It just goes to show how sad and worn out most commuters are that by Saturday night they've got nothing better to do than sit in front of Stars in their Eyes.

Anyway, I happened to mention to friend Sarah, as we were travelling to work, that one of the contestants in last week's edition seemed to think Rod Stewart, he of the leopard skin pants, dressed like a Connex guard.

Oh I saw that..."said man sitting opposite. "I can't remember Rod Stewart ever wearing a yellow jacket and blue waistcoat."

"I can't remember anyone ever wearing a yellow anything with a yellow anything out of choice," said Sarah.

"Indeed not," said the ticket inspector, who had overheard us on his way through the carriage. "Definitely not out of choice. There was a bloke on Stars in Their Eyes wearing one the other day, though."

"Yes, we were just talking about him," said Sarah. "The Rod Stewart of the railways."

"Still," said ticket inspector..."at least they don't make us wear leopard skin pants."

And he went on his way, leaving us to imagine a world in which Connex staff all dressed like Rod Stewart, and hoping the new franchisees don't get any ideas.

Then the train stopped, somewhere in a field near Gatwick for no particular reason but then they don't need reasons these days. They'd need reasons to get anywhere on time but not for stopping in the middle of nowhere for no particular reason. That, in the spirit of post Hatfield resignation, we simply accept.

"Who would you be?" asked Sarah. "If you went on Stars in Their Eyes".

"Someone whose tone deaf and can't sing." I answered, realising that, as the train was stationary, I was speaking to the whole of the silent carriage.

"You could be Baby Spice," said a voice, which turned out to belong to blonde athletic from Hassocks and which I hoped was referring to the tone deaf and can't sing part of my reply to Sarah, rather than any similarity in appearance.

"And you could be Gary Barlow," I said, trying to think of someone equally crass. "More Ronan Keating," he said, flattering himself that his blonde athletic looks are up to boy band heart throb standard.

"You could be Debbie Harry," said Sarah to me, obviously trying to be kind, since she was one of my teen rock idols but failing, since she's fifty and no longer quite the star she once was.

"If I was going to be on it," said business man from Burgess Hill, joining in the game we'd started, to pass the time spent stuck for no apparent reason. "I'd be Tom Jones."

Poor old Burgess Hill. Not only, as he revealed a few weeks ago, is he named after Richard Burton but now he thinks he could pass his portly middle aged frame off as another Welsh sex symbol.

"That would be nice," said Sarah, with more than a slight hint of sarcasm, but stopped short as Burgess Hill revealed that while he may not be strong on looks, his voice was something else..."Why, why whhhhhy - Delilah.... Why, why, whhhhhhy Delilah."

And soon, because there was nothing else to do, the rest of the carriage joined in, "Why, why, whhhhhy, Delilah...?" Why indeed?