I don't believe it! is that Victor in cattle class?

Richard Wilson is on the 7.45am First Great Western train from Reading to Paddington. This is not how he is used to travelling, standing up with the commuters in cattle class.

"Is it always like this?" he asks a woman who appears to be sitting on the luggage rack. "Yes," she says. "Do you ever get a seat?" "No," says the woman. "But would you like to have a seat here on the luggage rack?" The man who, as Victor Meldrew, epitomised curmudgeonly crossness breaks into roars of laughter. "I've never been offered a luggage rack before!"

He shoulders his way along the carriage a bit. "I've heard people sit in here sometimes," he says, opening the door marked Toilet. Perched on the seat, he shakes his head. "I don't believe it!" he says. "Oh, whoops." Yes, that catchphrase. "Well, I suppose this is slightly more pleasant than standing up. He apologies to a commuter who is clearly in need of relieving himself. "Do you want to come in?"
Wilson clearly isn't used to all this. "I've been going First Class since One Foot in the Grave," he says in his Scottish burr. "I used to get recognised so much and ... well, that was my excuse," he sighs. "I just have a penchant for five-star hotels, taking taxis and going First Class."

So why is he slumming it on what is generally held to be London's most overcrowded commuter experience? Work, my dear. Wilson, 75, has accepted the task of researching our rail services for Channel 4's Dispatches. And what he has discovered has shocked him.

"The woman who was sitting on the luggage rack, do you know she pays £4,000 a year for a season ticket? And she never gets a seat! And for older people the state of the trains is a real pain."

During his Dispatches mission, Wilson has been introduced to the "hunter gatherer" way in which the harried commuter will search for a seat, and then secure it. He's understood that no one stands up for anyone else (on a week-long shoot, only one person, in Manchester, offered him a seat). He's been astounded at the lack of carriages at busy times, frustrated by automated ticket services and gobsmacked by the conditions which working people must put up with.

He's also learned about "crush rage", wherein people lose the plot thanks to the effects of being poured into a train at rush hour. "But more than that I was amazed at how tolerant most people are. It's the British way, I suppose. Not complaining, paying thousands of pounds for a season ticket and putting up with it. Or altering their behaviour in order to cope. I met lots of people who are getting up an hour earlier just so that they can get a seat."

Last week, Wilson was travelling from London to Sheffield, where he works as an associate director at the Playhouse. He'd bought a First Class return ticket two days before online - and with his Senior Railcard, it only cost him £15.85. However, when the guard came around, Wilson discovered he had left his wallet at home. With his Railcard in it.

"Well, I am clearly over 65!" he tells me. "But because I didn't have my Senior Railcard, he charged me a full fare of £139, each way. So a total of £278. I admit that I did get a bit tetchy. Yes, I can afford the full fare but what if you are some old dear who hasn't got much money, decides to treat herself to First Class, and forgets her Railcard?"

Indeed, since One Foot in the Grave started in 1990, Wilson has been something of a champion for the elderly. The programme bucked the assumed trend that programmes about older people facing retirement (or as in Victor Meldrew's case, redundancy) will be a ratings disaster. The show ran for 10 years and six series, turning Wilson into a national treasure.