Product Description

Britain gave railways to the world, yet its own network is the dearest (definitely) and the worst (probably) in Western Europe. Trains are deeply embedded in the national psyche and folklore - yet it is considered uncool to care about them.

For Matthew Engel the railway system is the ultimate expression of Britishness. It represents all the nation's ingenuity, incompetence, nostalgia, corruption, humour, capacity for suffering and even sexual repression. To uncover its mysteries, Engel has travelled the system from Penzance to Thurso, exploring its history and talking to people from politicians to platform staff.

Along the way Engel ('half-John Betjeman, half-Victor Meldrew') finds the most charmingly bizarre train in Britain, the most beautiful branch line, the rudest railwayman, and - after a quest lasting decades - an Individual Pot of Strawberry Jam. Eleven Minutes Late is both a polemic and a paean, and it is also very funny.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #2075 in Books
• Published on: 2009-05-01
• Original language: English
• Binding: Hardcover
• 240 pages

Review
'[An] entertaining romp through the history of Britain's railways...Engel's take on railway history is surprisingly entertaining' --Scotsman

'One of the funniest travel books of the year.'
--Financial Times

Review
'brilliant...The beauty of Eleven Minutes Late is that it combines a sustained and very funny rant about the chaotic state of Britain's privatised rail system with huge affection for the romance of the train. And indeed with the beguiling history of travel.'

Review
'A railway history that is both salutary and funny.'

Customer Reviews

Suberb exposee of government incompetence
For anyone who likes travelling by rail and believes that rail travel is a good thing this book is a must. The author takes a trip from Penzance to Thurso and back, going as fast as he can up and meandering down. In doing so he demonstrates beautifully the occasional joys and many vexations of travelling by rail in Britain. However, the book is not just about the trip, it also covers in detail the history of how the railways came to be built and of the staggering incompetence of government policy towards the railways over the past 150 years, culminating in the appallingly botched privatisation in the 1990's and why no government is prepared to invest what it takes to give us the railway system we deserve in a country that is ideally suited for rail travel. A fine piece of work.

Will brighten up any delayed journey....
I bought this book minutes before getting on a Virgin train from Glasgow to London, and although I didn't have the "priviledge" of meeting the foul mouthed buffet car attendant Umerji, I certainly did manage to be eleven minutes late (fifteen to be exact). The title of course refers to the latest idiosyncracy of the British railway network, in that a long distance train is only "late" if the delay at the arrival terminus exceeds ten minutes.

That aside, Matthew Engel takes us on a journey from Penzance to Thurso and back; up and down the modern network, fighting his way through the many quirks and idiosyncracies of a transport system originally built by feuding Victorian entrepreneurs more interested in making a profit than necessarily doing what was best for serving society's needs. The story is intertwined with a brief history of how the system we know today came about; the various highs and lows from the Railway Mania of the mid 19th Century, the subsequent consolidation and nationalisation into British Rail, culimating in the disastrous 1990s privatisation and its aftermath. Along the way, the story is interspersed with little anecdotes about the people and situations Engel encounters on his travels.

The British of course have a love/hate relationship with the iron road. We get misty eyed over old steam engines, heritage lines, how the infamous Beeching cuts of the 1960s were one of the biggest acts of post-war vandalism, yet complain that todays trains are too often late, too old, too expensive, and represent inefficient use of taxpayer's money. Yet we all know our country was built by its railways, and that we simply can't do without them - for all their faults. Engel nails this paradox with witty and entertaining style.

The latter chapters on privatisation are particularly good, as they quickly summarise the tragedies and follies of one of the most spectactular Government policy failures in recent memory - without getting bogged down in details - think of it as a great companion to Christian Wolmar's "On The Wrong Line" if you can't be bothered with all the in-depth analysis.

An excellent read - it will brighten up any delayed journey!

Journeying to the soul of Britain
Eleven Minutes Late is former Guardian journalist Matthew Engel's thesis on Briain's railways. He sees the railway system as the ultimate expression of Britishness, representing all of its ingenuity, incompetence, nostalgia, corruption, humour, capacity for suffering and even its sexual repression

Engel eschews the romanticism that many other travelers employ or the sense that there were `good old days' never mind a golden era in British railways. They have always been dirty, cramped, late, subject of incompetent government policy - though perhaps never quite as expensive as they are now. This is no love letter to Britain's railways.

It falls down somewhat because it is neither travel book, history, nor extended piece of journalism. It seemingly starts out entwining Engel's experiences with British railways and their story. But quite abruptly, around chapter 2, he abandons his journey and resumes it only around 30 pages from the end, as if an after thought. It is all written in a lively and engaging manner, but there is nothing particularly new or original.

On the other hand his account of the 1990s privitisation of British Rail, which he presumably covered as a journalist, is an outstanding polemic against slap dash and ill considered political doctrine.

In his travels he comes across as a more erudite Bill Bryson, rather than someone who writes with the genuine wit and insight of Stuart Maconnie (to give a recent example) or the brilliance and élan of a Paul Theroux. As a historian he lacks the authority of Christian Wolmar and as a journalist the controlled anger of Ian Jack. None of this is to say that Matthew Engel isn't a fine writer, more that Eleven Minutes Late would have benefited significantly had he decided at the outset which form of writing was going to dominate.

This is a fine, entertaining book, but ultimately, it all felt a little rushed: I read it over the course of a weekend, but by next weekend I feel that there will be nothing that lingers in the memory.