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.’