Twatty Flatty

Saturday was brilliant: The sun was out, I helped to hack Si's garden to bits in aid of his move and I got the job.
So, when sailing back along the road in my new-found euphoria, something bad had to happen, didnt it?
My car takes me on the 230mile trip to Chester and back, despite this, there have seldom been problems. My car, however, is designed to go down the shops. Daewoo didnt create the Matiz to be ragged up the M6 at 80mph, but needs must.
Whilst coming back from Winchester on Saturday afternoon, somebody behind me in a white van started flashing his lights at me. Abuse on public roads is something you become accustomed to when you drive a car like a go-kart, I merely carried on driving. He carried on flashing his lights and pulled into the middle lane and started gesticulating frantically; this was new, normally a quick flick of the 'V' as they overtake is enough. I realised, with a strange mixture of horror and bemusement, that he was telling me I had a flat tyre. I opened my window and sure enough, I heard the flapping noise and smelt cremated rubber, shit. Thankfully, just off the M3 is a golf club that I knew I could pull into and after much waiting around the AA man came, giving me a withering look at such an easy job as changing a tyre. Now, before I lose any man-points, I can and have changed tyres, this one had been fitted by Kwik Fit and therefore were pretty much welded on. Some witty chap in a Z3 suggested I take the parts from my car and fit them on a golf-buggy, telling me it might go faster. I suggested, jovially, that he sit on his 9 iron.
Hungover today, again. I think I'm getting old.