Welcome all to ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐น๐น๐โ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly – an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐๐๐ฌ ๐ผ๐ง๐ฉ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ฅ๐ค๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ playlists.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ซ๐๐จ – ๐๐ฉ๐๐ซ๐ ๐๐๐๐ช๐ก๐ฉ๐๐๐๐จ
Charles sits down with a nice cuppa, and attempts to tell your fortune.
I drink one cup of coffee a day. I say โdrinkโ, but it is more like a ritual. In fact, it is the closest I come to religion. I will never have more than one cup, but I would certainly not even try to attempt a dayโs life without that one. Call it habit, routine, addiction, compulsion, itโs just what I do, and it does no harm. Tea however, is a completely different kettle of water. It is something that I enjoy several times a week, with not a hint of schedule. It rarely ever occurs to me but is suggested as an option by my girlfriend, and I usually take her up on the idea. Tea is a great comfort. A simple pleasure. A pastime and an English institution. So why not! And so go the leaves into the shiny sprung infuser, or actually this time loosely tossed into the floral teapot. There are always far more saucers in the cupboard than cups – this is just how it is. Perhaps saucers are more resilient than the elegant slender handle of the receptacle. The teapot is to be filled with boiling water. It must be ferociously bubbling. I wait at least 4 minutes for the brew to brew, pour, et voilร . Actually, I dunk a teabag in a mug for less than a minute, slug in a spoon of brown sugar – yes, brown – and slosh in some milk for completion. But letโs just pretend weโre civilised, for now.
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