Thread by @MarkFrancois12

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

April 10th

Feria Sexta in Peperami et Morte Dominoes

Up and with today Good Friday, very strict with fasting until supper, exempting nibbles of Peperami, Dairylea and Yorkie to keep me going.

1/10

Having last year gotten nailed on a draft of mulled sacke, only to wake three days later in Chislehurst Caves, in Lords year 1665 I am minded carefully.
Token morning sweep of the house for Priti Patel and lockdowne proceeding most monotonously,

2/10

but that community iconoclast Steve Basher Baker offering to lead a Pontius Pilates session on Zoom. Delayed start with enquiring as to the nature of John Whittingdale’s Sombrero, and much mirth that he believed it to be Mexican themed poncho pilates.

3/10

Having been excluded from Wednesday’s quiz, I at pains to remark on the similarities of many of those present to Judas Iscariot and allied with Des Swayne swilling a posset of vodka Red Bull and slurring about the transubstantiation, Basher lost patience, his vexability on

4/10

the trans-issues most notable & did say he washed his hands of us and that Pontius Pilates was off.
Thence to my study to synergize on Facetime with Kate Hoey about our new podcast Hoey Polloi, nibbling at a Dominoes Meat Feast that I might sustain my fast all afternoon,

5/10

and no sooner there but to shutting draperies that Widecombe be most distracting in hanging dead moles on her privet. An ERG civil-war agent Hoey, the most obliging that ever I could expect from any woman, and more; saying me to be the most patriotic man in England,

6/10

and that she is sure, if anyone will undertake to listen to our podcast, ‘twould be akin to mainlining liquid Albion.
I am minded at Easter of what I have, and that my household of mayde Hartley-Brewer and boy Bridgen are of grayte succour to me is certainly not true,

7/10

but Hartley-Brewer is capable on occasion of serving a good Pot Noodle and if my boy Bridgen sticks at his lute he may become a great tormentor of catgut that may one day be able to play Enter Sandman by the minstrels Metallica,

8/10

and this night I devised that I might prepare us a fish pie to brayke our holy fast. My conception how the business of the victualling should be ordered wherein I had taken great pains, was at odds with what was served and

9/10

raw kipper in a curdled ewe’s liver sauce beneath lid of unprepared turnip pastry saw they ate none. And that it being the thought that counts, I chastised both and set them to moving my boundary fence onto Thornberry’s property until long after dark. Cola Bottles. Bed.

With many thanks to @Will_Overman for unearthing this unique image of the bedroom of an adolescent boy during the Restoration.