It’s National Tea Day, which is apparently a very vicious and vicious day, not slightest since we have to disagree about which biscuit is the ideal match to go with your brew.
Let’s not go on about just how vicious tea is to the British identity.
It’s like bowler hats in a way – nobody wears them (except ostentatious American Will.i.am) and everybody drinks coffee but it will still, forever, be a British thing.
Tea seems to be at risk of apropos cold and niche now, which is a bit of a shame, not slightest since coffee is awful and smells like a broken heart on a barbecue.
Anyway, let’s get to the vicious stuff. It’s time to arrange teas. Prepare to fight me.
Have you ever been distant from home, in a hotel room with liner-less fate and a drizzling daub and controversial stains on the coverlet?
Then you think, maybe making a tea with the hilariously tiny kettle competence remind you of your Nan – it’s the arrange of thing she’d do – and help you feel better.
Well good fitness with that, since conspicuous tea will fundamentally be Lipton, dampner of spirits, mocker of ambience buds, crusher of holiday dreams.
It is worse than tea, it delivers the guarantee of tea only to separate in your somewhat sad, homesick face with its clearly un-tealike taste.
If there was a place next the finish of the finish of a list it would be there but there isn’t so it’s here.
Go divided and splash a fruit tea and consider about what you’ve done.
Yes! That’s right! They really do still make this!
Doesn’t like to acknowledge it enjoys being dipped in prohibited water on a unchanging basis.
No, no, it cries, demeanour at me, we have a stately warrant, see, her sovereignty Queen Elizabeth II herself has allocated me to her house.
I’m not like those other teas. It’s conspicuous bouquet.
The tea of unsatisfactory tea shops with strict doilies and grated cheese and onion sandwiches on white bread, of stale, underwhelming tea cakes ‘for a treat,’ of cover in the window mirror grouting, of tiny passed flies on the sill.
It’s still very much tea though, so will do in a flask on a manager outing to The Deep at a push.
The good man of the tea universe who your Mum thinks you should substantially marry but who you’ll never marry since honestly he’s too f***ing boring for words.
A Waitrose shop tea, a Labrador Retriever tea, a immature welly and headscarf tea.
In short, not utterly an bland tea, despite its claim.
I don’t know about you, but the categorical reason we splash tea is to solid my nerves.
Steadying the nerves is a third of the indicate of tea (the others apparently being ‘having something to comfortable your hands with while examination Loose Women’ and ‘having an forgive to leave the room when your uncle starts having the same evidence with your hermit at Christmas’).
Anyway, for decent nerve-steadying you don’t wish bags that cost £1 any or fancy-schmantzy brands.
You wish own code tea – hot, strong, with 3 sugars.
This is the best tea.
My deepest sympathies if you are so untaught in the celebration of customary renouned British teas that you incorrectly trust any other to be superior.