RIP Jon Fletcher

By the late Jon Fletcher

My name was Jon Fletcher. I owned a large farm in the middle of England, called Many Branch, where I kept poultry. My family owned the farm for 120 years. My great-grandad was drafted into the Army as he was settling in and ended up in South Africa fighting the mighty Boers.

We Fletchers have always done our duty by King and country and paid our taxes.

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When the National Housing Order came a week ago, I did what the government suggested.

Keep your chickens under cover

Tom Jefferson and Carl Heneghan · Nov 7

The UK’s Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) just published a press release to declare a National Housing Order:

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I got all my 5000 hens under cover and spent long hours scrubbing the battery with the help of my two farm hands. We wore protective clothing and disinfected everything with bleach, which stank to high heaven. We even moved the manure pile to the back of the stables, just like the boffins told us to.

All this exercise tired me out. As each day went past, I was getting more and more achy in my joints. I was 76, so I suppose that is not surprising. On the last afternoon of my life, I was scrubbing the walls when I felt a terrible pain in my chest, and my left arm went kind of numb. The pain took my breath away, and I stumbled and fell. The last thing I remember is the concrete floor on my face. Then nothing, until I found myself watching from above.

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I heard the sirens, saw the police and the ambulance; people dressed up to look like NASA astronauts, waving what looked like syringes in the air. One particular chap was very excited (or was it a she? I could not tell because of the NASA suit), gesticulating and pointing to Fergie, my prize hen. They removed me after trying a few things on me and pronounced me dead. So there you have it: I am dead.

But I can watch the happenings in Many Branch from above. Although I feel totally detached, a strange, floating sensation.

Now they have barriers up and cars everywhere. No trespassing signs and “keep away, restricted area” banners.

My chickens have all joined me up here as they were deemed dangerous. Our vet, Tammy, came, and she was telling my family where to go and what to do, and to take some white and yellow pills and wear masks.

They did tests on what was left of me. They took these strange-looking swabs from inside my nose and mouth and from my clothes. Apparently, they tested positive for avian flu. So they said that’s what I died of - the bird flu

I am not a doctor, but the terrible pressing pain in my chest is what did it. Perhaps that’s avian flu.

Anyway, I have to leave you now, I’m off to see Fergie.

This post was written by a deceased bird farmer. It was dictated during a seance on the 6th of November 2025. The media were a zombie modeller and a Scare Agency plod.