It's all gone horribly wrong already, and its only the 8th of January. I'm talking about the New Year's Resolution, you know the one where you promise you're going to go to the gym at least three times a week, cut down on the alcohol and comfort eating and generally spend less time sitting around.

Yeah, right. That's fine, providing your day doesn't involve anything to do with Last Late Western. Yesterday, I resolved to get to a circuit training session in Salford which starts at 7.30. I packed all my stuff into the car in the morning, so that I could whizz straight over there from the station and start pumping iron with the rest of them. So far, so good. I left the office in plenty of time to catch the 5.51, good service on the Bakerloo line, train left on time, got a seat - there was some small chance this was actually going to happen. The anticipation was almost too much.

And then, we sat at Reading for ten minutes waiting to get onto a platform, and at Oxford we sat for at least 15 minutes, waiting for God knows what. A couple of half hearted apologies did nothing to appease us, and at one point it was looking increasingly likely that LLW would pull their normal shabby trick of throwing everyone off at Oxford. In the end, we limped into Charlbury at 7.43, far too late to do anything other than go home, have a very large glass of red wine, a big plate of cheese and slump in front of the TV in a foul mood. All the things I promised myself I wasn't going to do - and wouldn't have if everything had gone to plan. Just one more example of LLW stealing our lives away.

The answer to this whole problem of late running must be to put a gym carriage onto the train. That way, even if we are regularly half an hour late, it would actually be beneficial, as we'd have longer to work out. We'd arrive feeling virtuous and smug, rather than angry and frustrated, and it would make every journey a worthwhile experience. It could be another revenue stream for LLW, it would improve our image of them and everyone would win.

This is about as likely as me ending up with a body like Elle McPherson .....

Just when you thought the service couldn't possibly get any worse, last week Last Late Western surpassed all expectations.

Monday 9th December saw the introduction of the latest Elf and Safety initiative - Selective Door Opening. No, we weren't certain what it meant either, as no-one had bothered to explain, but what it actually entailed was upwards of a hundred people on Charlbury station, complete with weekend bags, bikes and all the usual Monday morning paraphernalia - ALL TRYING TO GET ONTO THE TRAIN THROUGH JUST TWO DOORS in cattle class. The train, you see, stopped with its engine alongside the platform, which meant that First Class were fine, but cattle class passengers just had two doors available at the very end of the platform.

There was almost a riot, it took a good ten minutes to get everyone on the train and people then had to walk the length of the the train to find a seat. Its bad enough normally on a Monday morning, with people trying to stow luggage holding everyone up, but with just two doors open you can imagine the queue just to get onto the train.

What, you ask, was wrong with the old system? Were people to be found regularly trying to get on or off the train at anything other than the platform? No, of course not. And its insulting that the nannies at LLW believe we're incapable of getting on or off a train without their input, especially when it results in unmitigated chaos and late running.

This wonderful new scheme now regularly adds at least fifteen minutes to an already extended new timetable which was introduced on the same morning. A journey which nine years ago took just 55 minutes, is now regularly taking an hour and a half - and that's on a good day. Well done LLW, you've excelled yourselves.

Last night, we had the ultimate stupidity on the 6.22. Believe me I've seen some stupidity in my time as a commuter, but this incident surpassed anything even I have witnessed.

You may recall me mentioning that occasionally I'll nip into First Class to visit some of my more up-market chums, and whilst there are certain trains they won't let you upgrade on, the 6.22 has never been a problem. Last night however, having made myself comfortable with my chum First Class Andy, taken a sip from my complimentary beverage and settled down for a long overdue catch up on all the gossip, I was disturbed by the sight of people hurtling past us at some speed, clutching coats and bags, shouting "Revenue Protection, they won't let you upgrade and they're throwing people out of First Class". Reminded me of that scene in Jurassic Park when all the little dinosaurs stampede in the wake of the raptors - you know the one I mean.

No problem, I thought, I'll just pay for a ticket, and thought no more about it. Until, that is, the arrival of Neanderthal man. If this character had been blessed with even half a brain, he would have been dangerous. Having not even bothered to mention upgrading, I immediately offered to pay the full fare to Charlbury, a matter of some £43, which seemed only the right thing to do. However, this moron wasn't having any of it. The best he could offer me, Madam, was a penalty fare to Reading of £58, and then the first class fare from Reading to Charlbury. Or get out of First Class. Clutching my complimentary beverage and my free Evening Standard, I decided there was no point arguing with someone who didn't have a working brain cell to call his own, let alone a personality, and repaired to the buffet area, where a small group of First Class refugees were all grumbling and muttering.

Some minutes later, we pulled into Reading, where a quick phone call to First Class Andy revealed that the Ape man had got off, so I went back to my seat and had a very pleasant rest of the journey, without having to upgrade.

The point of this incident is the sheer stupidity of not accepting my offer of adding £43 to the First Great Western coffers. If the carriage had been full to bursting, I would have understood, but it was half empty. Aside from losing the company money, the sheer lack of any kind of customer service or civility was absolutely mind boggling.

And they call these people Revenue Protection .....

What is it, do you suppose, that makes some people totally and completely immune to their surroundings? I sit, endlessly fascinated (and not a little annoyed!) by people who can, without any embarrassment whatsoever, share the most intimate details of their life with a carriage full of complete strangers, and not worry about it in the slightest.

I’m talking of course about the growing band of mobile phone users, most of whom it seems are choosing to travel on our train, and worse still, in our carriage. And try as you might, you can’t ignore them. They’re there, intrusive and disruptive, spoiling everyone else’s journey, the selfish bastards, full of their own self importance and oblivious to anyone else around them.

It beggars belief that people will divulge the most sensitive information to all and sundry without having a clue who is listening – names, companies, even down to the percentage of the fee they’ve negotiated. AND IN VERY LOUD VOICES. One woman who travels on our train regularly, (but who it has to be said is totally barking, so she doesn’t really care much) doesn’t actually need a phone, the recipient could probably hear her shouting from Oxford. She makes multi million pound purchasing decisions every day, yet she is one of the most indiscreet people I have ever known. I am certain her clients would be horrified if they knew that their confidential details were being broadcast to the commuters on the 7.29.

The company callers are bad enough, trying to impress everyone about how important they are, but the worst are those sad people who insist on giving you every detail about their pathetic lives, droning on endlessly to their wife/partner – when they’re going to be seeing them as soon as they get off the train. What is that all about? It’s the sort of thing you can understand teenage girls doing, but these are grown-up adult people – and the men are just as bad as the women. Who cares about whether this bloke’s sheep have all escaped or that woman’s builder hasn’t turned up or another one didn’t get to pick up his prescription in time (that’ll be the drugs which might just make him a considerate human being presumably?) Listen, we don’t give a damn, so why should we have to listen to them?

The worst are the parents who simply have to call their ghastly children to ask whether they’ve had a poo/eaten their breakfast/done their homework. They chunter on in ridiculous child talk while everyone in the carriage shifts uncomfortably in their seats, wishing they were somewhere else. If they knew how embarrassing they were being, they wouldn’t do it.

Then there are the people trying to impress everyone with their REALLY busy social lives, calling at least six people between Paddington and Reading and making very loud arrangements to meet up at this bar or that restaurant. Yawn.

But there is a God. There is a blessed stretch of track between Oxford and Charlbury along which it is absolutely impossible to get a signal from any provider, and there, dear reader, we find peace and tranquillity. The disgruntled look on the faces of the yappers is reward in plenty for the crap we’ve all had to endure for the past hour, and we draw into Charlbury in relative calm.

Of course, we could always sit in the designated quiet carriage, but then what would we have to moan about??

More and more often these days we are subjected to the newly refurbished carriages on the line which runs between Hereford and Paddington. These have obviously been designed (and I use the term loosely here, design obviously not being one of Last Late Western's strong points) to maximise the number of passengers they can squeeze into each carriage, without any thought at all about their comfort. We've had to get used to no longer being able to a share a table, and the fact that the seats are as hard as church pews, but the truth is that some elements of the so-called design simply don't work.

This morning, for instance, I watched with some degree of amusement as the person next to me attempted to position her laptop on the ridiculously small pull-down flap which passes for a table. After much trying out of different positions between lap and flap, she opted for the flap, only to spend the entire journey with the edge of the computer almost dissecting her in half at chest level and trying to get far enough away from it to see the screen. I'm sure the brain dead orang utang who sanctioned this particularly useless piece of design has never had to spend any time at all actually using it.

And we also have to get used to "smart new lighting" which in First Class especially lends the carriages all the subtle ambience of an NHS operating theatre. Travelling First Class always used to be a rather pleasant experience, with big squashy seats you could sink into, loads of table space and the feeling that you were in a rather exclusive club. It used to be worth upgrading occasionally just for the experience. Not any more. The hard and uncomfortable leather seats and the glaring overhead lighting makes you feel as though you're in a dentist's waiting room, an experience I don't particularly want to have to pay extra for, thank you.

No sorry, Last Late Western, the newly refurbished trains which you promised were going to be wonderful simply don't do it for me. Bring back the old ones I say.