Thread by @MarkFrancois12

Extracts from the plague diary of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys

April 1st

Up & blessed day, Hartley-Brewer hath procured both Sugar Puffs and slab of Monster, that my traditional morning repast may be once more doused in ambrosial motorsport milk. Having restored my faith in

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reactionary maydes, upon venturing to the garret to remove my morning chamber pot, I thought it fair to warn her of the logacy left therein.
Pleasant morning of sharing favoured Prince Phillip quotes with Grant Shapps on whatsapp & we fell to discourse that David Davis

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punched a hole in his 52 Inch plasma during Tipping Point having succumbed to Stuck-home Syndrome & read pamphlet by lapsed human Toby Young wherein he calculated the value of a life of a plague victim, it being grayte bravery to discourse on that he understood so small.

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Sent my boy Bridgen to fetch a Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle for lunch & stated ‘if they have bottery tickets, get 12’ A short while later he returned with 12 Bombay Bad Boys & no tickets. Sensing my vexation he offered clarification ‘But Sir, they had bottery tickets’

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Agitated, I determined to shop myself, but that the local urchins inclining to call me ‘Penfold’ or ‘piggy in the Lidl and the plague growing very raging, and my apprehensions of it great, I donned full-tactical gear. There, and the toilet tickets already panic-victualed, I
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spake ‘I’m going to explode’ & set to kicking over a display of Pringles, but upon being asked to leave my mood did elevate when I happened upon Lady Truss in the carpark in handsome Polly Pocket onesie, disinfecting her trolley with the Canal No. 5 I gave her last month.

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Removing my night-vision goggles that she might know me, she kept strict social distance of fifteen metres and in my life I never did see such natural expression of passion as I did in her eagerness to get away, it being a grayte source of romantic joy to me that she

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care so much for my healthe. In parting she made mention of a charity single she, Ralf Little and Rugby League anchor Brian Carney be compiling to raise money for the displaced Cruise holiday victims of Corona, and I returned to my new-build Barratt four-bed detached

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and spent a happy evening watching them sing Sail Away by Enya. It was great pleasantness, only interrupted when Hartley-Brewer burst forth, vexed that I had attended to my evening stool with the foil lids of used pot noodle cartons, but I explained that it was

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tolerated of necessity and that she probably just had survivors’ guilt and blessed be God, that to attend on the Nation’s Leading Patriot in this way be probably the greatest honour a budget broadcaster could aspire. Pig’s Ear. Bed.

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