Blow-out to 1983
[Dream target date -1999]

My own experience of an 80 miles an hour blow-out occured whilst travelling from Sheffield to Leeds. I was in the fast-lane of the M1 motorway and hit what I think was a pot hole. The suspension in a Golf is a bit harsh at the best of times, but this really was a bit of a thump. The car felt normal enough as I started to pull-over. I killed the cassette and that's when I heard the sliding noise coming from the front wheel.

Paradoxically, the slower I got, the less control I had over the car. The steering wheel turned to jelly as I rolled onto the hard-shoulder. There was a slight drizzle. I looked at my watch and thought I might be able to make my appointment if I changed the wheel fast enough.

Avoiding the turbulence of passing trucks, I inspected the front tyre on the passenger-side, which had a four-inch gash across it. It took a couple of minutes to empty the boot, filling up the back seat with a metal flightcase, artwork and files. Then the shock of discovering a miniscule spare wheel. - A special type, designed to take up as little boot-space as possible. There was a warning printed on the tyre which said it could only be driven up to a speed of 50 mph and it was day-glo orange just in case you were tempted to drive around for any longer than you had to.

The contents of a neatly-tied toolbag provided no solution to the security-caps locking the alloy wheels in place and I had no option but to call the AA. By now the car interior was littered with tools, open files, computer peripherals and last week's sandwich wrappers, I rummaged around for a roadmap. "..that's right, a mile south of Junction 37, the Barnsley turn off." The operator promised assistance within 20 minutes, and it was!

It was a relief to see the yellow livery of the AA van. The redfaced driver jumped out and shook my hand, an odd exchange in the circumstances I thought? Without hesitation he got to work. Even if I'd been able to remove the bolts myself, it was fairly obvious that I wouldn't have been able to get the wheel off. A few good blows with a mallet did the trick and the joke wheel was put in its place. It looked ridiculous against the rest of the fat tyres and had a huge yellow sticker around it too, just in case anyone missed it.

Throughout the whole operation the man was gushing about how he used to work for Volkswagen. But he was genuinely helpful and after he was through, gave me directions to a nearby garage. He followed close behind as I ventured back onto the motorway with one eye fixed on the speedometer and another in my rear-view mirror. I half expected the joke-tyre to blow up at any second, so I was relieved to find the garage had just the right tyres in stock.

A Kajagoogoo-lookalike in blue overalls directed me as I reversed into the service bay. I guessed this backwater on the outskirts of Barnsley was receiving radio broadcasts from 1983 just about now and the garage mechanic was a dead-ringer for Limahl, lead singer of the eighties pop band.

The fashion flashback was kind of comforting, a perfect accompanyment to the grey drizzle and the smell of a nearby lunchtime chippy. As Limahl set about fixing the tyres, I studied the people going about their business on the high-street, it looked like Blidworth some sixteen years ago. Back then I didn't have to worry about splashing out a hundred and thirty quid on a new pair of front tyres.

Eighties culture at nineties prices - the bubble burst almost as completely as the tyre had done!

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