ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

So, driving to Bristol on Sunday night for the start of a lovely, relaxing week off, I hear a strange noise.
First of all I'm slightly confused, as I didn't think I had that much bass on my sound system thingy, and since when do Girls Aloud do heavy rock anyway? Noise quickly gets louder and I decide I should pull over and have a look.
So, lying under my car at side of Glos Road with asshole boy racers whizzing within mere inches of my fragile, quite pretty little skull at 50mph, I notice that the long bit looks sorta saggy. I poke it and it wiggles.
I rev, and it sounds like it's a Ferarri.
(Well, that's not quite accurate, as a certain annoyingly correct sarcastic soul pointed out, it sounds more like an afore-mentioned boy racer's fugly pimped Saxo). But you get the idea - loud and obnoxious, either way.

As it's dark, I baby it home and retire to the pub, seeking refuge in alcohol and thoughts of botch welding to last until I can flog it to some poor unsuspecting sucker/ aka bastard car supermarket, and start dreaming of prettier motors to replace it with.
(Unfortunately, none that I both like and can afford)

I take it to the garage after calling around and picking the one that sounds least like a goddamn rip-off merchant, and after some sucking of teeth and 'no, impossible to weld it there, well, we can replace it, but X might break, in which case it'll be an extra £50
- what, how does that work?! you break it, you pay for it is the rules I have to play by (eg see above ref to my goddamn exhaust pipe, I didn't even break that, it just spontaneously fell off, and I have to pay £150, but you break it and I have to pay you £50??!!)
- I give them the car to fix.