There’s something intrinsically depressing about British trains, I think. From the second you step on them you’re predestined for a gladiatorial territory dispute for a seat (frustration level adjusted based on whether you’ve paid for one in advance or not), and if/once your temporary empire is established, there’s always the lurking question as to whether you’re ever going to get to where you want to. Admittedly the answer is customarily “yes” – the variety comes in the number and pedigree of excuses you hear along the way.
Presumably this makes German trains instantly better, insofar as I have no idea what the announcements over the tannoy mean.
Bedford, here comes I**!

**assuming certain fundamental operating concepts are fulfilled

Forsooth, misery is abated thanks to an amusing seat number. Happy days.