I was given some free coffee so I bought a cafetiere to brew it up and enjoy the fresh taste of morning brown. The coffee was strong and rich so my taste buds, what little I had left, were in a joyful mood. Reuben tried some and instantly dismissed it. Now whenever he sees the cafetiere in the cupboard he refers to it as “middle class bullshit.”
There is a time for instant coffee and there’s a time to whip out the cafetiere. There’s also a time when you need to take a 600 million pound bag of tea and brew up some dirty black tea for you to enjoy, possibly whilst rocking back and forth in the corner of the room, but thankfully I haven’t quite reached that point yet.
Whilst musing on the wonders of life I came up with this playful little ditty. You can sing it or you can recite it like a spoken word poem:
Cafetiere, cafetiere,
Long of taste and long of flair.
Cafetiere, your juice is fair,
Pour some for your closest frere.
Pour some for Jim, Danny or Claire.
Hint of peach or hint of pear,
Think there’s nothing going on in there?
Au contraire, my cafetiere,
The savoir faire of cafetiere,
The savoir vivre of cafetiere.
Yeah you’re right, I made it up on the spot and that’s what makes life so great. Next time you’re brewing some coffee perhaps you’ll come up with your own song.
12 comments on “Cafetiere”
I fully support this. If it’s middle class bullshit to drink coffee that doesn’t taste like crap then I’m all about the middle class bullshit.
To fully transition to middle class bullshitter, please note the grave accent over the middle ‘e’ of ‘cafetière’.
I like ‘cafetiere’ because you can say it like a posho or as a commoner and it still sounds like the fanciest word in Christendom.
I’ve always thought “saloon bar” sounds very posh no matter how you say it. Why just go to the pub when you can enjoy a tipple in the saloon bar?
That’s tres posh. There aren’t many saloon bars where I live. If you accidentally type Sloonbar that sounds trashy.
I bet there aren’t. I bet it’s all crack dens and shady shoe shine parlours. Filth.
It’s true, it’s true, it’s all true. I spend my weekends getting my loafers buffed to sheen by a contingency of feckless goons. They call me by my name when I walk through the door, it’s embarrassing.
I bet that, between all the shoe shining and the crack tumbling out of every other doorway, your weekends are an absolute write off. And here was me thinking that life in Newcastle was all wholesome time spent diverting small watercourses.
That’s a cover story for all the debaucherous shenanigans. Pure filth that’s our game.
Disgusting. Thank god I’m down here in the virtuous south, singing hymns and banging tambourines.
Is that what that noise is? Can you cut it out? I’m trying to open a box of fishfingers here.
Also, get a job hippy!
Fishfingers? In Newcastle? Crackfingers more like. Breaded fingers of crack that can be cooked in the oven. You people are unbelievable.
If you can’t mix you appreciate for drugs with breaded morsels of delight then I’m not sure what CAN you do in this crazy, topsy-turvy modern world.