Scribe

Great news. You may recall the article that I’d been working on some little while ago for The Editor. Well after a lot of work it’s finally been accepted for publication and is going to be a six page spread in the magazine. Very exciting!

Not only that, we’re already discussing my next assignment!

It’s still very early days on the writing front and I’m far from counting any chickens, but this feels like a little progress at last and I’m desperate to get stuck into another article to try and keep the momentum going. The way I figure it, it’s potentially much easier to further a writing career as a published writer, rather than just an aspiring writer. If I can get a few decent articles published I may just be able to refer to myself as the former, which I hope will help.

I’m not sure yet when the article is set to be published, but I can’t wait to see it in print!

Da Management

The big news at the dealership is a change of management! The previous manager decided he’d had enough of targets and paperwork and quit quite suddenly. A minor company game of management musical chairs ensued, and the manager of a smaller provincial dealership arrived a few days later to take the reins.

Young, keen, earnest and professional, this guy is chalk and cheddar to the outgoing manager, like-able chap though he was. Suddenly we’ve got someone who’s always there, always helping, always supportive. He’s taken some of the admin workload weight and he’s very much there to help us do business. And the difference is immediately apparent, my personal sales are up a good fifty percent, this last four weeks being my busiest ever by some margin on used cars (which, oddly, seems to be where the money is to be made rather than new).

I’m also starting to see some decent money from this, always a strong motivator.

As to the job itself, well I’m half a year in at the end of this month, remarkably. The paper-trial doesn’t get any easier (albeit helped slightly by the new boss) but I feel on top of it as regards used cars, and definitely getting there with the new stuff. However the ease that knowledge and ability bring is offset by the quantity brought on by increased sales. And Motability sales remain a black art of form filling, computer inputting and organisation that I’d rather steer well clear of for the moment.

So the overview halfway through my first year is one of a continued building of success, very much aided and abetted by the change of boss. The mechanics of the job are not too difficult once grasped, there’s just so very much of it and the skill seems to be in the juggling of it all and making everything happen on time which can get a little stressful. All in all though, it’s a positive vibe and we’ll see how the summer pans out.

So far, so good then, and with the support I’m now getting I believe it can only get better.

Fast learner.

We were doing well over 100mph in a dark blue Focus ST when we came across the brow and met the obstruction…

Yup, I’m back at the Henry Ford College for more Ford Motor Company indoctrination, I mean product knowledge, and after a classroom based morning learning about Ford finance, latest technology, Internet selling and showroom etiquette we’re onto the practical stuff, learning about Ford and their competition, plus a couple of items of entertainment, hot laps in a high performance Ford being one of them.

The racing driver sat next to me in the driving seat went from full throttle in fourth to hard braking with a delicious crackle from the twin pipes. A beautifully smooth shift into third, flick flack through the coned chicane and back onto the power to a hard warble from those twin exhausts. More firm braking and the car is tipped into a tightening right-hander at a frankly unfeasible speed, and I’m pressed hard into the left-hand bolster of the Recaro passenger seat, weight of my crash helmet pulled toward the window as the power goes back on and the car dances through the apex of the curve in a perfect four wheel slide. My very own personal Stig apologised that it wasn’t a Focus RS this session, but from where I sat, grimly hanging onto the grab handle, it felt plenty quick enough.

Two minutes later we’re back in the pits and I’m getting my breath back as the next victim climbs in. I stand and watch as the car moves gently out of the pit lane onto the track and the back end dips slightly as full throttle is applied once more. The car rockets off up the straight, banshee howl punctuated by a fast change into third at the red line and then fourth followed by a stab of brake light as it disappears over the crest toward that coned chicane. Awesome!

Prior to that I’d been driving the track myself in fast convoy with about twenty other cars, half of them Ford Fiesta’s, half VW Polos. The idea was to highlight to us the superb driving dynamics and superiority of the Fiesta over the competition, and the Polos had been drafted in to make the point. The Fiesta is a really great car on the road, and so it proved on the track, instructors at each end of the convoy were the racing drivers piloting the Focus ST’s that were to provide the hot laps later, and they weren’t hanging about. I drove a Fiesta first and just as on the road it sits on tip toe, steered by the fingertips and instantly responsive to input. It would be interesting to see how the Volkswagon compared. After a spirited lap we trailed back into the pits and all swapped cars, Fiesta drivers piloting Polo’s and vice versa.

But as I sat in the Polo waiting for the off I noticed something interesting. The Fiesta’s were all Zetec S’s, the sports model with the biggest engine (1.6 turbo diesels in the cars provided), bigger wheels with wide low profile tyres for enhanced grip, and lowered stiffened sport suspension for flatter keener cornering. Just the job for track work. But what were these Polos? Plastic wheel trims were the first clue, asthmatic engines the second, they’d pitched the sporty Fiestas against Billy Basic bottom of the range Polo’s, narrow of tyre, soft of suspension and three cylinder petrol of engine. Not that far off half the price of those top spec Fiesta’s then, so hardly a shock that they didn’t compare out on the track. Come on Uncle Henry, have the courage of your convictions, if you’re going to sell us on the Fiesta’s superiority at least go like for like. Would a base model Fiesta Studio with the equivalent 1.25 60hp petrol engine have put up quite as convincing a case? We’ll never know.

I did smile to myself as I spotted the ESP button in the little VW though, that much trumpeted safety feature of my last Ford experience, standard in the most basic of Polo’s, and, err, optional extra on even the top end performance Fiesta… (In fairness they are going to be bringing this in to the standard specification shortly, and rightly so).

Car football was a welcome and fun diversion. Intended to demonstrate the nippiness of a Ka we were given a target time of 40 seconds to punt a huge inflatable football down a course, 360 degrees around an inflatable Fiesta, and then punt it into an inflatable goal. My time of forty one seconds had to be unassailable. Three people got it in dead on forty…

Other highlights were a road drive comparison test of a Focus against key competition. I tried a Peugeot of some sort, pleasant enough car but fair enough, the Focus bests it. Then a similar set up with the Ka against small car competition. A Vauxhall Agila was my steed for this event, and the Ka does feel and drive better, but it’s hard to argue against the back doors and extra space in the Vaux. Tiny bit cheaper than our Ka too (and interesting, incidentally, to see that Vauxhall offer a “price guide” to download from their site, not a price list. Doesn’t smack of confidence).

All in all an interesting visit, albeit with a degree of overlap to my last course (which was intended purely for newcomers to the marque, this one an update for all Ford sales employees).

That should be about it for training in the short term, back to the showroom now to put into practice my newly generated enthusiasm for all that is Blue Oval.

Quite fancy a Focus ST though, wonder how many cars I’d need to sell before I could negotiate one of those as my company car..!

Jagwhar

A recent panic regarding a pressing need for a tax disc for an ex motability car (hence unable to be taxed locally) and our driver snowbound saw me beetling up the dual carriageway to the nearby city one morning to visit the DVLA office and obtain said tax disc for a car which was due out later that day. The DVLA office is situated in the middle of a huge retail estate that also houses what must be almost every car marque currently available. Our group has four different franchises there alone!

Tax disc obtained it was time to leave, but a dicey combination of the bitter cold and middle aged plumbing left me in need of what I believe our American cousins refer to as a “comfort stop”. Unfortunately the only public facilities were a couple of miles in the wrong direction, but no matter, I had a cunning plan. I’d simply pop into a nearby car dealership on the auspices of picking up a brochure, and nip into the gents whilst I was there. Of course since brochures are free I had the run of pretty much any car make in existence to choose from so decided to go for a combination of nearness (I’m not getting any younger and pressing needs become ever more pressing with age) and prestige.

Just across the road I spied a Jaguar dealership. That’d do nicely.

Jaguar have come a long way even in the last few years. This once great marque was seen as close to the pinnacle of prestige many years ago, the chairman’s car, the prime ministers personal transport. But a combination of British Leyland influence (and build quality) in the eighties and bad product planning in the nineties (who on earth believed the X Type was a good idea) saw Jaguar limp bleeding into the noughties with an image that was more Arfur Daley and golf club wannabe than boardroom chic. Yes the prime minister still uses one, but Trousers Down Brown is hardly the ad exec’s dream brand ambassador.

Non the less I’ve always had a soft spot for dear old Jag, and I delight in their recent return to form with the cool and delightfully detailed XF and the Aston Martinesque XK. I hear they’re dropping the Jag wannabe X Type too, and I have very high hopes for the forthcoming XJ, a car that finally buries the whiff of tweed and pipe smoke forever.

I parked the company Fiesta (which, incidentally, has rather disappointingly stopped being vivid green and seems to have turned blue and sprouted an extra pair of doors) and pushed open the heavy glass showroom door. I was greeted politely by an immaculately coiffured salesman in an expensive suit and proper watch who enquired if he could be of assistance? I asked whether they had the brochure of the new XJ yet as my father had requested I pick one up for him. I did this for two reasons, firstly so that he wouldn’t want to take my details as a potential contact or engage me in conversation about the car (time and bladder were pressing), and secondly in case he’d clocked the Fiesta. I’d have hated for him to think I was some kind of timewaster who’d just popped in for a brochure and to use the loo’s…

Whilst he went to find me a brochure I popped to the loo and, mission accomplished, returned to the showroom. Our man from Jag had my glossy XJ marketing material all ready so I thanked him, bade him goodbye, and headed for the door. As I got there I stopped and took a last long reflective gaze at the beautifully furnished showroom, the glitteringly expensive cars, the church-like hush and the deep buttoned leather sofas that surrounded the expensive looking coffee table in the customer courtesy area.

And I thought “Hmmmm…”

PS. XJ Portfolio 3.0 V6 diesel, long wheelbase, in Lunar Grey, Cashew leather seats with Truffle contrast stitch and piping, Jet softgrain dash upper (anything too light just reflects in the windscreen on sunny days) and Canvas headlining, with Satin American Walnut veneers, and embossed Leaper on the headrests. 19″ Aleutian wheels, Bowers & Wilkins 1200w premium sound system, heated and cooled massaging seats front and rear, heated steering wheel with remote controls, adaptive front headlights, rear parking camera, DAB radio and digital television.

So far, so good.

As Christmas approaches and life slows a little in the car sales world I come to you in a contemplative mood tonight. We’re still shifting metal but the joys of Christmas preparations are clearly taking their time and toll on potential punters and we’re finding a little slack in the day, which is rather nice actually. Time to slow down and take stock.

So where are we at? Or more specifically, where am I at?

Well I seem to be finding my groove, slotting in. The thick fog of admin is starting to become a little clearer, not gone completely but more of a light mist with fog patches these days. I can muddle through most of it with little intervention. The computerised customer handling/car ordering/deposit taking/finance arranging/order form creating computer system called Kerridge is still proving a complete mystery however. Bits of it I can cope with, some of it I’m positively adroit at, but stringing it all together? No.

The journalism side of things rumbles on at it’s inexorably slow rate, but I did finally get to do that review, complete with photographer and engineer so who knows, if The Editor likes what I throw together it could yet prove to be a catalyst for future options. We shall see.

That Saab convertible sadly never came in so I missed out there. Funnily enough I spotted an identical one on the motorway today, could even have been the same one in fact, and it’s such a lovely looking car. But I’m a big believer in fate and I guess it wasn’t to be. Probably too soon to be thinking about such toys anyway so hey ho, onward and upward, maybe next year.

The Blonde is still very much in evidence, more so than ever in fact. It feels almost like a proper grown up relationship, a novelty for me but in a very good and positive way. She is of course more beautiful, wise, kind, supportive and warmhearted than ever. (Hello Al!) And she’s keeping the Polite Hatchback clean despite the filthy weather, bless her! We’re even spending Christmas together, awww…

Other than that, all pretty quiet on the Western Front. I’m not a winter person, I prefer to hibernate and wait for spring. Actually I’d prefer to jet out to Sandy Lane or Necker Island for the winter months, but I may have to find something just a tad more rewarding than car sales before I’m able to make that a reality.

But as we drift quietly toward Christmas I have to report that after what can best be described as an “interesting” year the vibe generally is good. Whilst not quite the dream ticket, life at Ford is proving comfortable and financially supportive, and good place to hide and ride out the financial turbulence that I fear hasn’t buffeted it’s last yet, and I think if nothing else it will prove a good move for the future.

I’m sure next year will be the start of fresh challenges and adventures and a blog full of rants, raves, and raconteurs, but for the moment I’m feeling mellow, settled, happy and generally at peace with the world.

So it just remains for me to thank you for all your support and good wishes this year, it really has been and still is genuinely appreciated.

And wish you all a very happy Christmas.

Idiot lights.

Arriving at work one bitterly cold day this week my early morning reverie was shattered by a phone call from an anxious customer. It seemed she’d been startled that same morning by a warning light that had mysteriously appeared on her dashboard. Was it ok to continue to drive the car, should she book it in to be checked?

I was about to politely transfer her to the service department and return to my early morning contemplation of life, the universe, and everything when I had a sudden suspicion. Could she describe the light to me, I wondered? Was there anything a little different about it?

Why, yes there was now I mentioned it, she reported. It wasn’t a usual round lamp, it had a jagged edge. A little like a snowflake in fact. What could it possibly mean?

“Simple my dear lady, it means you’re too stupid to own a car. Please sell it at once and catch the bus from now on” I replied. In my head. I smiled down the phone and gently explained to her that there was no cause for alarm, it was simply the “frost alert” that triggered below five degrees centigrade to warn the driver of the possibility of ice on the road.

There’s always one I mused, replacing the handset.

An hour later a chap dropped in. He was on holiday, didn’t have his handbook in the car, was concerned about a mysterious warning light that had appeared on the dash of his C-Max.

It seems that there is in fact more that one…

Lead us not into…

It wasn’t even our dealership. Another company within the group had a customer local to us who was interested in a new car, and they were sending one up for him to see and so that they could have a look at his. Nothing for us to do except introduce them to one another and leave them to it.

I thought no more of it until a low sleek Saab 93 Aero Cabriolet swept onto the forecourt just after the new car had arrived.

Now everyone has their predilections. Some people like art, others are into fine dining or malt whiskies or horse racing or expensive watches (ahem) or foot worship. Hey, whatever floats your boat.

But I like, and I mean really like open top cars. And for strange and unexplained reasons perhaps linked to some bizarre childhood experience involving Swedish furniture I’ve always had a soft spot for Saab Convertibles.

This one was a classic looking 2002 car with only 48,000 miles. Silver with a blue soft top, full leather, air conditioning and the essential heated seats, I could hear it calling me softly from the other side of the plate glass showroom window.

I tried to put it out of my mind, I’ve only been with the company eight weeks, far too early to be spending money on expensive and unnecessary toys. (Yes alright Al, far too early to be spending money on any more expensive and unnecessary toys).

I made a quick call to the sales manager of the other dealership, was it coming in part exchange, any idea how much? Maybe, and not too mad a price.

Half an hour later I watched it glide quietly back out. I can’t, I mustn’t, I shan’t, I won’t.

Probably.

Just like Oscar Wilde, I can resist everything except temptation…

Death and taxes.

They burst through the door in a noisy explosion of pushchairs, Primark and under fives. Seems she’d just dropped her fourth and they needed a bigger motor. A brand new twenty two grand S-Max people carrier fits the bill rather well they’d decided, very nice too.

The finance appraisal was revealing. She didn’t work, he’d been working a few months as a building labourer, part time mind, don’t want to overdo these things. House all provided for them, naturally.

The new S-Max was out of reach, but a nice four year old low mileage model was within their monthly budget. At late twenties and with a couple of their kids happily destroying the showroom behind their oblivious parents I couldn’t help rather bitterly musing that maybe they were only another sprog and a nice ADHD carers allowance away from that new S-Max after all.

Those who’ve been with this blog from the beginning will recall my ruminating on the benefit system in this country before. It seems to me that very quickly into adulthood (and sometimes before) you’re designated a giver, or a taker. Either you relax into a warm bath of benefits, council houses and kids, and reward yourself with a shiny ten grand S-Max once you pass four sprogs, or you get labeled a worker bee and you get out there and you earn and you pay and you pay and you earn. And you pay. After all, someone has to keep the system afloat.

I had good reason to reflect on this a day or two after the S-Max family. Twenty five years of giving had entitled me to the princely sum of £64/week and a bit of help with the council tax when I lost my job. Not enough to finance a pair of roller skates. Or live on. Pretty clear which category I fall into.

Indeed, over my nearly six month period of unemployment I was able to claim the princely sum of precisely £1,240-08. A rather exact figure, but there’s a good reason why I know this. And it’s because a day or two after the S-Max family were in choosing their new wheels I received a letter from the Department of Work and Pensions.

It seems that now I’m back to my rightful place on the treadmill they’d like some of it back please. And to that end they’ve informed me that the entire amount is now liable for income tax and will be added to my earnings for the purposes of claiming it back from me.

A rough calculation suggests that £385 will be clawed back. Over a quarter of it! Absolutely staggering!!!

And bear this in mind, I’m earning much less than I was. Had I secured a job at my previous pay-scale I could have been taxed on some or all of it at 40%!

Still, I suppose someone has to keep the takers in fags, booze, satellite TV’s and five figure motorcars.

Benjamin Franklin once postulated that “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

He was right. Especially about the taxes.

Innit.

Contestant ready!?

Remember Gladiators? Brilliant series screened in the early ’90s and more recently re-created on Sky although I understand without the same level of success. For those that haven’t seen it, it was an adversarial game show where members of the public went up against The Gladiators in various battles such as trying to swing via ropes from one platform to another whilst the gladiator tried to intercept and then bring them down. At the end of the show their score was transposed into a head start time in a race against a Gladiator around an indoor assault course, finishing with the dreaded Travelator, which was basically an inclined treadmill like a down escalator without steps which they had to run up. This took real determination as it was running at some speed and they had to outpace it to the top, whilst of course being chased (or chasing) a Gladiator.

Well the last six weeks has felt a little like that Travelator as I’ve raced like mad to try and learn the many and manifold procedures and systems without tripping and falling, sliding straight back down to the bottom again. And in truth that I don’t feel like I’m off it yet, but as things start to come together I’m able to run a little less hard and still feel like I’m making progress.

I’ve also managed a few days off for a mini-break with The Blonde. And boy, did I need them. A couple of nights away at a very lovely hotel by the coast was just what was needed to recharge the batteries, fall back and re-group. I didn’t realise just how very tired I was till I stopped (I think even The Blonde was surprised) but I felt absolutely drained. Fortunately the weather was perfect, strong winds and persistent rain curbed even The Blondes penchant for walking miles and miles, substituting instead a session in the wonderful spa facilities where the welcoming embrace of a heated pool and a wonderful jacuzzi helped sooth shattered mind.

We came home refreshed and renewed and I returned to the metaphorical treadmill reinvigorated.

In truth, car sales isn ‘t that hard. The challenge has been learning a completely new job whilst being thrown in at the deep end to just get on with it, which can be a stressful approach. In particular there seems to be no instructional process, it’s simply a case of muddling through and relying on colleagues for help and guidance which has, I fear, been frustrating for all at times.

So how’s it going? Well, I’m shifting a few cars, both new and used. And I think that once I get properly up to speed it’ll be ok. Whether I see myself doing it for another twenty years is another matter, but for the moment it’s a job and it’s an income and right now that’s paramount.

What I do need to try and do however is up the pressure on the writing side of things. And with that in mind I’ve been in touch with The Editor again to push on with the big test review I’m supposed to be writing. Like everything it’s proving not to be without it’s challenges. But that’s life and yet again we muddle through.

Muddling through, it seems to be the watchword for the moment…

The last rites.

British Racing Green is an evocative colour for an MG convertible. Add black leather to the mix and it’s a smart little fun roadster. The MGF in question had both, and although getting on a bit (it was a T plate so 1999) the mileage was low and condition more than fair. It was the owners pride and joy, she loved that car but needed something more practical and the deal was too good to refuse so it went in p/x against a brand new Fiesta.

I watched the new owners pick the little MG up, lowering the hood before gleefully roaring off up the road to the crisp blare of the mid mounted 1.8 litre engine. I hope they enjoyed that cars run to it’s new home, it’d be its last. They were scrap dealers, the car yet another victim of Gordon Browns innovative scrappage scheme. A “book” p/x price of about £900 for the MG made it a no brainer.

Now don’t get me wrong, we’ve seen some terrible old clunkers go through the system, their appointment at the jaws of the crusher long overdue. But there’s some awful waste going on around it, that MGF just one example of a perfectly good perfectly serviceable motor car being killed in the name of being “green” in the non British Racing sense.

Trouble is, no one’s yet managed to convince me quite how crushing perfectly good cars and replacing them with brand new ones that might use a bit less fuel, but come with all the inherent ecological cost involved with building and delivering a car (remember many of these come by ship from far flung corners of the globe) might be an ecologically good thing. Let’s be honest, it isn’t is it? The green thing to do would be to keep old cars on the road as long as practically possible, not throw them away after ten years and build new ones in their place.

The only real beneficiaries of the scheme are the motor traders, who get a sales boost by being able (with Government “help”) to sell cars to certain people for £2,000 less, and those customers able to benefit. So why not extend the scheme to anyone? Simply offer £2,000 off to anyone who wants to buy a new car. Because if you did that you wouldn’t be creating the forced demand that killing thousands of perfectly serviceable cars creates. Forget the green credentials of this scheme then, it’s a pure money making scheme for the dealers and for the Government.

Money making for the Government? Aren’t they the ones funding the scheme? Well yes. And yet, no. Scrap your perfectly serviceable MGF for the most basic Ford Fiesta for example, and you’ll get a £2,000 scrappage allowance off the circa £11K price tag making it £9K on the road. Now the manufacturer has to fund half of that discount, the government the other half, so Gordon’s only in for a £1,000. And immediately the car is sold they instantly recoup over £1,000 in VAT! Make it a £22K Mondeo and the government is still in for a grand, but with well over two coming straight back! Not daft are they?

So is it a good scheme? By and large yes it is. It doesn’t really cost the government (hence us) anything. The dealers are down a grand on each sale but happy with the increased business. And plenty of happy buyers are sporting about in brand new motors with far more discount than they’d ever have achieved normally.

But as I watched that poor old MG disappear on it’s final journey, paintwork glistening, roof down and exhaust growling, off to join the ranks of perfectly decent cars being destroyed for no real benefit to anyone, I couldn’t help thinking that something somewhere just wasn’t quite right…