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Monday, 9 July 2012

Something for the lucky laydee?
Today, lucky kraken-lovers, I thought you'd like to hear about my car-buying experiences. I know, I know, you can thank me when you see me. Anyway, my little kraken family and I bought a car this weekend, and while it was eventful only because it was piss easy, it did remind me of the utter fucking horrors of my previous 41 years.
You know, being a car buying woman is the equivalent of Gary Glitter managing an outlet of Mothercare: for some reason it horrifies people. Whenever I have stepped onto a garage forecourt with a pocket full of cash I'm either laughingly regarded as a girl who mistook the showroom for a shoe shop or I'm spoken to as if I'm Helen Keller. Invariably the experience includes being accosted by a man with a Burtons suit and a gob full of transparent sales talk, the sort these guys don't expect you to see through for the simple reason that you have periods. If I'm there alone I'm spoken to as if I'm planning to leap from a ledge. If I'm with a man I don't get spoken to at all, even if I'm asking the questions, or I become the lucky recipient of quips about car colours and whether the pram will fit in the boot. Fuckers.
I did, though, come face to face with the devil incarnate when I wandered into Newport's Carcraft a few years ago and I'm as sure as shit that this would never have happened to a bloke. After buying a car for exactly the amount I wanted to spend - my haggling was a thing of tear-inducing beauty - I was ushered into a little room where the sales guy (with the obligatory lurid tie) tried to coerce me into buying a warranty. Course, he was dealing with The Kraken and, by Christ, The Kraken said no. 
This, though, wasn't good enough for the fat fuck because he kept on and on and on about it, each time getting more and more puce-faced. In fact, with each of my refusals to buy his warranty he became more bananas until he was standing over his desk, slapping it with his hands and yelling at me. Yes, yelling. And moi? I just sat there smiling, watching his commission slipping away from his greasy grasp. It was at this point that he raged from the room, quite possibly to succumb to a stroke, only for an older, calmer sales guy to try his luck on me. This greaser had a little more sense, realising that I'd dug my hooves in so hard he'd need the tow truck to get me out. Minutes later I was released back into the wild, giving the infuriated salesman a jaunty wave as I went. As I said, this was in Carcraft in Newport. Avoid the fuckers like it's a plague-infested black rat.
Anyway, would this have happened to a man I wonder? Fuck no. Which is why went we want car-shopping this weekend I was expecting bloodstains on the forecourt. Because after 41 years of being treated like an imbecile when it comes to distributor caps I'm pretty much up to here with the patronising banter and condescending chat. 
Thankfully for this weekend though, I'm now the owner of a car without having paid with my dignity. Yup, it was cash only and, you know, for the first time ever, I don't feel the need for ram raiding.


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