NEARLY choked on my afternoon cuppa. Spluttered and dribbled before disaster was eventually averted. Yorkshire’s finest it was, too. You know, the brew that guy with the accent as broad as the Dales is forever chuntering on about. Seems that the much adored novelist and regular tea drinker Jane Austen (pictured) has fallen foul of those determined to obliterate Britain’s past; those sad souls who wish to leave not a trace of history before the start of the current century. Her “crime” is a double-whammy of having enjoyed a regular brew and also dressing in clothes made of cotton, a… Continue reading

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