Many thanks to Matthew Corrigan who went out of his way, well all the way to London, to find out just how much he can gain by taking the train..

Right, I appreciate that in today’s climate-obsessed world this makes me some sort of dangerous heretic but I don’t care. I loathe public transport in all its forms. Here’s the latest series of reasons why.


As I write, I am supposed to be at an event in central London. I’m not. Yesterday, at about half four in the afternoon, I was aboard a (delayed) train en route for our fair capital when my phone reacquired its signal and I received a number of messages all at once. Increasingly panicky in tone, they essentially told me the event had been cancelled.

While I’m sure the fact that it was scheduled to take place the morning after the England football team had played a match in the World Cup Finals had no effect whatsoever, people were dropping out faster than a dodgy Firestick during a penalty shootout. Everyone was saying the same thing – the train companies were telling them not to travel.

Arriving at Euston twenty minutes later, I decided against spending a sweltering night in a Premier Inn and opted to head straight home. The departures board was a sea of red as more and more services were cancelled because it was summer. Then I spotted a chance. The (delayed) 17:33 was about to board.

Despite my hatred of railways, I will confess I find a certain romance in large terminus stations, so many people on the move, journeys ending, journeys beginning. I don’t know, I’ve probably seen too many black and white films featuring majestic locomotives and opulent Pullman carriages. I just like them.

But not Euston. Euston is a dump. For those unfamiliar, departures are listed on a series of giant screens above the scruffy, smelly concourse. It operates in a similar fashion to the flight information displays at airports where the gate – or in this instance, platform – is announced just before boarding starts. Of course, at the airport, one simply finishes one’s drink and meanders along to the aircraft where one takes one’s appointed seat. However, trains are a free for all. Upon the platform being confirmed, passengers without a reservation have to be ready to start like Usain Bolt. Unfortunately, sprinting is not recommended. Running on the station risks attracting the unwanted attention of an angry BTP copper who will be watching you very closely along the barrel of an MCX. So everyone does a kind of high speed shuffle to the ramp, desperately hoping they can find a seat.

The announcement came and I was off down the ramp. I made it, stowed my luggage and flopped down. The trick then is to ensure nobody sits next to you, so I smiled pleasantly at everyone passing along the aisle, which in London marks you out as a lunatic. It worked. The doors closed and I allowed myself to relax. Then we sat there for a while. Then we sat there a bit longer. Then a harassed sounding train captain (or whatever they are called now) announced the train’s steps (me neither) were broken and we needed to wait for some technicians.

Some time later, the technicians arrived and battered the bastard thing into submission with a hammer. Success – we were ready to go. Half an hour later than its (revised) departure time, our majestic locomotive limped reluctantly away from its resting place alongside the greasy platform. We were on our way.

Euston receding, we emerged into the light and almost immediately the captain was back. The intercom was only working sporadically but it was just possible to discern that a fault with the air conditioning meant two of the carriages were likely to become very hot. People were asked to move along the train. I fixed my smile firmly back on my face.

A short while later, I think we were somewhere in Hertfordshire, it was announced that the cate..ng .ar was now .pen with food and …nks available for the journey. Probably fifteen minutes later – I don’t think we were out of the county – the catering car overheated and had to close. The captain announced he would try to restart the air conditioning but added he didn’t think it would work – no Eric Moody, this one. He was, however, right.

We rolled on through the heat. When an airliner begins its descent, there is a moment where the pilot winds back the power and an unusual quiet fills the cabin. It’s a sign that the flight is almost over. Just outside Rugby, a similar thing happened. I found the experience a little disconcerting, given that we were on a train.

Eventually, at a rather reduced pace, we reached Stafford. The captain addressed us again. “Two of the doors in carriages G and E have jammed shut on the right hand side of the train looking at Stafford,” he said. Again, me neither.
I have no idea what happened to the travellers who wished to alight there.

About four years later, the train made it to my station and I managed to persuade the door to open. It was all I could do not to kiss the ground. I suppose we should really give Avanti West Coast and all the others a chance to deal with these teething problems. After all, rail technology is only two hundred years old.

Next time I’ll just bloody drive.https://www.freecarmag.com/peugeot-205-gti-by-matthew-corrigan