Come, drink from my spout.

A

Aardvark: the aroused form of a softvark.

Abound: the act of a bounder.

Absinthe: a magical green liquid which can make days simply VANISH.

Abundance: a jig or a waltz performed by bakers.

Agent: singular form of gentlemen.

Analogue: a ledger for cataloguing anal sex acts.

Angler: one who constructs protractors, set squares etc.

Antelope: what occurs when two ants love each other very much, and wish to flee from their disapproving parents.

Anticlimax: the result of a particular awful bout of sexual intercourse.

Antwerp: An stupid person.

Archangel: the most condescending of all the heavenly host.

Artichoke: to throttle someone in a particularly creative manner.

Avast – something rather large. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

B

Backgammon: pork eaten off of a servant masquerading as a table.

Badger: one who makes badges.

Badminton: the exact opposite of goodminton.

Baguette: a very small container or receptacle, favoured by French ladies.

Bassoon: a musical ape.

Bicycle: a two-wheeled vehicle which may be used by either ladies or gentleman, as it has no preference to either gender.

Bonfire: French exclamation upon witnessing a particularly good blaze.

Bratwurst: the very nastiest of children. (Submitted by Mr. Scott Huber.)

Bungalow: a buffalo that can’t get it right. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

C

Carbuncle: Your mother’s pasta loving brother. (Submitted by @jcodfishpie).

Censorship: a boat charged with hunting down pirates, but which ends up just spoiling the sea for everyone.

Champignon: the winner of a French mushroom-eating contest.

Chancellor: person employed to gamble with an entire nation’s finances.

Colony: an adjective used to describe the colon, e.g ‘I’m not sure what this is, but it looks a bit colon-y’.

Comeback: one of the results of a particularly messy orgy.

Comatose: what you get when your foot falls asleep.

Comeuppance: an accidental discharge of fluid, most frequently associated with overexcitement and the inexperience of youth. (Submitted by Mr. Mark Hooper.)

Contraband: A musical group who steadfastly refuse to play any of the songs requested.

Contribute: eulogy given at the funeral of a felon.

Crestfallen: Crestfallen: when one’s coat of arms falls off the mantelpiece. (Submitted by @DaddyP).

Crouton: a unit of measurement used to weigh bread, e.g ‘this giant loaf weighs approximately one metric crouton’.

Custard: a cowardly bastard with a yellow streak a mile long.

D

Damage: a wizard from South London. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

Decrease: what you get when you iron de pants. (Submitted by @Darien_Mason)

Deliberate: to deny something freedom, e.g: ‘following the screams of horror from the clergy, I decided to deliberate my todger’.

Diarrhoea: A Welsh man who is unable to pay his mortgage. (Submitted by @mr_andy_fereday)

Dinosaur: a fictional beast created by scientists in an attempt to disprove the undoubted existence of an all-powerful deity who lives in the sky.

Discuss: a conversation or debate pertaining exclusively to an Olympic throwing event.

Dogma: the mother of the dog. (Submitted by @Vampcat66)

E

Eton: Yorkshire exclamation upon seeing a heavy weight. (Submitted by @mr_andy_fereday)

Everest: dead. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

G

Germination: where the Kaiser resides and sows his seed. (Submitted by Mr. Mark Hooper.)

Gravy: Like a grave. (Suggested by @Mr.Whaite).

H

Hippocrates: Ancient Greek who invented a means of storing hippopotamuses ready for transport.

Huzzah: a bazaar for the (h)upper classes. (Submitted by Lord Matt).

I

Internet: The opposite of Outernet. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

Inundated: to ‘enjoy’ a woman who has never been out on a date. (Submitted by @moggiesinforest).

Irrelevant: having nothing whatsoever to do with elephants. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

L

Leotard: an astrologer prone to incorrect readings. (Submitted by @jcodfishpie).

License: An ability to tell when someone is not telling the truth. (Submitted by @jim_linder.)

N

Nightmare: a nocturnal female horse. (Submitted by @jim_linder.)

O

Obesity: a city wherein the citizen are somewhat overweight. (Submitted by @jcodfishpie).

P

Paedophile: a folder for small children to keep their paperwork in. (Submitted by @xpd259).

Pencil: window ledge for keeping pens. (Submitted by @mr_andy_fereday)

Penis. What a pen is. (Submitted by @JackPurling).

Problematic: An asbestos filled loft. (Suggested by @Mr.Whaite).

Professorship: a boat used for the deportation of unsavoury scientists, e.g Professor Elemental.

Q

Quince: a female prince. (Submitted by @SheyMouse)

R

Repercussions: Death’s soft furnishings. (Suggested by @Mr.Whaite).

S

Socrates: ancient greek who invented prices for cloth foot coverings. (Submitted by @moggiesinforest).

Spatula: A heated arguement between two or more vampires. (Submitted by Mr. Travis Rathgeber).

U

Uvula: a foolish vampire who decides to go out in harmful UV rays, despite warnings and no sunblock. (Submitted by Ms. Jenn Thorson).

W

Wombat: a mythical creature that hangs around on Wimbledon common with a bat. (Submitted by @Vampcat66).

Keep your eyes peeled for I shall be updating the Likelypedia as and when more pearls of wisdom drop forth. Of course, YOU can contribute to – either comment below, or use the Twittering Device or the Book of Many Faces.

In the meantime, do not forget to read up about the awful SOPA legislation – a form of soap that will only wash away the good.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aliens, milord? Really?” Botter asked.

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

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

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

“I see, milord,” Botter nodded.

“PISS!” I bellowed suddenly, lurching forward.

“Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, she would not meet my eye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked down at the mass of severed tentacles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fin.

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

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

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

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

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

- Lord Likely.

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!

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.