Pretty bad. How about the 100 teabags which the food service company supplied for free in a little shrink-wrap cardboard box ten years ago when they sold the cafe their espresso maker? Open to the greasy smells of the griddle for nine years ever since their first customer ordered hot tea. There are 23 bags left.
How about Samuel Beckett's tea:
She was holding out to me, on an odd saucer, a mug full of a greyish concoction which must have been green tea with saccarine and powdered milk. Nor was that all, for between mug and saucer a thick slab of dry bread was precariously lodged, so that I began to say, in a kind of anguish, It's going to fall, it's going to fall,...as if it mattered whether it fell or not. -Samuel Beckett, Molloy Or Dylan Thomas' tea:
Here's your arsenic dear. And your weed-killer biscuit. I've throttled your parakeet. I've spat in the vases. I've put cheese in the mouseholes. Here's your....nice tea, dear.
-Dylan Thomas
Patrick O'Brian (I think), the author of the endless series of Horatio Hornblower glosses, had a good line where the Doctor was taking tea at "an American lady's" (the worst offenders, it seems). He recalled the time he was stranded on a Pacific atoll whose surface was covered with guano. There was water, but only in warm puddles stagnating in hollows of this quano. Her tea was better than that, but not much.
Tea can be bad.
Rick.