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Show me the way to the exit
Page 32
Page 33
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Even the offer of sushi leaves CM's grumpy operator cold — when you just want to buy a vehicle, is the CV Show the best place to do it?
0 h joy. Solicitations to attend the CV Show are dribbling through the letter box. And so a world-weary operator's fancy turns to arson.
Rub it in , why don't you. Yes. I operate trucks. but no, I don't want to be reminded of the fact. And now you're inviting me to come and look at a lot more, some of which I can't afford, and none of which could be delivered by Christmas. Great. If you wanted to go the whole hog, why not invite me to the VAT man's Ball?
But yes,I do need a truck,although I'd rather buy a boat and be as far away from road transport as possible. But since that's not going to happen any time soon I need a new vehicle (notwithstanding the fact that the money would be better invested down the back of the sofa than in this money pit of an industry).
I mention my desires -merely in passing -to one of the local truck dealers."Come and see us in Birmingham," he says. "Better idea," I suggest. "As it's my money going into your pocket, why don't you come and see me here?"
Apparently its a bad time of year for them; they're busy at the show, although I do get an invitation for lunch on the stand.
Odd how a seemingly innocuous invitation can elicit the onset of the red mist. Oddly enough my nutritional needs are already sorted what I actually need is a commercial vehicle Not to look at or toy with, but to operate in the vain hope that I might make a living. Apparently the dealership can only thank me for my loyalty through the medium of sushi.
If I was a dolphin I'd probably lap it up, or whatever it is that dolphins do, but personally I can live without it. That said you can't seem to get a sandwich round here these days. So now I'm hungry and truckless.
And then there's the problem of the boy I'm trying to get him to take his Class I. on the basis that it's either hini,me or his ambivalent cousin who's going to have to plug the gap left by my loyal workforce.
Diesel dermatitis
Conversations with madame suggest an unwillingness on his part. -He's worried about diesel dermatitis," she tells me. "Tell me he's not been spilling the stuffI groan. 'It's not that simple", she explains"He's talking about doing a Media Studies course."
How splendid is this news? Now, in addition to having to bludgeon my numbers out of the bookkeepera man who manages to combine innumeracy and humourlessness in equal measure-I am faced with prospect of having to listen to Junior mincing about the place pontificating about copy flow and the Fourth Estate.
You know who started all this? The Post Office. I had my truck on order, and then, as if by magic, it seems that our premier home delivery service managed to lose some vehicles. Strange how they can keep their mitts on my billet doux from the Inland Revenue while retaining sight of a red tractor unit is beyond them. In return for this mix-up my dealer wants to give me "extra privileges". This means that in addition to full lounge access, every new vehicle comes with a free melon bailer and a personal rub-down from the Mayor of Rotterdam.
I've tried the others: the Germans want money -80 an hour for R&M in Hatfield. Gott in Himmel! Even my dentist doesn't charge those kind of rates.
The Swedes appear uncertain as to the nature of my request, while the French appear to have had their phone disconnected and the Italians, natch, are on holiday.
Left in a bind
Which leaves me in a bit of a bind. Junior suggested ebay, but I'm not so sure about these Japanese makes. I could go the secondhand route, but that means dealing with a used truck salesman.
And so it looks like we're off to the NEC, for some of the "come in, sit down, have some raw fish, how are the kids?" nonsense that pervades trade shows. "Thanks, no thanks, don't ask, where's my truck?" will be the response. At which point, no doubt, negotiations will be suspended as some minor Royal descends upon the gathering, doubtlessly arm-in-arm with that witless fool who represents the Society for Lesser Used Letters, or whatever they're calling themselves these days. Odd how that all works. I used to deal with the Department of Transport; now I get to speak to someone representing an organisation whose name is redolent of a skin disease. I don't know. Maybe it's a case of age and guile unmasking the reckless optimism of youth, or maybe it's simply a case of a dark loathing of almost everything to do with everything. I think therefore I am; I haul, therefore I despair. To the CV Show it is then. •