I was having an idle read the other day, catching up on all the news of earth-shattering importance such as whether Jessica Simpson is single (well a bloke can dream) or how well Dickko is keeping his weight off. That was when I stumbled on a rather startling piece of news.
Do you know what the world’s most expensive coffee is? It costs roughly $1,500 per kilo. And the Poms will pay fifty pounds for a single cup.
Just what is that marvellous brew? Ready? Drum roll please.
It is made from civet poop.
The civet is a member of the cat family, found in parts of Africa. And somebody decided it would be good to make coffee from their pooh.
I mean, like, what makes someone decide to go trying to make refreshing beverages from animal crap? I can imagine the taste-testers now.
“Elephant droppings – a bit coarse. Giraffe – a little bland. Wildebeest – yearch. Civet – yes – we’re on a winner here!”
It’s cat pooh, people, cat pooh! They are drinking coffee made from cat pooh. Heck, if the Poms are silly enough to pay fifty quid for a cup of cat pooh, I am going to start bagging my own up and export it. Have a Helping of Hammo’s! Raise a Cup of Rant’s Finest!
Spare a thought for the poor sods that have to go out and collect it.
Consider the scene. In deepest, darkest Africa, Mrs OvamboWuckUck is searching through her pantry. Blast, the coffee canister is empty.
“We’re out of coffee again,” she screeches to the long-suffering Mr OvamboWuckUck. He sighs, and other elderly beasts left over from old Johnny Weismuller films (oh alright, those particular animals would be long dead by now, but it’s my story so sod off). At last he spies a civet cat. Even better, it looks like it is poop-ready. What? No, I’m not going to tell you the secret to knowing if a cat is poop-ready.
He pounces. For some reason the civet cat does not particularly like a dirty great big human jumping on top of it and it starts fighting back. Claws raking. Sharp teeth tearing. All the while, Mr OvamboWuckUck bravely battles on, blood running from the deep gash in his arm, one ear hanging by only a small sliver of flesh, the bitten-off tip of a finger now deep inside the civet’s digestive tract. But most important of all, he keeps the civet’s bum pointed over the opening to the waiting civet-pooh-collection-bag.
At last the battle and the wait are over. The animal shudders and squeersh – the deed is done. Mr OvamboWuckUck lets the civet go and it heads for the hills.
Our brave warrior tucks the bag with its valuable cargo under an arm, and makes the long trek back home. Back past the elderly animals who are still out of breath from their last encounter. Back down the cliffs. Splash through the rivers again. Hack another path through the jungle. Then finally, home, to the waiting Mrs OvamboWuckUck who has had her feet up, catching up on Kim Kardashian gossip.
Of course we wouldn’t have to go through all that in Australia. I hear that Woolies is talking of stocking its own range of fresh civet coffee. Forget battery hens, we’ll have battery civet cats, their bums suspended in the air for waiting shoppers to collect the fresh product.
It is coffee made from cat pooh, people. Cat pooh!