Monday, 26 April 2010
Not My Cup of Tea (or Teabaggers are a Big Group of Illiterate Droolers Who Don't Have Two Hemispheres of Brain to Rub Together)
Despite initial appearances to the contrary, this is not really a blog about tea. Ah tea, that rich, deep, smoky brew you drink through whispered early morning curses because you forgot to buy coffee.
Being Irish-born, I'm very familiar with the joys of a nice cup of tea. I was brought up with the implicit understanding that an Irishman would forego anything rather than miss out on a drop of 'tay'. Real tea too. Bags were not allowed in our house. I'm pretty sure I was near full-grown before I had a cup of tea made from a teabag.
The first moments of nearly every childhood weekend were spent trying to avoid tea, or rather, my father's need for it to be the first moment of his weekend. Making my way from bedroom to the main part of the house meant a necessary journey past my parents' bedroom. If I moved too slowly, I'd be spotted. Too fast and I'd hit that pesky floorboard in the hall. Any awareness of my conscious presence would be met with my father's standard morning greeting, a half-asleep directive of 'Stick on the auld kettle there, Narm.'
Those days are long gone. My Dad now drinks his tea with the creator of the universe, where I presume he doesn't have to wait to catch someone tiptoeing past his paradisal chamber. As for me, I'm almost exclusively a coffee drinker. On the rare occasions I do drink tea, I (gasp!) take it black, or (horrors!) drink chamomile. The similarity between my namesake above and myself ends there. Except for our noses, maybe.
Right so... (Read on...)