My grandfather travelled every day, by train, from his home in Brighton
to his ministry in London. According to family lore, while his fellow
commuters were frivolously completing crosswords, Dids - as he was
affectionately known - acquired his seven extramural degrees from
London University. One thing is for certain, my grandfather's passion
for self-education knew no bounds. The son of a Fulham tram conductor,
he clawed his way up the greasy pole through a combination of dogged
hard work and an eidetic memory which meant he could scan a page text
and instantly commit it to memory. In his dotage he wrote a book
entitled The Divine Indwelling, which was an attempt to synthesise all
religions, with both science and existentialism. After I'd read a few
pages of the typescript my father asked me what I thought: "Dids
suffered for his education," I replied, "and now it's our turn."

I digress, of more interest than his philosophy was Dids's commute. He
claimed that in the interwar period, the Brighton Belle often had so
many coaches that as the engine coasted into Victoria the guard's van
was only just leaving the south coast. I didn't stop believing this
until I was about 35, and managed, through my own synthesis of science
and existentialism, to grasp the elementary laws of physics which had
hitherto evaded me. Nevertheless, Dids's imaginary train does point up
certain distinguishing characteristics of the rail journey as opposed
to any other. With its near-abolition of gradient, its smooth
acceleration and braking, and - most importantly - its capacious
interior, the modern train links disparate locations with an elongated
territory entirely its own.

This is why, when people say, "Ooh, I love travelling by train," what
they really mean is: "I like being on trains" - not that there is some
distinguishing characteristic of the train's means of covering distance
which particularly appeals to them. The truth is that hardly anyone
loves travelling by train - they infinitely prefer sitting in their
cars; which explains why soi-disant civilisation is rapidly
accelerating towards complete collapse and the reintroduction of the
handcart. The people who love being on trains are enchanted by this
tubular realm. They like the way they can get up, go to the toilet,
visit the buffet - in short, treat the fact that they are hurtling
through space with complete insouciance.

Sadly, modern trains lack the scenic cars, club cars, restaurant cars -
indeed any of the myriad cars which made the trains of yore so
exciting. From Queen Victoria's state train through to Churchill's
"secret" train HQ of the Second World War - the great age of the train
elevated form over function. This was, after all, an era when airship
gondolas were tricked out like the palm courts of Riviera hotels, and
flying boats featured tiled bathrooms. That the German surrender was
signed in a train carriage in 1918 (and that the very same carriage was
brought back from retirement as a restaurant, so that the French could
be humiliatingly forced to capitulate in it in 1939), is further
confirmation of how the train was once regarded as a place in its own
right.

I say "was once" with some sadness, for even though train lovers
continue to have a touching faith in train world, it's difficult to
imagine any contemporary armistice - no matter how transitory - being
concluded on a Virgin Pendolino. What is it with Richard Branson anyway
- what does he want? A Briton can now live out their entire life
consuming only Virgin products, drinking Virgin Vodka and Cola,
copulating wearing Virgin Condoms, supping on Virgin Quorn (I made that
one up), listening to Virgin Records, surfing on Virgin Net and
travelling on Virgin Airways. Is there no particle of our social fabric
not besmirched by this beardie weirdo? No Virgin Land?

Now comes the Pendolino - Branson's cheapskate version of the Train à
Grande Vitesse or the Bullet Train. Dumb idea Ricky, what with
rail-track construction and maintenance in this country being such a
debatable land. Worse still is the appearance of the thing; in
anticipation of travelling at over 150 mph, the designers have tricked
out its coaches like aircraft cabins - this is the train as hideously
extruded fuselage. In India trains are vibrant mobile cities, full of
hawkers, riven by caste and class, pullulating with life. In Russia
trains are wide and gloomy - with a samovar in every coach. Hell, even
in the USA the Amtrak tin boxes offer authentically crap hotdogs and
flaccid Budweisers. If trains are places in their own right then the
Pendolino is a jet permanently grounded at Stansted. Confronted with
this monstrosity, my poor grandfather wouldn't have been able to
reconcile anything at all - let alone get a degree in it.

My grandfather travelled every day, by train, from his home in Brighton
to his ministry in London. According to family lore, while his fellow
commuters were frivolously completing crosswords, Dids - as he was
affectionately known - acquired his seven extramural degrees from
London University. One thing is for certain, my grandfather's passion
for self-education knew no bounds. The son of a Fulham tram conductor,
he clawed his way up the greasy pole through a combination of dogged
hard work and an eidetic memory which meant he could scan a page text
and instantly commit it to memory. In his dotage he wrote a book
entitled The Divine Indwelling, which was an attempt to synthesise all
religions, with both science and existentialism. After I'd read a few
pages of the typescript my father asked me what I thought: "Dids
suffered for his education," I replied, "and now it's our turn."

I digress, of more interest than his philosophy was Dids's commute. He
claimed that in the interwar period, the Brighton Belle often had so
many coaches that as the engine coasted into Victoria the guard's van
was only just leaving the south coast. I didn't stop believing this
until I was about 35, and managed, through my own synthesis of science
and existentialism, to grasp the elementary laws of physics which had
hitherto evaded me. Nevertheless, Dids's imaginary train does point up
certain distinguishing characteristics of the rail journey as opposed
to any other. With its near-abolition of gradient, its smooth
acceleration and braking, and - most importantly - its capacious
interior, the modern train links disparate locations with an elongated
territory entirely its own.

This is why, when people say, "Ooh, I love travelling by train," what
they really mean is: "I like being on trains" - not that there is some
distinguishing characteristic of the train's means of covering distance
which particularly appeals to them. The truth is that hardly anyone
loves travelling by train - they infinitely prefer sitting in their
cars; which explains why soi-disant civilisation is rapidly
accelerating towards complete collapse and the reintroduction of the
handcart. The people who love being on trains are enchanted by this
tubular realm. They like the way they can get up, go to the toilet,
visit the buffet - in short, treat the fact that they are hurtling
through space with complete insouciance.
Sadly, modern trains lack the scenic cars, club cars, restaurant cars -
indeed any of the myriad cars which made the trains of yore so
exciting. From Queen Victoria's state train through to Churchill's
"secret" train HQ of the Second World War - the great age of the train
elevated form over function. This was, after all, an era when airship
gondolas were tricked out like the palm courts of Riviera hotels, and
flying boats featured tiled bathrooms. That the German surrender was
signed in a train carriage in 1918 (and that the very same carriage was
brought back from retirement as a restaurant, so that the French could
be humiliatingly forced to capitulate in it in 1939), is further
confirmation of how the train was once regarded as a place in its own
right.

I say "was once" with some sadness, for even though train lovers
continue to have a touching faith in train world, it's difficult to
imagine any contemporary armistice - no matter how transitory - being
concluded on a Virgin Pendolino. What is it with Richard Branson anyway
- what does he want? A Briton can now live out their entire life
consuming only Virgin products, drinking Virgin Vodka and Cola,
copulating wearing Virgin Condoms, supping on Virgin Quorn (I made that
one up), listening to Virgin Records, surfing on Virgin Net and
travelling on Virgin Airways. Is there no particle of our social fabric
not besmirched by this beardie weirdo? No Virgin Land?

Now comes the Pendolino - Branson's cheapskate version of the Train à
Grande Vitesse or the Bullet Train. Dumb idea Ricky, what with
rail-track construction and maintenance in this country being such a
debatable land. Worse still is the appearance of the thing; in
anticipation of travelling at over 150 mph, the designers have tricked
out its coaches like aircraft cabins - this is the train as hideously
extruded fuselage. In India trains are vibrant mobile cities, full of
hawkers, riven by caste and class, pullulating with life. In Russia
trains are wide and gloomy - with a samovar in every coach. Hell, even
in the USA the Amtrak tin boxes offer authentically crap hotdogs and
flaccid Budweisers. If trains are places in their own right then the
Pendolino is a jet permanently grounded at Stansted. Confronted with
this monstrosity, my poor grandfather wouldn't have been able to
reconcile anything at all - let alone get a degree in it.