My Tea Soliloquy

Like any good Englishman, I love a good cup of tea. In fact the patriot in me dictates that should I love a bad one too; for it is the concept of tea, not just it’s execution, that bring me such happiness. I love the way the boiling hot water slowly soups into that gorgeous hue of pitch brown while it quickly fills the cup, with the clouds of delicious brew that rise from their papery prison celebrating new-found freedom by bounding joyfully to every edge of the cup.

Like almost every uniquely British triumph (curry, the ingredients for Christmas pudding, democracy, Gianfranco Zola) you came from somewhere else, only for the nation to clasp you to its busom and declare you a national treasure. When the pasty white european milk enters and mixes in perfectly with the dark exotic leaves you are a symbol of racial tolerance – or the pillaging of Africa and India by the British Empire, whatever – in a  world full of hate and when you address my taste buds in that way you do, the combination of oral masturbation and dunky biscuit mastication brings me unadulterated joy, whether it’s a morning kick-start with toast and Marmite or an evening wind down cuppa. You’re as essential as a bacon sandwiches, fish and chips and chunky roast potatoes but you won’t make me obese like them, and it’s obvious that you piss all over fucking coffee, whether it’s that instant-mix mud or fiddly faffy poncy toss that the mediterranean caffein addicts gulp down four times a day. Like all great things you are an essentially simple beast, with layers of complexity hidden within.

You could call this a eulogy, but you’d be wrong, because tea is not dead. Nor will it ever die, not while there is an Englishman like me out here to drink you.

And just so you know, we’re talking about proper tea here. You know, tea that tastes like tea, and that has milk added to it. Not Earl Gray, which should be renamed Earl Barrett such is its shitness, or those horrible herbal piss waters that besmirch the name and very notion of tea. Understood? Great. Now you can join me in prayer, Lord of the Dance style;

Tea, tea, wherever I drink thee,

You remind me of my home country,

You’ve a milky brown face,

And you’re nothing less than brill

In fact you’re completely fucking skill

*slurp*

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