Observations on motorway stops

The motorway service station survey is an undying national ritual. Just recently, the Observer restaurant critic denounced RoadChef's sandwiches as "dismal", despite the company's acquisition of a Michelin star-winning chef. The September issue of Good House-keeping criticises the long queues, cold meals and "cheerless service" at motorway cafes. A month ago, Sunday Mirror "investigators" made the startling discovery that service stations offer bad, overpriced food and, earlier in the summer, the AA and other European motoring organisations "revealed" that Britain had the worst service stations in Europe.

This isn't news. It's a restatement of the bleeding obvious. The real question is: why are our service stations like this?

When they first opened on the M1 in 1960, they were stylish places to which young people would drive at high speed to play pinball and drink Cona coffee, a more alluring alternative to the only other all-night venue, the launderette. Bridge restaurants were built over the motorways, so that patrons could watch speeding traffic, strange as this form of sightseeing may now seem. You could even buy postcards from vending machines, and send your loved ones a souvenir of your thrilling trip to Newport Pagnell.

However, in 1965 a report by the Bartlett School of Architecture for the Ministry of Transport found that motorists wanted simple meals and fast service. The fancy restaurants just stopped them getting in and out quickly.

The 24/7 operation led to a further problem: patrons were stealing thousands of pounds' worth of cutlery every year, along with less obvious items such as wooden trays, toilet-roll holders, lavatory seats and chains. The Bartlett advisers recommended a policy of "least commitment": more vending machines and sliding trays, non-essential facilities shut down in slack periods, and cheap furnishings. The modern service station was born.

John Major, in his unforgettable speech to the 1992 Tory conference, complaining about the lack of service stations on the M11, and revealing his liking for Happy Eaters and Little Chefs (or what he once quaintly called "wayside taverns"), promised to change all this.

His "Citizen's Charter" deregulated the service stations and allowed private developers to build them without waiting for the government to select and tender sites. But the roadside cafe revolution never happened. Local authorities often refused planning permission for new sites, and the cost of building a service station the size of a small village in the middle of nowhere tended to discourage all but the major chains.

The main problem, however, is not corporate homogeneity, but the nature of the service station itself. The operators' holy grail is the "destination service station", the one that customers will seek out. The problem is that destination service stations, strictly defined, are illegal. To avoid overcrowding on already congested motorways, the government prohibits more than 5,000 square feet of retail space, restricts motorway adverts, and requires the operators to provide unprofitable basics such as free toilets and a picnic area.

Service stations offer what coach drivers call the "comfort stop" and marketing people call the "distress purchase". People turn in because they have to relieve themselves, score a hit of caffeine, or change drivers. Only half of them spend any money. So there aren't enough profits to plough back into improving the service, which carries on being awful.

It's no use complaining. If you insist on making a beeline for the toilets and foregoing that congealed chicken tikka masala at £6.99, you'll just have to make do with the service stations you deserve.

Joe Moran teaches English and American studies at Liverpool John Moores University

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