Could You Pass the Tea?

With great joy and with glee radiating through my heart and throughout my body, I recount my latest tale of adventure:  My visit to Mr Scruff's Teacup in Manchester's Northern Quarter.  I have been a fan of Mr Scruff for a long time.  As I write, I question whether that is true.  I have a couple of his records but they're nothing brilliant.  His club night has gone down hill too.  I'm getting older; his clientele are getting younger; many annoying people dancing to many annoying songs; the grumpy old man in me is revealed.

Joy, then, to know I can support his vast estate (they say he owns half of Lancashire) by purchasing one of his afternoon teas at Teacup.  They cost £13 (blink twice but do not imagine for a moment I have mistakenly introduced the incorrect figure) and consist of a cup of tea, a sandwich and a hundred cakes.  A hundred cakes is pure hyperbole but, still, Teacup is a one way ticket to diabetes; only the fortified pancreas survives.

Put simply, there is far too much cake and not enough tea.  Extra water is provided but not extra leaf.  A more apt name, then, would be Cake Stand or Vomit or Sugar Rush.

Brush this downbeat tone aside, though, for the cakes are delicious.  The chocolate cake, par exemple, is a velvety dream: rich in cocoa; dark like a moonless night; as dirty as a bitch on heat.  You'll beg for more.  The sandwiches are less exciting but are enough to fill a demanding man's senses with pleasurable tones.

That leaves us with the tea.  What better drink to make one's day?  A cup of tea is like sunshine in the morning; is like waking next to a beautiful woman; is like a hot bath after a long day's work; is like everything that makes you feel good about yourself; it's the greatest discovery of all time.  Any place that treasures this magical substance should be praised from the highest peaks.  Thus stand, Teacup, and take a bow; may you live forever.