Poncy tea and the drive-by teabagging. 

There’s a bewildering array of teas in Tesco these days. I’d occasion to replace some weirdarse tea inadvertently consumed by the Dutch visitors last week which wasn’t actually mine for the consumption. Oops. So off to Tesco, sans carrier bag as usual, despite the million carrier bags assuming the stress position in the kitchen rummage drawer. (Kitchen rummage drawer – Contents: 

  • Bags for Life which never see the inside of a supermarket after their inaugural trip, but remain hopeful that one day they’ll be the proud bearers of Kettle Chips, Maltesers and bags of salad (salad purchased as a decoy in case the doctor catches me with the contraband Good Stuff up the aisles of the Big Tesco)
  • Leaky old batteries. No I don’t know either. 
  • Odd fridge magnets including magnetic Scrabble letters removed from the fridge after I got fed up seeing them rearranged to spell “cock” “tits” “arse” and so on and so forth by less salubrious visitors. 
  • Promotional pens including a Tenalady one which, every time I bring it out, taunts me with a vision of my incontinent future. 
  • Empty lighters, which make me FURIOUS AND STABBY when I really fancy a fag at the back door. 
  • Ventolin inhalers full of dust and crumbs which would kill me in an instant if I ever actually used one. (I know: smoking and asthma is foolish but so is insisting on buying only free range organic chicken then poking down a Gregg’s chicken bake without giving a toot about the provenance of the ersatz chicken contained therein so pipe down ya hypocrites) 
  • Odd tablets, liberated from their packaging, with which I sometimes play Russian Roulette on a Sunday if I’m feeling gloomy. What’s the worst that can happen? It might be a stray Aquaban tablet used to relieve pre-menstrual bloat which, worst case scenario, would make me pee all day. I’ve had worse days, pharmaceutically speaking)

Today’s metaphor for my life then is the kitchen rummage drawer: Full of shit that nobody wants, some of which might kill you? Hmm. 

Back to tea, and the bewildering array thereof: when did we get so poncy about tea? We’re mental! I like my tea like my men – sweet, strong and nowhere near my vagina – (I know I’ve used that line before in relation to coffee but it’s been a while since I said vagina in a blog (Rachael! Hannah! Mummy’s said vagina again! Publicly! Twice! Three times if you count that time!)). I don’t want tea that tastes of the dentist thanks. I want builder’s tea, with the teabag left in. 

In an interesting and bamboozling tea related story, Facebook friends will have noted the strange incident reported earlier – my back passage has been the victim of a drive-by teabagging. Some wankshaft (sorry for language) has lobbed teabags over my fence! Unused! It then rained and well basically made tea on my drive. Bewildering! I’ll be on the front page of the Dumfries Standard next week – pointing angrily at my teabagged drive, looking all jowly because they take these pictures from below to make you look menacing, the fuckers. 

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