By Isle of Wight Observer
Good businesses make life easy for their customers. Unfortunately, like everything else in life now, buying and servicing cars is hopelessly complicated.
I just took mine for a service on the mainland – there’s no Island-based dealership anymore. The huge jazzily-lit showroom in Basingstoke must’ve cost millions and was staffed by pretty young women. Bizarrely, all seemed dressed for a night out. Their ‘uniform’ included heels and heavy make-up. I’m no fashion or beauty expert, but I’d swear they’d all had work done, mostly lip fillers.
At my age, I don’t look at women as I once did, and those under 50 certainly don’t notice me. So, here’s the thing, when did looking like a rejected ‘Love Island’ contestant become a thing in the workplace?
Garages used to be oily places, with rags, ramps, overalls and pits. Car sales sites were flat open spaces festooned with bunting. If you looked around their inventory, a cheesy man in a sheepskin jacket would appear to coo over the car you were admiring. He’d describe its features, advantages and benefits. Soon, he’d offer a test drive or ‘demonstration’ without checking your licence. While fixing the trade plates, he’d establish where you worked and if you had any part exchange. He’d verify the mileage, and how many owners yours had before you’d bought it. Was it serviced regularly? Is the record book in the glovebox? Inevitably, they’re all online now; paper is so last century.
After fifteen minutes of gentle probing and a short drive, you’d be in a warm portacabin office, silently waiting as he thumbed a well-used Glasses trade guide. Eventually, he’d emit a huge sigh and offer you half the amount you hoped your car was worth. “If only you’d bought the one with the bigger engine,” he’d say, knowledgably.
There was further disappointment when he examined your old banger. That cracked wing mirror you’d meant to replace, the scratch on the bumper and the accumulated dings and dents would be pointed out in detail. He’d note that your well-worn tyres were four different brands. He’d have to rectify all these defects before selling it on.
The final hammer-blow came when he said, “The trouble is, no-one wants those anymore.” Crestfallen, you’d reluctantly agree that he was indeed doing you a favour, taking it off your hands for little more than scrap value. You’d shake on it and pay a deposit – always in cash of course. Despite serious buyer’s remorse, days later, you’d pick the car up and show it off to your mates.
I miss those halcyon days. None of the wannabe models working in that jazzily-lit Basingstoke dealership bothered approaching me; they were too engrossed in their iPhones.
Maintaining vehicles now requires booking months in advance and there’s never a loan car. Main agent service is often awful and always at extortionate prices. This time I had a £300 oil change – plus the ferry obviously. Whenever I book the service date, they demand to know what time I’ll arrive? I’ve been early twice now and each time they’ve made me wait until my allotted time slot.
They did wash my car this time, but presumably used water from a nearby puddle. The interior set me wondering if the technician had just enjoyed “Bring Your Wet Dog to Work Day” while replacing my oil.
Car electrics are reminiscent of ’70s Longbridge now, despite new car asking prices being utterly audacious. My latest experience convinced me that my next car will be an old one. I’m done with main dealerships, heavy depreciation and technology. I don’t want to be ‘beeped’ at anymore, either. I certainly don’t want regular ‘software updates,’ dodgy electrics, or a radio that takes longer to warm up than our ’60s TV. I want simplicity.