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

May 23rd 1665

Up betimes, and for childcare reasons carried the boy Bridgen to Durham where I discoursed with Duke Cummings about a message template for members of the cabinet to regurgitate, that they may further

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socially distance themselves from their spines. To the Duke’s closett, where a little red bed of velvet is brought for him to lie on by a harem of Raabster, Sunak, Hancock and Gove and further business of failing to explain how our authority, predicated on morality

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rather than legality, can retain the merest morsel of honour now the yeomanry are become aware we breach the very standards we proclaim. Court newes and we hear used-car sales executive Grant Shapps at daily briefing delivering a timely speech on the Beeching Report,

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but Warden Dan Hodges on the BBC after, that his shoelicking start-up is a success, has too much leather and dog soil in his mouth, and makes sense out only now and then. But the Durham business is now put to bed, end of, and to see how hereabouts, Duke Cummings is extolled as
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a maverick without any cause at all is a wonderous sight and such open flattery gives me hope I may one day be lauded as this super-sporecaster. Afterwards to collect Bridgen and it pleasing me mightily to visit fruities at Scotch Corner and Ferrybridge Moto services,

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but at Peterborough Extra, a labourer locked down from seeing friends or family or wages or bills paid or the bottom of a pint glass for ten weeks and more, did swear at me for suffering his family to be indoors whilst the ruling class did as the fuck they wanted,

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and was so saucy as to call us all beblubbering poxmarked charlatans and did pour my can of Monster over my head. So, much embarrassed, did text Laura Kuenssberg to get her anonymous sources to say it hadn’t happened and she did ask if I knew

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that there had been a Second Cumming in Durham and I did reply that if he has discovered the secret to eternal life, like so much else, these things take forever to test. Home and after checking that our democracy was still cryogenically frozen next to the Crispy Pancakes, bed.