In an old TV ad British Rail invited us to take a “Sentimental Journey”. I don’t know what platform that train left from but I wasn’t on it.

Instead I blithely maintain balance on the 10.31 Great Western service from Oxford to London Paddington.

By the time the train reaches Didcot my only nostalgic yearning is to be stuck in an M40 traffic jam.

Ordinarily if someone tried to charge me £29.40 to be hurled around in a cattle cart for an hour amid the smell of toilet disinfectant I’d decline.

But like dozens of other suckers I was in a hurry. I’d chosen to pay extra for the speed and comfort of travelling by rail. And in my personal opinion what you get for your money is the 21st century equivalent of Third Class travel.

Statistics may prove you have more chance of seeing a lemming jump from the roof of the Westgate Centre than you have of getting a seat.

For all those shouty pie charts on train punctuality you couldn’t display one on seating. There’d just be a big black circle with a 0% next to it – 0% chance of sitting down.

And the great shame is that today’s Great Western service takes its name from the Great Western Railway, engineered by Brunel in the Victorian era and in the early 20th century famed as the “Holiday Line”.

Visit Didcot’s superb Railway Centre and you too can be struck by the beauty of it. The names of the services alone take your breath away: The Cheltenham Flyer; The Flying Dutchman; and that saucy chieftain of romance – the Cornish Riviera Express, conjuring the thrill of escape and the moment the fresh sea breeze first strikes you. It makes me want to fling myself in my lover’s arms and fill her handbag with souvenir pencils.

At the railway centre you can stroll through beautifully upholstered carriages, take a seat in a compartment. You can even hold your wedding on one of the trains.

You might not want to spend your special day on one of today’s trains though. Apparently, somewhere, there’s a trolley with snacks and light refreshments. But put the wedding cake on there and chances are you’ll never see it again.

On the late train back I continue to despair. While I reminisced about the Riviera Express I’d half imagined I might return up the tracks in the company of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Or at worst, Arthur Askey. Instead I’m the only person in the carriage not holding a takeout from Burger King.

If you set up a train set for your children and reflected the truth it wouldn’t be much fun for them, would it?

First of all I’d fill all the seats and aisles with toy figures, writhing in agony. And then I might crash my InterCity 125 into that plastic burger outlet without a moment’s hesitation.