Prisoner of first class

THERE IS no more loathsome part of travelling on the Great British railway system than occupying first class. That is, apart from the delays, surly staff, frequent demoralising changes, overcrowding and lack of facilities. Within this cesspool of disappointment there is a haven – of sorts – to be found in first class, but not for the reasons you might expect. To whit: on one occasion a young man passing through the 15 seat allotment set aside for first class passengers on a TransPennine Express service remarked, “A few tables and some chairs, what’s so first class about this?” and indeed how was he, going home to Manchester, to know that first class wasn’t a cross between the Orient Express and a pagan-Rome bathhouse? True, we all wish for a nymph-like courtesan to feed us fruit as we recline on an adjustable chaise longue brushing up on our Ernest Dowson but in reality no one invests in first class for luxury or comfort but rather for peaceful quiet isolation.

This is fairly easy to achieve on the larger Virgin trains but less so on the aforementioned TPEx where its afterthought of a first class compartment is constantly under siege from youths and drunks - both of whom usually flee like primitive life forms in the wake of the conductor (if and when he shambles along) but provide edgy distractions until that time. However, at peak times, when your regular commuter knows the score, it’s easy to feel like a 19th century aristocrat fearing for your neck as the huddled masses press up against the glass divides from their cramped standing compartments. The truth is that first class isn’t all that expensive but seems to be just expensive enough to keep 97% of people at bay and I can only assume that this is the product of stubborn British thrift. A stubbornness that takes gleeful delight in five words that leave me and other first class inhabitants stricken with terror: ‘first class has been declassified.’ When I hear these words statically transmitted over the intercom I develop an otherwise deeply-repressed involuntary facial tick which only increases as the packs of Geordie hen-partiers with their cava and footie lads with their Tennent’s lager waddle into their newfound seats.

All of this we endure for a stale biscuit or dry piece of fruitcake, a cup of putrid coffee and the faint hope that we might have that rare, perfect journey where we can doze over The Spectator for an hour or so. Perhaps our salvation lies in hiking up the prices so that armed silence-enforcement guards can be hired?