Thread by @MarkFrancois12

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

May 4th 1665

Up and after breakfast of Piccalilli smoothie, I accidently send a naked image of myself to everybody in my address book, costing a small fortune in postage. Daily letter to the BBC demanding suspension
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of the license fee unless they commission my Postman Patriot idea, and that they have been an albatross round my neck, fly-tipped a bin bag of perished y-fronts in the river. There is a completely unforeseen shortfall of labour since the Brextoration, so to a local farm to

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join the three man British land army, one of whom called in sick. Gruelling labour and after twenty minutes falling asleep in the Cucumberbatch with a furloughed player called Benedict, the farmer was most desparagust, and I protested that I did not know what I had voted

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for and he did reply ‘fuck off my land whey-face’ and I did discourse that ‘beet it’ would have been funnier and he spake that he was a farmer not a parody twitter account groping for jokes. Upon leaving, it troubled me to pass the same rusty Nova thrice and I was lost,

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but a most mysterious albatross did appear and guide me kindly to safety, and upon arriving home I did shoot it with my crossbow and commission Hartley-Brewer to prepare it in the lime of the ancient marinade at the back of the Colefridge,

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and the bird’s expression was glazed and confused, as was mine now that 28,446 are dead of plague and I wonder what may have been had the Johnson had an advance warning to implement a lockdown. Tankard of Domestos. Bed.