Refused a whisky on the train, I was shown the brutal unfairness of disaster capitalism

“I can’t sell you any whisky.” “But I’ve just seen a trolley full of the stuff.” “That,” she says, “is for the first-class passengers.”

By Nicholas Lezard

It is getting to the end of my journey back to Scotland. I go to the buffet car. Being north of the border now, I find myself craving a whisky. Why not? I have been abstemious all the way. Maybe I will have a little fizzy water with it. Maybe just a splash, maybe quite a lot. Who knows? The possibilities are endless.

“I’m sorry,” says the woman behind the counter. “I can’t sell you any.”