Extracts from the plague diary of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys
May 8th 1665
Up and it is Victory Over Europe day! That my heroics in singlehandedly vanquishing them in two worlde wars and one referendum should ne’er be forgot, comes the Johnson and seven Captains more,
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May 8th 1665
Up and it is Victory Over Europe day! That my heroics in singlehandedly vanquishing them in two worlde wars and one referendum should ne’er be forgot, comes the Johnson and seven Captains more,
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by the Cumming’s order, to hold our streete-party beneath the Burberry-bunting and so presently with neighbours Widdecombe and Thornberry and Galloway we fell to the business; first, the border-forces sweetheart Kate Hoey singing ‘Blue Passports over the White Stiffs of Dover’
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and then I did present a cowpat in the visage of Nigel Farage that I did call the Cattle of Britain Memorial Shite and after 1945 minutes silence did burn a BBC television licence inside an installation of Avebury Stone Circle rendered in Pot Noodles, and William Hague and
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Jim Davidson and Iain Duncan-Smith did come and give a most excellent mummers play of Kes, but anon as we enjoyed Monster and White Lightning quarantinis, my boy Bridgen running from the house screaming
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‘The oracle is fulfilled;
such a deal of wonder is broken out within this day that ballad-makers
cannot be able to express it’
And my thoughts that the neglect of Bridgen to not embarrass me before my guests might deserve a paintball gun kneecapping I demanded he explain
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such a deal of wonder is broken out within this day that ballad-makers
cannot be able to express it’
And my thoughts that the neglect of Bridgen to not embarrass me before my guests might deserve a paintball gun kneecapping I demanded he explain
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‘I talk of clones,
Which I thought the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy’
And cursing my forgetfulness that I had forgotten to bolt the door to it and that I did put the Tory in labratory, I did see marauding forth behind the boy, hundreds of
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Which I thought the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy’
And cursing my forgetfulness that I had forgotten to bolt the door to it and that I did put the Tory in labratory, I did see marauding forth behind the boy, hundreds of
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my Mark ne-Francois-Pepys clones, implike and mischievous and, clambering on tables, putting blancmange in Carole Malone’s handbag, pulling Eamonn Holmes periwigg to the floor and urinating on Tim Stanley’s leather chaps and
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that I was beside myself, I tried to make light saying ‘clone jokes are all the same’ and ‘I’ll let myself out’, but the patriots grew restless and the Chancellor Sunak did admonish me for having so many unsecured personal clones and Basher Baker the grayte icloneoclast did
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say we must burn my doppelgang and so it was to my grayte relief, Admiral Grayling, who we commonly call thicker than a boxing day turd, did have presence of brain to play The Last Post on his Kazoo and that clones are people two, they halted and wept with solemnity,
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and then majestically my Lady Truss, enfeebled with drink did begin to sing:
From tide to tide,
Abide, abide!
This ale is noppy;
Let us suppé and soppy
And not spill a droppy,
For, so may I hoppy,
It cooleth well my croppy,
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From tide to tide,
Abide, abide!
This ale is noppy;
Let us suppé and soppy
And not spill a droppy,
For, so may I hoppy,
It cooleth well my croppy,
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'With Hey! and with Ho!
Sit we down a-row,
And drink till we blow,
And pipe "Furly Furlough!",
But my fingers itch,
I have written too much
Of this mad mumming
Of Dominic Cumming!
And as she finished come overhead kites and buzzards and merlins bedecked as Spitfires and
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Sit we down a-row,
And drink till we blow,
And pipe "Furly Furlough!",
But my fingers itch,
I have written too much
Of this mad mumming
Of Dominic Cumming!
And as she finished come overhead kites and buzzards and merlins bedecked as Spitfires and
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Hurricanes and Lancasters and much hawkish mawkishness and Henmania of currant buns and Tizer and BK Whopper meals; and thus we celebrated the 75th anniversary of a conflict few of us understand and none of us fought in and a great patriotic day; and after Frubes, to bed.
VEND
VEND
