Trains should be less like planes

A flush of success? ... a Transrapid train in Germany. Photograph: Thomas Starke/Getty

Virgin Trains' high-speed, tilting Pendolino trains have been let down by their high-tech lavatories (don't say "toilets" whatever you do). They are, indeed, absurd and embarrassing things with doors that refuse to open when you're trapped inside, or open at the wrong moment when another passenger (sorry, "customer") tries their luck with the unreliable, electronically activated push buttons that govern the fickle workings of the doors.

The Pendolino lavatories are, as any veteran railway engineer might be happy to tell you, a case of a design too far. Where a simple manual catch or lock would do the trick, the Pendolino simply has to have guaranteed-to-go-wrong electronic locks to prove that it's ultra-modern. As train companies and their designers try with ever increasing desperation to mimic the styles, layouts, decor and even the language of passenger aircraft, such inappropriate design is likely to become ever more prevalent.

Two thoughts occur. One is that a train is not a plane. It might need to be aerodynamically shaped for speeds consistently above 100mph, but the joy of a train from the passengers' point of view is surely that, ideally, it is nothing like an aircraft. At its best, a long-distance express ought to be able to offer handsome compartments, plenty of legroom and freedom from incontinent announcements about shopping "opportunities", horrid food for sale, and bullying by the equivalent of airline stewards.

For most of us, travelling by air has, sadly, become a chore. The aircraft itself might be performing a kind of miracle, and seen - if only it ever could be - from the outside, is a beautiful thing; yet, inside it's a cramped and fuggy purgatory. Interestingly, though, lavatory doors on board aircraft are secured not by the latest digital, Wi-Fi, electronic gizmo, but by simple catches . . .

Train companies should be doing everything they can to differentiate themselves from airlines. Or, at least, they could design trains divided in two by the buffet or dining car. One end of the train, strictly for "customers", would offer what train companies think we want: no frills, aircraft-style interiors complete with mean coach seats upholstered in fabrics designed by drug-crazed monkeys, grime-encrusted folding tables, compulsory mega-decibel mobile phone calls, statutory "hot panini", non-stop announcements and electronic lavatory door locks.

The opposite end, for passengers, would be made up of beautifully designed modern coaches with discreet lighting, handsomely styled compartments, next to no announcements, a limited service of simple, fresh food, and lavatories with manual locks . . .

My second point is a simple one. Why is so much modern design equated with electronic/digital excess? It's not simply a case of "less is more" being better than excess (which it often is), but one of accepting that even as we reach forward in design, the past has much to teach us, not least common sense. And proper lavatories whether in the air, or tilting along the West Coast Main Line from Scotland to London in a Pendolino.