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

April 6th

Up, and as grim news doth grow that the plague having a great increase this last week beyond all expectation, to my cellar to check my petriot dishes wherein I have been at work on a vaccine.

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Grayte astonishment that these miniature dishes of Monster, Dairylea and my own kidney stones be teeming with lyfe, and after fetching the glass with which I endeavour to see the moon and Lady Liz Truss’s house, did discover a civilisation of tens of thousands

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of minuscule souls, organised and thriving in an E number metropolis. But, Lord! to see such wonder there, with much excitement I did fetch my longer glass and standing some way above the table on a stack of What Car? magazines looked nearer and did

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marvel at the intrepidity of these diminutive mortals, and that they were evolving at an extraordinary rate. This most absorbing sight did take a decidedly odd turn whence observing my eye in the sky, they by and by began the erection of statues and temples in my likeness,

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quite understandably believing me a God. As on other occasions when this has happened, usually with woman, the competing parties waged war. On one side 300 warriors in tunics, sandals and led by a man in rimless bifocals very much like Steve Baker, defended all that was

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good and right in the microbial realm. The other, a polyglottal hoard in suave suits, armed to its annoyingly good teeth with red tape, straight bananas, and a single currency. A battle most ferocious therein was fought at a narrow pass just outside
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a Thermopylae Retail Park (Prezzo, Toby Carvery, no TGIs). The bacterial Spartans fought tremendously; their heroism matched in stature only by the scale of the odds against them. Alas, they were betrayed by turncoats named Soubry and Stewart who by revoking a particle 50

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rendered the Sportans outflanked. My Zeus-like eyes began leaking water, that these pathogenic patriots should be defeated by a public-transport venerating virus. But Lord God bless me! in an instant all was right again. A heroic and ferocious looking TA catering officer

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in Royal Anglian Regimental tie, flew a pollen sized Spitfire out of an industrial unit in what appeared to be their Chingford, and strafed the croissant munching illiputians into the middle of 1940, a most unlikely victory was assured.

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And thus, having self-isolated from all their economic neighbours, sovereignty was returned and I spent a most pleasant day sypping Monster and watching them build endless housing estates, motorway networks, and immigration controls appearing to run on
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Australian style points based immigration system lines.
It was as perfect a kingdom and as close to Basildon as anything I have seen. Perhaps better. Yet I must report with heart heavy, that with formidable alacrity, my mayde Hartley Brewer whipped the dishes from under

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my glass, and tipped them in the sink speaking vexedly ‘Mark, these are the plates I microwave your fishfingers on’.
And most melancholy with the not knowing if I’d cured Covid 19 or nay, I logged onto X-Box to play my young friend Todd at Call of Duty.
Callipo. Bed.

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