So tourists are drinking wine from baby bottles now, and Hooters has arrived in the UK. Meanwhile, we’re drinking less tea and more italo-american style coffee, its bitter shots sweetened with steamed milk, sugar and syrup.

I think there are some dots to join here: are all the sweet, fatty things we love so much (chocolate, ice cream, Starbucks Caramelattes) actually replacements for titty milk?

We like to sit in padded armchairs while we drink. Warm, padded leather armchairs that get bigger and flubberier with each decade… to replicate the experience of being coddled on our mother’s lap as we suck. Mothers who get bigger and flubberier with each decade.

I love the idea that the customers of Coffee Republic and Caffe Nero are buying the milk-and-sugar, not the coffee; that the coffee itself is simply a cypher, a way of saying, “Hit me up with a breast-shaped cupful of titty milk,” while pretending to be a functional, independent adult.

And from the theoretical to the commercial: let’s drop the pretence that coffee-shop culture in its current incarnation is anything other than a titty-milk substitute, and introduce a chain of shops where customers lie, like piglets, against a bank of heated silicone breasts, nuzzling down that sweetened ultra-pap you never truly grow out of.

Oh, that reminds me of something else: formula milk may be addictive.

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