Already a subscriber? Log in
Perhaps one of the reasons for my delaying buying a car is that having a car, any car, is nowhere near as nice as having a driver. Over the course of the summer David, my driver, and I have naturally had lengthy discussions as to exactly what car I should buy. The last car I bought, I actually bought from him, a people carrier that he’d taken us all to the airport in a couple of times. I love that car as I have loved no other, but it’s constantly booked out, ferrying four small children around.
So I needed a car and it didn’t take Dave and I many weeks to work out that I needed a car exactly the same as the one he has been driving me around in. So it was that he drove me up to Nottinghamshire on Wednesday with his good friend Bob, to look at one that had taken our fancy. When compared with the cost of a new kitchen, a new patio or especially something really boring like a new roof, brand-new cars look pretty good value at the moment. They just don’t make bad ones any more, either. No one makes a bad car. The man who delivers the post is cruising around in greater comfort than Elvis ever knew. A small consolation for the fact that it’s the 21st century and we should all be floating around on jetpacks is that falling markets, combined with the ‘line ’em all up in a row and take your pick’ power of the internet, mean, as you may well have heard, that big-ass, second-hand cars are an all-time bargain at the moment.
Well, this one was still under manufacturer’s warranty, and cost a quarter of what it would have done two years ago. It was all shiny, as new. ‘Ay it’s a beauteh,’ said the salesman, a doe-eyed, spikey-haired, likeable boy. I’d decided to buy it before I’d seen it, but Bob had already knocked 1,500 quid off the price and was now hard at it kicking the tyres.
‘New tyres,’ said the boy hopefully, as he diligently polished a smear off the front passenger headrest. Bob frowned: ‘I just don’t understand,’ he said, and then went very quiet. Wow, the guy was a master. Dave said he was good. He was a joy to watch. ‘It’s like putting an MFI kitchen in Buckingham Palace,’ said Bob. I had to suppress a snigger, but the poor boy was on the ropes. Bob got a hundred off for the appalling new tyres and another hundred off for the nasty scratch on the rear bumper I hadn’t noticed.
It was only a fair bit of bartering and, in the end, the boy was more than happy to make the sale. The thing was under warranty, so there was no chance of it being a lemon, anyway, but I was very glad to have Dave, who knew the model, and Bob, who knew the ropes, with me.
Everyone felt good all of a sudden. I felt good about getting the car for the right price. Bob felt good for negotiating. Dave felt good because he didn’t have to drive me any more. The lad felt good for making the sale. Hey, it was a second-generation family business. Hey, it was all good.
Then came the crunch. The only way to pay for the crate was with a credit card and the credit card company applies a two-and-a-half per cent surcharge to the total. It was only a few hundred quid, and getting the car collected once a BACS transfer had been organised would have cost that much, so it wasn’t worth messing around. It was somehow deflating, though, after all that Googling and tyre-kicking trying to get the best deal going, to be a-hustled and a-hoodl’ed by the doggone moneylenders. I bit the bullet, paid the extra and drove away with more faith, trust and respect in second-hand car dealers than I have in banks. No wonder we’re in such a mess. Bloody cowboys.
Trending
Also in Society
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in