Cheeky girl chat? Stop the train, I've got to get off

Navigating from here to my final full stop will be a bit like wandering through a jungle set with elephant traps: you know, the ones where a huge hole in the ground is covered in giant leaves so you don't know you're in trouble until it's too late. There will be pitfalls and entanglements; perils and snags. So brace yourselves, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Let's set the scene. Man sits on train, working on laptop. He is neutral and inoffensive. His attentions are focused on his screen.

The train pulls into Wolverhampton station and two twentysomething women sashay on. They are all handbags and gladrags; hair and nails; teeth and tight trousers. One is attractive and has a broad Liverpudlian accent, the other is plain and hails from somewhere in the North West. The Liverpudlian looks at the white collar worker and sits on the opposite side of the aisle. 'Four seats and one person,' she mutters, as she sits on her manicured derriere.

The man – that's me, if you'd not guessed – continues to work. And the girls start to talk.

They'd been on a modelling shoot, apparently. And they were pleased with the results. 'Look at this,' said Liverpool, holding up her iPhone. My peripheral vision caught a snapshot – I'm a bloke – that's how our peripheral vision works. She was wearing small black knickers, her hands were pushed against the wall and her head was turned so that she peered at the camera suggestively, from across her shoulder. It was mild in comparison to others. It was the korma in a menu that ran to vindaloo.

They were clearly professionals, with lots of modelling experience. For a while, their conversation was fascinating. Liverpool Girl had – and I revert to delicate language –'had her boobs done'. They'd risen from an A to a C and cost £4,500.

North West Girl had been planning to follow suit. Her 32B – 'though sometimes it's C, it depends on the shop' – were next in line. Somewhere, a surgeon's ears were burning, while his accountant rubbed his hands. Ker-ching!

The conversation flowed like cheap booze on an 18-30 holiday. 'You'll never guess whose number I've got,' said North West girl. I wondered to myself who it might be. Barack Obama? A Premiership footballer? Christopher Biggins? Hell no. It was ... Calum Best. Underwhelsville.

She was on a roll. 'And DJ Ironik followed me on Twitter this morning'. I checked DJ Ironik's profile – it was journalistic investigation, rather than stalking. Boy, oh boy. I thought I'd lived a life. But DJ Ironik has lived 10, judging by his Twitter interactees. Phew. Pass the sauce.

The girls were peas in a pod. They were thrilled that they got each other's desire for pneumatic boobs, less-than-coy about the photographers, agents and sharks they worked with. It was unashamed, uncensored girly chat from two honies on a train.

And as we made our way from Wolverhampton, through Bilbrook and Codsall, Albrighton and Cosford the strangest thing happened.

I gazed out of the window. And I found myself far more interested in the view. The pictures in skimpies were passé, the conversation trite. The girls were the one thing they tried not to be – boring.

I'm not sure what is below Z list on the Richter scale of celebrity, but that's roughly where they sat. As our train pulled into Telford Central, I made a gleeful exit and my thoughts crystallised.

I'm Not A Celebrity. . . Get Me Out Of Here!