In a move that has shattered the scepticism of a nation wearied by buffering circles and the existential dread of a dead zone at Crewe, the government has today pledged to bestow upon hundreds of trains the holy grail of modern rail travel: dependable WiFi. Yes, you read that correctly. Dependable. On a train. In Britain.
Let us pause for a moment to savour the sheer lunacy of this proposition. The same government that once declared war on potholes by painting them as art, the same political class that believes a unified digital strategy can be achieved via a WhatsApp group, now promises connectivity so robust that you could stream a 4K documentary on the Battle of Hastings from the moment you leave Euston until you stagger, dazed and coffee-less, into the arms of Glasgow Central.
But what, exactly, does this connectivity push entail? Details, as is tradition, remain as fuzzy as the signal in the Severn Tunnel. A government source, speaking on condition of anonymity (and possibly a spotty connection), mumbled something about strategic investments, public-private partnerships, and the vague hope that Elon Musk might take a personal interest in the London Paddington to Penzance route. I imagine the WiFi will be delivered by a fleet of trained carrier pigeons, each fitted with a miniature router and a determination to outpace the 12:15 from Bristol.
Let us not forget the splendid history of British rail WiFi. It is a tragicomedy in several acts. Act One: The Free Trial, a glorious fortnight where everyone believed the future had arrived, only for it to vanish like a commuter's hope for a seat. Act Two: The Paywall, where you are charged the GDP of a small nation for 30 minutes of connectivity that works only if you hold the phone at a 45-degree angle while standing on one leg. Act Three: The Bandwidth Throttle, wherein the entire carriage shares a connection that peaked in 2007, meaning that loading a single webpage requires the patience of a Trappist monk and the incantations of a tech support warlock.
But now, salvation! The government has “backed” better WiFi. What does backing mean in this context? Is it a metaphorical backslap? A ceremonial ribbon-cutting? A spreadsheet of targets that will be quietly retired in six months? Or perhaps it is the same kind of backing that gave us the Great British Railways rebrand, a logo that looked like a toddler’s doodle of a train on a budget spreadsheet.
I suspect the reality is more prosaic. A consortium of bidders will emerge, all connected to former ministers. They will promise fibre-optic speeds. They will deploy “innovative low-orbit satellite solutions.” And in the end, you will still be staring at a loading spinner while a man in a hi-vis jacket announces that the buffet car has run out of sandwiches.
Yet, one must admire the sheer audacity. To announce a WiFi upgrade in an election year is to wave a dead chicken at the gods of infrastructure and hope for a miracle. It is a gesture, a sign that the government cares about your ability to tweet about your delayed train rather than the fact that your train is delayed. Because let’s face it: if the WiFi works, you might not notice that you’ve been stationary outside Didcot for 45 minutes while a signal failure is resolved by a man with a stick.
So here is my proposal: scrap the WiFi entirely. Instead, equip every carriage with a subscription to a podcast service, a noise-cancelling headset, and a complimentary gin and tonic. If I cannot doomscroll, at least let me drink myself into a state where the announcement of “this train is delayed due to a points failure” sounds like a soothing lullaby. But no, the government has chosen connectivity. They have chosen progress. They have chosen a future where you can watch YouTube tutorials on how to fix a boiler while your train breaks down on the way to Birmingham. Progress, indeed.
In the meantime, I will be at the bar. If the WiFi works, someone ping me. If not, I’ll be composing a strongly worded letter using a quill and the last shred of my patience.
