Thread by @MarkFrancois12

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

24th June 1665

Up pretty betimes and after sports nutrition porkpie, to Clacton Sunlit Uplands Enterprise Park for the inaugural All Party Patriotic Sports Day where a handsome picture: Saj led power-stance warm-up,

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socially distanced queuing for Dominic Raab’s steroid injections, and Captain Gove in very fyne short shorts giving an MMA demonstration to members of the FCO on a boxing bag with Rory Stewart’s face on. Pre-event Ginsters with Matt Hancock in full PPE PE kit, and

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among other things he tells me that everybody in Labour is begun to lie flat down at the coming by of Starmer, and nobody to look upon him upon pain of death and how he seldom goes out without thirty or forty thousand donkeys. Anon, Gavin Williamson’s lute is playing the

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Benny Hill theme for John Major’s cheerleading troupe The Majorettes, and the day’s first contest of Statue Unseating is begun. Brayve toppling of four Mandelas and a Pankhurst by the dependable Jenrick sees an early Tory lead and there follows Greco-Roman wrestling

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betwixt Lord Falconer and Nicholas Soames but with lubrication at a premium it is soon become tedious and interest is turning to the 400m Sabre Rattling where Starmer is disqualified for kneeling on the start line, so victory for our Talisman Raab who is swinging his

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blade so fulsomely that Ed Milliband takes refuge behind a bacon butty van; to the Triple-Lock Jump where Long-Hop Bailey out-leaps Andrea Leadshoes, disadvantaged in no small degree by having tied her own laces together, and with David Lammy schooling Norman Tebbit in the

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pedal-swans around Mersea Island, we find the Weasel & Stoat drawn Trap Racing between Michael Gove and Emily Thornberry is become pivotal; alas, hampered by the compressed nature of his shorts, reputed weasel whisperer Gove loses control of his stoats and crashes into a

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windmill on the krazy-golf course handing victory to self-proclaimed Erminator Emily Thornberry, a matter of no small vexation to all patriots present, and that nobody on the Labour benches is assenting to a winner takes all press-up competition with Francois, our sport is

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ended with assembled Tories begun to cry they never heard of any thing so bad as this defeat, and with furious discourse of several businesses to do with an egg and spoon discrepancy from a psychotic Grant Shapps I am made to scream ‘We lost. Get over it.’ Thence I am

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home, committing this evening the late expedition of a patriotic sports day in print, and I am hoping the narrative of it is a great thing, and making an end of the day with “Under Siege 3” which when all is done is the best play that ever I saw in my life, Kit Kat Chunky, bed.