Thread by @MarkFrancois12

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

June 8th 1665

Up, and presented by Hartley Brewer with a very noble Pop Tart, but molten jam spilling onto my Burberry breeches means I am at scrubbing it off long after I should be arrived at the

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Ministry of Patriotism, and the Johnson exercises great vexation that my delay hinders his morning three hour power nap. Working lunch of chips and gravy, but my excitement to hear of Lovejoy reprised in the theatres means I am acquiring of further dinner medals and

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the Johnson between snoozes this not amuses, and is calling me the Count of Monte Bisto. After I meet with Edward Colston of The Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa in whom I invest, and he acquaints me with the manner of the life of slaves at sea,

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how they are transported below decks, manacled, a quarter dying on the journey, how they eat nothing, how they are beat upon the soles of their feet and bellies at the liberty of their patron, but that it is 1665 nobody knows this is wrong, apart from when Patrick was

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captured by Irish slavers in the 5th century, or that Bishop Wulfstan stood in the docks in Bristol and spoke against it in the 11th, or that sap Shakespeare a few years ago, but Edward makes a great profit for the company and it is wrong to object to things on moral grounds

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when the bottom line is at stake. At home to dinner, and seeing the state of my clothes Bridgen does call me Oxo moron which causes me to hit him and Hartley-Brewer vexed, discourses that my breeches are scrubbed clean more often than Churchill’s plinth and I am left with

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a thousand sad reflections upon the times, that while human trafficking might be ill-thought, as my lord Farage kindly reminds us on his selfless dinghy trips into the Channel betwixt inciting race war, criminal damage to a statue is just wrong. Self-reflection. Jelly Tots. Bed.