This is particularly true when I’m hunting around for a large, expensive item, like a car or holiday.
The more money you’re spending, the more stressful the job becomes, because you know it’s a big decision. You’ve saved for months and want to know you’re getting your money’s worth, don’t you?
I have virtually no problem with small stuff, like scanning the racks of HMV for a blu-ray, or picking out a new pair of jeans in the Gap.
Big items are a totally different matter.
Time for another anecdote:
I’m thirty two and thinking of buying a new car.
The Volvo I’ve been nursing around for eight years has finally reached the end of its days. I know this because every time I turn the steering wheel, it knocks like the knees of a nervous chorus girl.
When I switch the engine off, the whole car makes a dispirited groaning noise, before settling back on its worn suspension like an old man collapsing into his arm chair after a hard day’s shuffleboard with the lads down the working men’s club.
I buy all the right car magazines and pour through them, looking at pages and pages of automobiles.
I talk to my wife, telling her all about the type of car I’d like, showing her pictures I’ve ringed with a highlighter.
There’s something in the male psychology that responds to the internal combustion engine - even men like me, who have little or no appreciation of how the thing works.
My wife looks at the highlighted cars, listens calmly to me going on about the one I want and then tells me the type of car I’m actually going to have.
I want a sports car you see, one with fat tyres and an engine that sounds like a lion with a chicken bone stuck in its throat.
Something vaguely resembling a penis would be corking, too…
My wife just wants one in a nice burgundy colour, reliable and cheap to run.
There’s all the evidence you need for why men and women are very different creatures… and why women tend to win arguments like this.
With the options narrowed down to something burgundy and big enough to carry one man, one woman, one small child and the three tons of baby equipment that go with him, I set off for the local garages on a car hunting expedition.
It doesn’t go well.
I find nothing I like in the budget I have - certainly nothing in burgundy anyway. I return home dispirited and contemplate another few months of nursing the Volvo around trying to ignore the knocking.
The next day, I try again.
The wife comes this time, automatically making it twice as bad an experience.
This is not to say she does anything wrong, it’s just that:
Man + Woman in car for four hours with conflicting ideas = Hell on Earth.
Chuck the baby into the mixture and Hell on Earth can’t even begin to describe it.
This day is a failure as well and I starting to twitch every time I drive past a burgundy car.
Eventually - at nearly five o’clock - we’re preparing to go home.
I’ve smoked a pack of cigarettes, she’s got a face like thunder and Tom has dropped a load in his shorts, making the Volvo not only drive like shit, but smell like it too.
We’re headed in the direction of home, visiting one last garage on the way back. It’s small, independently run, with only a tiny entry in the Yellow Pages.
We roll past it… and I spot automotive Heaven.
The car might as well have been surrounded in a halo of bright, white light with angels sitting on the bonnet waving at me.
A buzzing neon sign should have been hovering above it, saying Buy me, Spalding!
It’s the car I want. The car I must have!
We’ll leave me sat in the Volvo salivating for the moment to take a brief aside:
At that time in life – thirty two and a new father - I’m harbouring a desire for one of those cars corporate businessmen drive.
I’ve just started working at a marketing company and while I’m not massively swayed by the image thing, I feel something along the lines of a BMW or a Mercedes would give me the right kind of look that an important go-getting marketing superstar should have.
And there it sits!
Perfection - or as near to it as my bank balance will let me get.
It’s a BMW 5 Series, up for the asking price of £6000.
While it’s not burgundy, it is a deep shade of red. Close enough to please the wife’s aesthetic sensibilities.
The squeal of the Volvo’s brakes echo along the street as I turn sharply into the garage forecourt.
The sound of my wife’s protests ring in my ears, forming a two-part harmony with the rapid-fire knocking of the Volvo’s steering column. Tom begins crying in the back in great gasping wails.
The combined din creates a symphony of distress only a deaf person could love.
The Volvo bucks over a bump at the entrance and exhaust fumes billow out impressively. It’s like something out of a really action-packed episode of 24 – without the shouting, complicated electronic gadgets and man bag.
I park the car - which groans as I turn the ignition off - and jump out like I’m auditioning for a part in a Bruce Willis movie.
The grin of a six year old boy spreads across my face as I approach the BMW (alright, I sprint up to it like an idiot) and take in its automotive majesty.
The wife gets out of the car, leaving Tom to wallow in the stench of his latest creation and comes to stand beside me, knowing full well getting much sense out of me is going to be like pulling teeth.
‘You like it then?’ she says, arms crossed and stoic expression on her face.
‘Yeah. Yeah. I really do! It’s fantastic!’ says the six year old, trapped in my thirty two year old body.
‘It’s a bit pricey, isn’t it?’ she points out, a frown appearing.
‘We can afford it. We can!’ says mister six year old, his legs starting to tremble with excitement. ‘Look! It’s a BMW!’
‘Yes, I can see that. What with the car’s badge being two feet in front of me and everything.’
‘I’ve always wanted a BMW!’
‘Have you really? I’d never have guessed.’
My wife’s thinly veiled sarcasm is lost on me as I begin to look around the car, checking all the things I can remember are important at times like this:
Rust on the bodywork and wheel arches, condition of the tyres, signs of welding… and so on and so forth.
I almost look as if I know what I’m doing to the casual observer.
I don’t of course, but I can stroke my chin thoughtfully and tap bits of metal right up there with the best of them.
All practical considerations go right out the window when I look at the interior and spot the leather upholstery.
It looks extremely comfortable and it’s large enough in there for a family of illegal immigrants to live in.
There also appears to be an on-board computer, which I can see myself playing with endlessly.
The car doesn’t really look much like a penis and the tyres are only moderately fat, but I can already hear the growling engine note in my head.
The Germans make very good cars, there’s no doubting that.
I came up with a Spalding Theory ™ on this a while back and here it is:
Horrendous War Crimes Equal Well Made Automobiles.
Think about it…
The Germans - instigators of two world wars and some of the worst cruelty ever inflicted by man, and the Japanese - who tortured POWs, made forced labour marches and butchered half of China in the 1930s.
Both countries produce attractive, well built motor cars:
BMW, Audi, Mercedes, Volkswagon, Honda, Mitsubishi, Subaru, Nissan.
This is opposed to the so called ‘good guys’ of world conflict, who do the exact opposite.
The Americans produce wallowing trifles on wheels that suck gas and can’t take a corner. The French make cars that are largely plastic, have trim that falls off in five mi
nutes and break down nearly as quickly.
And as for the British motor industry… I think that was declared clinically dead in 1985. If you’ve ever driven an Austin Montego, I pity you and can recommend some excellent therapists.
I don’t know if any of this is relevant, but it’s something to ponder, eh?
Regardless of how the Germans behaved in the war, they make a damn fine BMW 5 Series. The Bavarian Motor Works company have really come up trumps on this one.
I want this car. I want it now!
‘We’d better find someone,’ says the wife, consigned to the fact her husband has regressed twenty four years and a BMW will soon be sitting on the driveway.
As if on cue, out saunters the salesman. He’s dressed in a suit bought for too much money off the rack, a pair of the shiniest shiny shoes you’ve ever seen and an orange tan from his two weeks contracting STDs in Ibiza.
He has a look in his eye.
The kind usually reserved for big game hunters when they spot the last elephant in the area minding its own business at the waterhole.
‘Hello there, sir. Can I help you?’
Well of course you can help me you idiot! You can make my dreams come true!
‘Yes. I think you can. I’m interested in this BMW.’ I’m trying to sound cool. I’m trying to sound aloof. I’m trying to sound like an adult. And I’m nearly succeeding. All that’s ruining the effect is that my voice has gone up a couple of octaves and I’m jigging back and forth on the spot like a morris dancer with haemorrhoids.
‘Yeah? Good choice, sir. It’s only been on the forecourt for a day. Already got someone interested in it, but I’m sure we can come to an arrangement, sir.’
He may be saying sir but he’s thinking chump.
He’s smiling like the Cheshire cat.
He’s metaphorically rubbing his hands together and laughing like a villain from a Batman comic.
To him, I look like a giant lemon holding a fistful of money.
I notice none of this.
We then proceed to have a very manly discussion.
We talk of previous owners and mileage. We expound at length on service history and reliability.
He tells me the car is genuine and honest, like he’s describing the characteristics of a man he met in a bar and not a lump of inanimate metal.
I nod my head sagely and remark on how the Germans always make good cars, despite their international human rights record.
My wife has by this time returned to the car, where she’s trying to entertain my rapidly tiring son.
The salesman suggests a test drive. I nod so hard it gives me a headache.
I persuade the wife to come along, so she can share in the glory of the leather upholstery and smooth ride.
The salesman gives me the keys and we all pile in.
I ignore the anxious looks he keeps throwing at my son on the back seat. He’s no doubt terrified that at any moment Tom is going to vomit all over the BMW’s expensive leather interior. I could’ve assured him that if it were ever going to happen, it would only be well after I’d bought the car and the family was two hundred miles up the M25 on a bank holiday weekend.
I start the engine and it purrs into life.
Driving out of the forecourt I feel like a king and proceed to drive the BMW around the local area, resisting the impulse to wave graciously at passers-by.
During all of this I don’t even think to ask any questions, or check the quality of the electrics, suspension, lights or gears. I’m totally mesmerised by the lovely LCD on-board computer display, the miles-per-gallon gauge and the power steering.
I ask my wife if she’d like a go. She gives me an expression that speaks volumes and I let it pass.
We return safely to the forecourt, the grin on my face now so big the top of my head is in danger of falling off with a wet plop.
We get out and I inexplicably give the car a gentle pat on the bonnet. The salesman notes this and pound signs start floating in front of his eyes.
We then start to haggle.
This is where problems occur…
I can’t haggle. I’m useless at it.
I’m the type of person who likes to have a price staring them straight in the face from the get-go, with no chance of variation. Life is much simpler, and transactions proceed with a smoothness I adore.
The prospect of standing toe to toe with someone who is no doubt infinitely better at haggling than I am makes me nauseous.
The term or nearest offer fills me with dread.
Even using Ebay makes me break out in a cold sweat.
My new salesman friend begins the process by saying the car can’t go for less than £5,900. I say I’ll chuck in the Volvo as part exchange. He says that’ll knock off the paltry sum of a hundred quid, which shows he has enough talent at the car game to recognise a dying dog when he sees it.
I say it’s only ten years old and has got to be worth at least two hundred.
He looks at me in disgust.
Distress and panic set in.
Any hold I have over the negotiations flies out of the window and I start to make truly idiotic bids.
I tell him I’ll give him three grand for the car. Half its value.
He laughs, tells me I’m winding him up and reiterates the previous offer. I’ve already forgotten about using the Volvo as part exchange and counter with the genius bid of £5,850, thus putting myself another fifty quid out of pocket.
He looks stunned by this and starts to back away.
I stare at him for an uncomfortable amount of time before lowering my eyes and shuffling my feet.
It’s all going away from me at this point.
I’m so out of my depth I’m bumping into sperm whales and giant squid.
Floundering, I do the only thing at this point that might save my bacon… I call the wife over.
She comes, arms folding across her chest, taking in the situation with one glance. Knowing her husband and knowing what has to be done, she talks to the salesman and I melt into the background, feigning an interest in the condition of the alloy wheels.
My wife starts her own method of negotiating, which is to speak in the same low, monotonous tone and stare directly into the salesman’s eyes. It’s like watching a mongoose sizing up a snake.
Some time passes and I surface from my detailed alloy inspection to be told that we can have the car for £5,500 and absolutely no less.
I nod my head enthusiastically and delve into my pocket for my wallet, like I’m going to produce the cash there and then. I’m stopped by my wife and told we have to go into the salesman’s office to sort out the paperwork. This sinks in and I return the wallet in a hurry.
As my wife goes to collect Tom, I notice the salesman getting a good eyeful of her bottom. I instantly understand why we got five hundred quid off the car, and why all negotiations with salesman of any kind will henceforth be done by her.
Some thirty minutes later I emerge from the office in dreamy contentment.
I own a BMW.
With the key fob in my hand, I float towards my new acquisition on a wave of happiness. My wife and the salesman exchange parting pleasantries. He remarks on how sweet Tom is and she wishes him a nice rest of the weekend. Tom looks up from his kiddie seat with dribble around his mouth and a wide eyed smile.
Twenty feet away, his father looks exactly the same.
I press the alarm activator on the key fob. The alarm goes beep beeeeeeep beeep, the doors unlock and the lights flash.
I’m in Heaven.
I continue to stay in nirvana as we drive away from the salesman - who knows he’s just sold a five thousand pound car for five hundred quid extra - and set off for home.
I take a really, really long route.
For the next month, the sound of the alarm activating or de-activating will give me a little thrill every time I hear it. I’ll occasionally look at the car from the front window of my house and will spend more time than is necessary on a Su
nday morning cleaning it.
I don’t mind the fact that my bank balance is now a hell of a lot smaller, or that my petrol consumption has sky rocketed. My friends at work like the car and I can tell they’re all just a bit jealous.
Everywhere I go, I drive upright and proud, grinning all the time.
The car may not look like a penis, but I more than make up for that by looking like one myself while I drive it.
The car won’t start to have problems for nearly a year and a half, and by that time I have far larger concerns.
Namely, the increasing likelihood that my wife - who so neatly stepped into fill the breach on that garage forecourt - is going to divorce me.
11.56 pm
11907 Words
That ended on a bit of a down note, didn’t it?
Sorry about that.
I didn’t intend it to, but these things happen.
I’ll be honest with you, I considered deleting the last paragraph to finish the story on a high, but then decided against it. After all, I said I was going to be honest with you and that’s what came out on the page.
You may be wondering what went wrong with my wife and I promise to get to it before this book is done.
I’m going to leave it for a while though, if you don’t mind. It’s the kind of thing I need a good run up to.
So, how are we doing as the night drags on and these chairs deaden the feeling in our posteriors?
Not too bad I think, not too bad at all.
I’m still feeling pretty fresh. Still up for some rock n’ roll.
Hope you are too.
It looks like I’ve still got your attention and that’s a very good thing.
By this point in a book the reader has pretty much decided whether they’re enjoying themselves, and will probably stick it out to the end if they are.
Our friendship is growing all the time and it looks like you’ve relaxed in my company.
Look…you’ve taken off your shoes and put your feet on the desk. Both good signs that you’re content.
There might be aspects you’d change if you could, I’m sure.
Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) Page 4
