Thread by @MarkFrancois12

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

June 20th 1665

Up, and after eggs privatised, upon consultation, to Westminster where I am tasked with merging International Trade with the FCO and that many of the civil servants there have Truss issues, all the day

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sacking them, living out grudges, and generally leveling up Britain. After in horse drawn minibus, our cabinet is to Enfield Toby Carvery for The Johnson’s birthday, and taking turns to lay our gifts of moral compasses, Russian dolls, vertebrae, child maintenance demands, and

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a Cecil Rhodes duvet set before the walk-in fridge, and after good discourse with the catering staff there about my heroics at the Battle of Naseby wherein I did peel 5000 potatoes, anon, Matt Hancock is skidding into the beer garden on his BMX kermiting,

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‘Guys, I just dropped the track and trace app in my Kenco' and it is a testament I think to my status as Britain’s Leading Patriot that all the eminences there assembled, from Shapps to Jenrick, looked instinctively to me; and through a mouthful of creamed sweetcorn

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I spake: ‘It’s time’ and with my blue passport did project the mighty SERCO distress signal onto the sky, visible throughout the M25 from Cobham to South Mimms, that it might summon these outsourcing stupourheroes, and setting the boy Bridgen to look towards Clackett Lane

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against their arrival, we returned to our Angel Delight; and after two or three false alarms, that they joined the A406 Westbound, misplaced some school-dinners in the Lea, maltreated several detainees, lost a bucket of electronic tags, and had their cart tyres stolen whilst

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buying Froobs in South Tottenham, the battered SERCO gravy train scrapes into our carpark, drawn by two emaciated public sector nags, and the silk-suited parashites pile out, assenting to deliver test and trace no questions asked and we all being now in

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general indifference and keen to return to the party, lined their pockets with the national treasury and the pettifoggers left to subcontract the work and from a great cherry gateaux beneath streamers of Talk Talk customer data, emerges our very own Fatcatwoman, Dido, and

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after general Tory backslapping at our supremacy and with a pocket full of roast potatoes, I home without bidding adieu to anybody, being desirous to be playing Call of Duty: Agincourt, and after a cola bottle and fluff encrusted potato, bed.

(And many thanks to @sophieplowden for unearthing the polaroid image of these relatively unknown events!)