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

May 29th

Up betimes, and to the setting of tracksuits in my new closett, done thoroughly, to my exceeding joy followed by parkour with Matt Hancock. Gathering his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles satchel after,

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we discoursed on his backtrack and trace app, launched early to remove Duke Cummings from the news agenda (and a mere three months after we stopped contact tracing for no reason), but poor Dr Hancock is most vexed that the Durham Constables, in reminding us Duke Cummings did

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break his own rules, do return him to the top of it. I did offer a Dorito and spake that just because he hath made as numerous bad decrees in Chancery as any man, it is not as if lives are at stake, and he was cheered to hear I would clap twice as hard for the NHS tonight.

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To Court, where it is rumoured that since Johnson is unable to function without him, Cummings is smackiavellian, and our leader is adamant he will ne’er live to see his advisor pissed upon nor any decree of his reversed, and as questions come from the galleries Johnson is

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become the most observable embezzler that ever was known, defying answers and denying truth, which is great solace for I fought bravely during the Brextoration (peeling countless potatoes at Naseby among others) to retrieve our sovereignty from unaccountable European elites,

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and so deliver it unto the hands of our unaccountable British ones. Being come home, after forty minutes of patriotic clapping in my carport, fifty of playing the Last Post on my kazoo, and sixty of McFlurry related hiccups, I am musing that populations on both sides of the

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Atlantic are denigrated by men bereaving the state of that integrity which should become’t, that they are pleased with the vanity and liberty of office yet not its responsibility. And if we are to talk of naught but war and flags, this is as it should be. Snickers. Bed.