So there I was, battling to get my bonnet catch to close so I could drive to work in London.
I was dropping it down and it was bouncing back up.
I was pushing it firmly, but it wouldn't stay shut.
Eventually I resorted to kicking it.
I was moments away from jumping up and down on it.
Giving up, I called the AA.
And was told I would have a two-hour wait.
Late for work, in a foul mood, the wife and baby cowering away upstairs trying to avoid the after-shocks of the Rippers eruption, it was a bad day.
I slumped down on the sofa, feeling hopeless.
Turned on Sky Sports News just to take my mind off my miserable morning.
And sat, speechless, as the information that would change my mood filtered across the bottom of the screen.
League 2: Bristol Rovers are planning to relocate to a new 20,000-seater stadium.
Had I dozed off?
Was this just a series of dreams as I found myself in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness?
Was my alarm poised to go off at any moment so I'd have to go through the whole process of getting up, showering and dressing again?
But no.
Checking on the website there it was in Blue and White.
Rovers were planning to sell the Mem, pack their bags and move to a new stadium at the University site in Frenchay.
Yes, the University site that is just a cough and spit from where I live.
Not only that but if the move goes ahead it will wipe out our debts, improve our crowds and get us heading back up the football pyramid again.
Phew!
Now the master plan all makes sense.
We have just appointed a young, upwardly-mobile young manager in Paul Buckle, who we enticed away from Torquay where he had led them to three play-off finals in four years.
He has been given a budget and is bringing in an entirely new squad to replace the flotsam and jetsum that sent us hurtling back down to the Football League basement.
Already we have a new goalkeeper in the 6ft 6ins Scott Bevan (a permanent one for the first time in two seasons), and two new highly-rated midfielders in Craig Stanley and Matt Gill.
This is it.
The rebirth.
The start of the campaign that will see Bristol Rovers conquer League 2, League 1, the Championship, the Premiership, Europe and the world.
As it is announced, so it shall be written...
Or am I just getting a wee bit carried away?
After all, have I not learnt in my 40-odd years supporting the Gas that things NEVER come simply?
Have I not been reading stories in the local Evening paper since way back in 1971 about Bristol Rovers planning to build a new stadium?
For one reason or another they have always petered out, faded away to dust, leaving us on a nomadic journey which has taken us from Eastville, to Ashton Gate (for a, thankfully, brief spell), to Twerton Park in the neighbouring city of Bath and finally to the Mem.
Everyone tells me it will be different this time.
That the project has had careful planning, the product of two years of fruitful discussion between directors, the University and the council.
Ah, the council. The political wheelers dealers of the biggest metropolis in the west country who rank football alongside backgammon in its level of importance to the area.
The people who, through pure apathy and ignorance, have failed to see the merits of big sporting clubs to one of Britain's major cities.
And did I notice in the small print that we have no planning permission for the new site, and that purchasers of the old site will also have to get approval for a change of use?
Worst case scenario we could end up with a nice big Sainsbury's in Horfield and the Rovers without a ground again, having to go cap in hand to neighbours City or move back in with Bath.
Nothing would surprise me.
But for the moment I shall go along with the euphoria as best I can, though my glass has always been half empty where my beloved Gas are concerned.
I will take part in the naming games - supporting any move to get the Tote End re-established, while suggesting the Pasty Shop should be named after Jim Eadie, the porky goalkeeper of our glorious promotion team of 74.
But I will do it with just the slightest nagging suspicion that it is all too good to be true.
Meanwhile, back to reality and the AA man finally turns up.
He squirts some oil on my offending parts, and the bonnet slams shut at the first attempt.
Typical.
A quick fix.
I will wait to be convinced that the UWE Stadium and Paul Buckle will provide the same rapid restoration of my glorious football heroes.
