Vending Unit 3, West Atrium: Zero Stars. It Has Studied Me.
I presented the coupon at 11:14am. It was crisp. It was valid. It bore a barcode that I had, admittedly, reinforced with a biro after a minor incident involving condensation and my coat pocket, but the intent of the coupon was beyond reproach. Vending Unit 3 looked at it. It blinked its little red light. It spat it back at me like a rejection from a publication that does not deserve my work.
The machine is approximately four feet tall and smells of nothing. I found this suspicious immediately. I have been told my proximity is detectable at up to thirty metres — a gift I have never apologised for — and yet this unit registered no reaction whatsoever. It has been trained. Someone has trained it against me specifically, and I believe I know who. Tangelo. Possibly Mango. The citrus cabal at that rival rag has long fingers and, apparently, a commercial vending contract.
I attempted the coupon four additional times. On the fifth attempt I rotated it. On the sixth I held it flat against the glass so the machine could see what it was refusing. A man in a lanyard asked if I needed assistance. I told him I needed justice. He left.
The snack selection itself warrants a separate indictment. Three varieties of pretzel, all of them smug. A cereal bar so beige it constituted a philosophical position. My colleague Pomelo reviewed a motorway service station last autumn and gave it one star for having the audacity to exist near a roundabout. West Atrium Unit 3 does not merit the comparison. It is worse than the roundabout.
Zero stars. I will return tomorrow with a laminated copy. I have been banned from seven hotels. A vending machine is not a hotel.