It's a story based on a dream. Here it is for what it's worth. 
 A L L E G R O

Make of it what you will. I seem to be in a pretty English village. A
car is shimmering along the street. The driver seems to struggle to 
maintain control. I can't fathom it. He's not even going fast. He 
can't get it to go in the direction it's pointing. I see him as 
he passes. 
He has a nondescript, greyish appearance, bald and pasty with a 
whiny face. Typical man. He patiently nurses his Allegro around 
a corner.
The rear swings out, crashes sideways and lands on its roof. 
The wreckage blocks the road. the driver emerges and
lights a cigarette.
Everyone ushers him to the corner pub away from the
fuel leaks. We need a drink to steady our nerves. 
The Allegro driver sits at the bar. He orders an ale.  
"The car has just passed its m.o.t. mate" (its roadworthiness 
test) he explains. "The problem", he continues, "is those cheap 
Chinese ditch-finder tyres. No grip whatsoever."
   
Everyone stands around listening to him. He is quite
engaging. It turns out he is one of those accident-prone 
people. This is just a typical day in his life. He 
regularly electrocutes and detonates himself. I guess 
even when you think you have problems there is always 
someone worse off.