Samuel Pepys gets bang'd up
I expect you'd like to know how my old chum Samuel Pepys, playboy and diarist of this parish is getting on. The good news is that he's escaped from a life of naval bummery, but he finds himself in even deeper trouble.
11th September 1660: Office Day. Up all night party'ng hard with myne goodly friend Newton, and it be'ng a shame to go to bedde, I find myself back at my desk in White Hall at five bells of the morning. Alas, two jugs of rum and three sixpenny-ha'penny slatterns taking their toll, I find it hard to focus on my papers. Also, I believe the doner from Mr Dibbler's hand-cart might have been a grave error of judgement.
It giveth me some great pleasure at this time to take advantage of my solitude to let rip of the foul'st of windes. Alas, I hear not the noise behind me, as I have the misfortune to draw mudde, for it is HIS MAJESTY THE KING, hav'ng himself avail'd of sixpenny-ha'penny slatterns and Mr Dibbler's kebab, be'ng unable to sleep, and dropp'd in on MY LORD DOWNING for the Naval Estimates and the borrow of the lat'st Fiesta woodcuttes.
"Guards!" he roars, "Clap this vagabond in irons and feed him to the virgins!" And so to bed, in the White Tower
12th September 1660: Upbetimes to find myself still incarcerat'd in THE TOWER, after committing the ignoble crime of laying a turde on our LORD SOVEREIGN'S second best carpet slippers. My jailer, whose accent I cannot quite place, tells me I am to spend several weeks in "Ze Cooler", while HIS MAJESTY'S temper cools. With some great fortune, I am incarcerat'd with another soul, of whom I have great hopes to strike up a prison friendship. He moves closer to me and utters the dreadful wordes: "Watch as your hopes are crushed like biscuits in a fat man's bed"
13th September 1660: Lord's Day. My ordeal at the handes (and other manlier parts) of Mad Brenda O'Toole came to an end at dawn, where he is dragg'd from our cell to have his head remov'd from the rest of his body, and his genitals preserved in a fifty-gallon bell-jar as a scientific curiosity. I shall miss him greatly.
14th September 1660: Today brings great hopes for my release. Myne best friend Newton is to petition our LORD SOVEREIGN KING CHARLES for my release, and is confident of success, hav'ng all the slatterns in London pay a subscription to buy HIS MAJESTY a fine new pair of carpet slippers. At length, a familiar face appears at the grating, and the door is flung open to reveal Newton himself. Alas, an unseen hand propels him into my cell and the door is lock'd behind him, for he too, hav'ng stopp'd for a tot of rum and one of Mr Dibbler's fine kebabs for Dutch Courage, contriv'd to shit in HIS MAJESTY'S ceremonial wigge. If there is any consolation, I have baggsied ye top bunk, so there will be no brown-hattery this night
15th September 1660: News reaches our cell that a special sitting of Parliament has been call'd at THE KING'S behest to declare the laying a cable on GOD'S chosen ROYAL MAJESTY to be a capital crime, backdated to last Friday. Afear'd, I shitte myself, and my gaoler kindly offers to send my soil'd breeches to Hampton Court to amuse the Royal Court.
16th September 1660: At last, my charm'ng wife Mrs Pepys is able to pay us a visit in our hour of direst need. She apologises for her tardiness, hav'ng been tied up at a bukkake study retreat for these last five days. How impress'd am I at her relentless learning of these ancient oriental arts. If only the other wives of London were like her, for she is a true gem. She tells me that she has hatch'd a plan to distract the gaoler to affect escapes for both myself and Newton. We are to be ready at a moment's notice. How I love that woman.
17th-23rd September 1660: This escape plan seems more complicat'd than I realis'd. I must be patient, but the sight of ye Royal Axeman practic'ng on life-sized models of myne goode self is somewhat unnerv'ng, particularly when he takes aim at myne private parts screaming something about "a case of the crabs"
24th September 1660: Up betimes, to find myne glorious, yet exhaust'd wife stand'ng over me, a pardon from HIS MAJESTY in her hands. She apologises profusely, for the gaoler took some persuad'ng, as did much of his staff, all the other prisoners, the Royal Axeman (twice) and much of the staff and courtiers at Hampton Court. And she asks for nothing in return, except a large, soft cushion. How terrible it must be to suffer piles "like an axeman's shaft", whatever that means. And so to bed.