Thread by @MarkFrancois12

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

June 7th 1665

Waked very merry, only my eye red and ill from where Liz Truss did hit me in it, and after eggs patriotic did decide to pedal my fibreglass swan to Lord Freddy Gray’s house on the Isle of Wight.

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Having sent word every day for three months that I am free to attend a BBQ there at any time, I am most startled to discover not only Lady Oakeshott and Lord Tice there, but an infinity more twitter users whose bios speak ‘Classical Libertarian’ and

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‘Bad Boy of Brexit’ and MP Bob Seely too, and Lord! to see their faces when I explained that no summons reaches me by envoy, pigeon, mail, semaphore, coastal beacon or whatsapp, but after easing of their minds that not even the invite to my neighbour Widdecombe’s birthday,

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to which the whole of my estate did attend, reaches me, we dined, and there is much enthusiastic snogging between the Wight power couple Tice and Oakeshott and to see this makes us yearn to never, ever, be 15 again, and there is plentiful keen

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discourse of a most earnest kind; anecdotes about getting tap-shackled and of the Europeans, whom among many other things we hear, scorn to make use of the turdbath but do shit all in their kitchen pots and Tice did make us weep to hear tales of the difficulties he had

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passed through to deliver the Brextoration, every step up to his knees in dirt, with nothing but a pair of country breeches and a seven figure bank account and thence to a merrie game of ‘Two Wights don’t make a wrong’ wherein we take turns to offer edgy conceits

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that would needs be disavowed if spoken in public, and all return with a catch of ‘Its Political correctness gone mad’ to the tune of Greensleeves, followed by a shot of Aftershock. After that our company broke up, I with Bob Seely, overawed by the illustrious company,

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did drink a Monster Quarantini nightcap, and so to bed – but Lady Oakeshott mightily troubled about a pretty little bitch she hath got from Redwood’s puppy farm which is very sick and will eat nothing and the jest was, I could hear her in her chamber bemoaning it;

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and by and by it pissed and shit abed, and she exclaimed ‘no no no no no no no no Richard, not again’ and he replied ‘It were t'dog’ and she was fain to rise and had coals out of my chamber to dry the bed and listening to them continue to bicker,

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I thought there might be lot of sadness behind their outward show, but then remembered they were coining it. Caramac, bed.