 |
 |
 |
 |
A car dealer speaks
(to Nick Gibbs)
(to Nick Gibbs)
Frank’s Month (July 06)
A slow rusty death awaits the dealer who
fails to recognise the power of modern
woman. Actually, there’s nothing modern
about it - Adam’ll tell you that. Only
difference being that punishment today isn’t
expulsion from the Garden of Eden, it’s four
years driving around in a Vauxhall Agila.
Eternity is short in comparison.
I reckon that of the couples that appear on
my lot, three quarters go with what his
missus thinks. Oh, he’ll give it all that
about the LX having air con etc, and for
years I fell for it. Me and him, going round
after round about whether it had the new-
shape lights until we was more knackered
than Tim Henman on a sunny day in south
London. Then they’d huddle and suddenly it
was “bye, thanks for your help. We’ll be
back…” For years, I couldn’t figure it out.
Then one day this couple comes in and she’
s carrying a jackhammer. I thought he was
right ungallant, not carrying it for her, so I
make a show about putting it in the office,
but she refuses. Turns out all she wants to
know is whether it fits in the boot. Says she’
s a sculptor and has to carry this thing
wherever she goes. That’s when it
happens - I get a flashback worse than
Carnaby Dave’s down the pub. Years of
women lugging strange objects onto the
lot, and muddling about in the boot while
me and him talk 0-60s. Nowadays I’m
straightaway helping her fit whatever she’s
brought into the car, and nary a word about
control blade suspension is heard. Only
problem, Mrs S thinks I’ve had an attack of
the mid-life leches. I’ve told her, it’s you
who’s getting a shock come judgement
day, not me.
Frank’s month (June 06)
Ladies and gents, a moment please. You’re
now in the presence of Mr Frank Savage,
purveyor of prestige cars. Don’t worry, I haven’
t shed me sheepskin, but in cyberspace I
might be wearing sharkskin for all anyone
knows. That’s right, as of last month I’m a
dotcom whizzkid with me own website.
Course, I’ve always had the motors on the ’
Trader site, and every so often their
photographer, Darkroom Dave, comes round
and manages to make all me cars look they’
ve been salvaged from a shipwreck. But now I’
m selling “previously enjoyed cars of
distinction” from my website and getting calls
from all over! Mate of mine suggested it. Saw
I had a couple of Mercs, the odd Beemer
and said I should give myself a virtual
makeover – make it look like I’m flogging
prestige stuff. I tell you, it’s great. The
distance people come! Makes it so much
easier to sell. If he’s been arguing with the
missus all the way from Doncaster, there’s no
way he’s going back emptyhanded. I just
commiserate about the traffic, point out a
few (no doubt fresh) stone chips on the trade-
in and lead them to the car. I make sure I
describe ’em pretty accurately, and once
they’re in, well: the feel of the wheel seals
the deal, as we say in the trade. Then it’s all
over bar the attempt at haggling (Him: “What
about £9,500? Me: Sorry, no. Him: okay).
They’ve got over the fact that the sumptuous
showroom they saw on the website actually
belongs to the double glazing guys next door
(beautiful things, digital pictures) and
everyone’s happy. Well, all except Mrs S. She’
s reckons it’s not cars I’m looking up on the
computer.
Franks’ month (May 06)
If Frank Savage was single, Saturday nights
would all be down the pub, taking bets on
how many pints before Crazy Dave a) uses his
one chat-up line on the barmaid and b)
swings at the soft lad with a pinecone for a
haircut. Thankfully for the wallet, one reason
I married Mrs S is that she’s good at getting
me mingling socially with potential punters.
But don’t imagine I’m just standing there in
me good Farahs bending everyone’s ear
about tasty one-owner Vectras. Frank’s a bit
smoother than that. When I’m asked what I
do, I tell ’em straight: I sell cars. Straightaway
we’re in a car conversation, and I didn’t do a
thing. Then comes the good bit. “So Frank, I’
m thinking of getting a new car. What do you
recommend?” What does he think I’m going
to do? Weigh up all the experiences I’ve ever
had with every make of car? Get real. I
recommend something on the lot. I don’t tell
him that of course, just say, well, those
Mazda 6s are quite reliable. Then later on I’ll
slip him a card and the bait is set. Of course,
a lot of car chat is wasted on me. So what do
you drive, Frank? Whatever’s on the bloody
lot of course. People think car salesmen swap
every three years, just like the civilians.
Wrong. Cars are profit to me, that’s all. Which
brings me to the follow-up car question. What’
s your favourite? I blether about that Porsche
Boxster I had, but is it bollocks. I once bought
this year-old Ford Mondeo 1.8 with a bumper
scratch for £3,000. Filled in the scratch, sold
it for nearly eight grand. Favourite car ever.
A slow rusty death awaits the dealer who
fails to recognise the power of modern
woman. Actually, there’s nothing modern
about it - Adam’ll tell you that. Only
difference being that punishment today isn’t
expulsion from the Garden of Eden, it’s four
years driving around in a Vauxhall Agila.
Eternity is short in comparison.
I reckon that of the couples that appear on
my lot, three quarters go with what his
missus thinks. Oh, he’ll give it all that
about the LX having air con etc, and for
years I fell for it. Me and him, going round
after round about whether it had the new-
shape lights until we was more knackered
than Tim Henman on a sunny day in south
London. Then they’d huddle and suddenly it
was “bye, thanks for your help. We’ll be
back…” For years, I couldn’t figure it out.
Then one day this couple comes in and she’
s carrying a jackhammer. I thought he was
right ungallant, not carrying it for her, so I
make a show about putting it in the office,
but she refuses. Turns out all she wants to
know is whether it fits in the boot. Says she’
s a sculptor and has to carry this thing
wherever she goes. That’s when it
happens - I get a flashback worse than
Carnaby Dave’s down the pub. Years of
women lugging strange objects onto the
lot, and muddling about in the boot while
me and him talk 0-60s. Nowadays I’m
straightaway helping her fit whatever she’s
brought into the car, and nary a word about
control blade suspension is heard. Only
problem, Mrs S thinks I’ve had an attack of
the mid-life leches. I’ve told her, it’s you
who’s getting a shock come judgement
day, not me.
Frank’s month (June 06)
Ladies and gents, a moment please. You’re
now in the presence of Mr Frank Savage,
purveyor of prestige cars. Don’t worry, I haven’
t shed me sheepskin, but in cyberspace I
might be wearing sharkskin for all anyone
knows. That’s right, as of last month I’m a
dotcom whizzkid with me own website.
Course, I’ve always had the motors on the ’
Trader site, and every so often their
photographer, Darkroom Dave, comes round
and manages to make all me cars look they’
ve been salvaged from a shipwreck. But now I’
m selling “previously enjoyed cars of
distinction” from my website and getting calls
from all over! Mate of mine suggested it. Saw
I had a couple of Mercs, the odd Beemer
and said I should give myself a virtual
makeover – make it look like I’m flogging
prestige stuff. I tell you, it’s great. The
distance people come! Makes it so much
easier to sell. If he’s been arguing with the
missus all the way from Doncaster, there’s no
way he’s going back emptyhanded. I just
commiserate about the traffic, point out a
few (no doubt fresh) stone chips on the trade-
in and lead them to the car. I make sure I
describe ’em pretty accurately, and once
they’re in, well: the feel of the wheel seals
the deal, as we say in the trade. Then it’s all
over bar the attempt at haggling (Him: “What
about £9,500? Me: Sorry, no. Him: okay).
They’ve got over the fact that the sumptuous
showroom they saw on the website actually
belongs to the double glazing guys next door
(beautiful things, digital pictures) and
everyone’s happy. Well, all except Mrs S. She’
s reckons it’s not cars I’m looking up on the
computer.
Franks’ month (May 06)
If Frank Savage was single, Saturday nights
would all be down the pub, taking bets on
how many pints before Crazy Dave a) uses his
one chat-up line on the barmaid and b)
swings at the soft lad with a pinecone for a
haircut. Thankfully for the wallet, one reason
I married Mrs S is that she’s good at getting
me mingling socially with potential punters.
But don’t imagine I’m just standing there in
me good Farahs bending everyone’s ear
about tasty one-owner Vectras. Frank’s a bit
smoother than that. When I’m asked what I
do, I tell ’em straight: I sell cars. Straightaway
we’re in a car conversation, and I didn’t do a
thing. Then comes the good bit. “So Frank, I’
m thinking of getting a new car. What do you
recommend?” What does he think I’m going
to do? Weigh up all the experiences I’ve ever
had with every make of car? Get real. I
recommend something on the lot. I don’t tell
him that of course, just say, well, those
Mazda 6s are quite reliable. Then later on I’ll
slip him a card and the bait is set. Of course,
a lot of car chat is wasted on me. So what do
you drive, Frank? Whatever’s on the bloody
lot of course. People think car salesmen swap
every three years, just like the civilians.
Wrong. Cars are profit to me, that’s all. Which
brings me to the follow-up car question. What’
s your favourite? I blether about that Porsche
Boxster I had, but is it bollocks. I once bought
this year-old Ford Mondeo 1.8 with a bumper
scratch for £3,000. Filled in the scratch, sold
it for nearly eight grand. Favourite car ever.
|
|
|
|
