You’re all familiar with the wallet-gouging, tourist-fleecing disgrace that is afternoon tea in a number of London’s more storied hotels and department stores. Fifty quid a head for indigestion and seventy for heartburn, if you decide to throw in a sad, room temperature flute of own-brand Champagne. It’s not traditional, it’s a shameless clip joint routine, all white-gloves, golf club etiquette (blazers, anyone?) and meanness. Here at the Punch Room, we really feel that it should be allowed to fade into the twilight, along with the last episode of Downton Abbey. There’s no point complaining a...