Yes, Britain’s railways are a mess. But is anyone sober enough to care? | Zoe Williams

On Saturday I went to Liverpool with my youngest, and the overhead lines went down at Crewe, but also there were crew shortages across the land, so between the homophones and my lifelong inability to start listening to a train announcement until halfway through, I cannot tell you at what point this journey became a five-train, four-hour odyssey. All I know is what’s happening on every train, in every part of the country. The 7.48am is a calm and ordered cohort of people who think they know where they’re going and will be there soon. And from 9.04am onwards, everyone’s drunk, all the way to everywhere.

Between Rugby and Birmingham New Street, there was an incredibly festive crowd going to the Horse of the Year show, squishing real fruit into cans of Pimm’s, because it was breakfast time, and also because it was funny. But what were the horses going to make of all this? Because they’re quite short on appreciation for ludic pranking, and famously easy to frighten.

Between Birmingham New Street and Wolverhampton, there was a 40th birthday party with a load of mini-bottles of prosecco, and they were extremely charming and well signposted in some ways (for instance, how did I know it was a 40th? Because of the massive flashing deely-boppers saying “40”), but I still had so many questions. Why buy 15 tiny bottles, when you could get four regular bottles for a fraction of the price, and they would have exactly the same effect? What earthly state are you going to be in when you get there? Is there somewhere you could have a little snooze before your next appointment? Maybe things are different when you’re 40, but I dimly remember it, and it’s not that different.

Between Wolverhampton and Stafford, it’s only 13 minutes, so I was mainly awed by how many people could even be bothered to open a can of Stella. Stafford to Liverpool was a stag do, and it was brunch o’clock by now, so running up and down the carriage, yelling “Ay ay ay” in a fake scouse accent, dressed in a Brazilian flag, all fell under the umbrella “having a normal one”.

I abhor British exceptionalism, except on this one subject: exceptionally bad train network; exceptionally fun trains. Would recommend.

Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist

The Guardian’s year in review 2026

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