Extracts from the Plague Diary of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys
April 17th
Up and my mayde Hartley-Brewer vexed that my bed be full of soil again, that having read a Deep State Exposed pamphlette sent by mind-titan Piers Corbyn, I have been at tunneling in the cellar
1/9
April 17th
Up and my mayde Hartley-Brewer vexed that my bed be full of soil again, that having read a Deep State Exposed pamphlette sent by mind-titan Piers Corbyn, I have been at tunneling in the cellar
1/9
with my boy Bridgen, and should the need arise, we may escape. Uncertain that Kommandant of Stalag E17 isn’t Hartley-Brewer herself, I am placing a wooden pommel horse over the cellar floor and requiring that the boy Bridgen vault it for the duration of my day's digging,
2/9
2/9
commonly the time I can sustain bladdetorial combat with three cans of Monster, or the tedium of such boring work. Thereafter myself and the boy innocuously wander the patio with bags of soil inside of our silk suits, tugging at strings that we discretely discharge
3/10
3/10
small packets here and there, and then set to forging the papers containing justifications for our being abroad, such as going to buy Pot Noodles or torching 5G transmitters.
Seeing the mess, Hartley-Brewer did rise to much heate, and ask why we do not put it straight
4/10
Seeing the mess, Hartley-Brewer did rise to much heate, and ask why we do not put it straight
4/10
in the bin, but I affected not to hear, and with the inevitability of the volume of her discourse, heard the inescapable Thornberry trilling beyond the leylandii instead, that James O’Brien do declare himself troubled that our rulers are proving ineffectual during
5/10
5/10
this manner of plague; that the testing not being done, the expense growing infinite, and self-correction and order all want from the Johnson’s government, and I believe him to be a very rogue for proposing things paradoxical to our common opinions,
6/10
6/10
wherein he might speak well, but generally is a sorry man and to what ruin we must come if we do not celebrate Dr Hancock’s enamel badges or sing God Save the King with the overpromoted milk monitor Ben Fogle.
After fyne dinner of Turkey Twizzlers with a pickled egg jus,
7/10
After fyne dinner of Turkey Twizzlers with a pickled egg jus,
7/10
the Catchpole cart comes in our cul-de-sac pronouncing ‘Escape is verboten’ and reckoning on this being our moment to flee, I did whisper ‘Perfidious Albion on Speed’ to the boy and at digging with my Power Rangers spade again, by and by hit upon the fat-kidneyed
8/10
8/10
neighbour Widdecombe's open waste pit, and with much discord and a sudden a rush of Delingpoles up the tunnel, the earth roof collapsed and I did find myself bestraighted in earth and kebab boxes and could not writhe or breathe so have constant pain. But
9/10
9/10
after much lusty struggle, three wholly new tunnels faced me: one I see headed towards the balcony of Lady Truss, another wherein a large white balloon by name Rover obstructs my passage, and a third, towards a Kestrel in Yorkshire and a remembrance of my youth I had forgot.
*Editors Note
Having found these diaries under the patio of my Barratt new build, and with the remainder still not excavated, I would like to invite the readers to decide which tale of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys I should archaeologise up tomorrow.
Having found these diaries under the patio of my Barratt new build, and with the remainder still not excavated, I would like to invite the readers to decide which tale of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys I should archaeologise up tomorrow.
