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.