Riding back from Scotland with Ron Burgundy in the privy

When the ticket collector asked to see my ticket, I took the opportunity to ask what time my connection left Birmingham New Street. ‘Are you travelling onwards with the Vag?’ he said. ‘Excuse me?’ I said. ‘The Vag! Virgin!’ he said, irritated by my ignorance. I laughed at him. His expression remained official. He touched the screen on his portable machine and presented me with a card printed with the information. Then I went to the lavatory, one of those spacious ones with a curved door that slides back with a hiss at the touch of a button.

As I lifted the seat, a voice said, ‘This is Ron Burgundy speaking. Welcome to the train throne, or, as the Brits call it, the privy.’ I looked around in surprise, trying to locate the loudspeaker. ‘Don’t worry,’ continued Ron, ‘this is only my voice in here with you. Please do not try to flush nappies, sanitary towels, paper towels, minotaurs, velociraptors, junk mail or hopes and dreams down this toilet.’ When I’d finished, Ron shouted: ‘Hey, make sure you wash your hands, you filthy animal!’ I emerged with another pneumatic hiss of the door, amazed at the progress in our culture. Then I asked the prettiest solitary woman in the carriage if I was heading the right way for the buffet.

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The buffet was courteous and efficient self-service. A man decked out in ‘Vag’ livery was on hand to make tea and coffee. Profoundly bored, he was resting his chin in his cupped hands. ‘Coffee, please,’ I said. ‘How would you like it?’ he said. ‘Like my women,’ I said. He sighed. He’d heard it a million times. ‘Black and strong?’ he said. ‘About 50 quid a time,’ I said. Wearily, he raised himself up from his resting place and started sparring with the coffee machine.