Further to Mark’s vending machine catastrophe:
At my workplace we have a close cousin of the non-vending machine, in the form of a deceptively posh coffee dispenser. In goes the money clink-clink-clink-oh, it’s gone up again-clink. Press the button for ‘coffee,’ and the little flap thing elegantly servos open. Select coffee from baffling array of choice, taking care to avoid the hazelnut-laced obscenity that surely, any day now, will be impounded by the UN Chemical Weapons Inspectorate. Place chosen pouch of hopeful brew in flap thing, carefully position cup below nozzle… final checks, discretionary clearance from the tower, flaps closed… and we’re away.
Glugging. Pressure builds. Steam vents. Inside the flap thing a gentle tearing sound presages a thunderous rupture. Coffee sprays from the flap thing in a scalding torrent, the run-off trickling neatly down the side of the cup. The outside.
When the steam and smoke and grounds and terror dissipate, with luck, the cup contains a scant mouthful of oily richness. Which tastes of burnt sugar and… is that?… yes! A faint hint of hazelnut.
I’ll try again tomorrow.
Tales like this make me glad that I really can’t stand coffee (and milk is rarely found in vending machines).
I’ve used that coffee machine
But the tea is actually drinkable đŸ˜‰
Would that be Alan Partridge’s coffee maker of choice, the Flavia? At work, unfortunately, that is the best coffee available, so I actually climb up two floors for Flavia goodness.