Hamish McShanks

Hamish McShanks Secret Diary w/e 2^nd October 2005

Liar: A person who tells lies. Synonyms would include fibber, prevaricator, cheat, charlatan, storyteller, defrauder, equivocator, estate agent and of course ‘second hand car dealer’. Sadly circumstances beyond my control have forced me into close contact with the latter of these hustlers.

Normally I would be quite keen for close contact with a hustler, if we were referring to the large stash of magazines I found poorly hidden in my fathers shed aged thirteen. That was me by the way, I’ve no idea how old the shed was. To be honest it wasn’t upper most in my mind at that moment. I was more interested in how I was going to ‘relocate’ said merchandise from the shed to my bedroom. You’d be amazed how difficult it is to hide a magazine under your jumper. Anyway that’s not important just now because the hustler I was faced with was of the car salesman variety.

It was rather a nasty set of circumstances that had led me to this position. In fact it was my mum that had the real bad luck. She was driving slowly (and very sensibly) down a single-track road. When all of a sudden an extremely foolish young man, filled with drink and devoid of a cerebrum attempted to take a near blind corner at sixty miles an hour. Thankfully the crumple zones crumpled, the airbag deployed and the seatbelt did its job. My mum was able to exit the vehicle shaken and now extremely stirred. So much so she felt compelled to voice the opinion that the young man might be of a somewhat retarded and illegitimate nature.

The police removed the inebriated young man to a place of safety (i.e. out of my mums reach) Unfortunately her car was now a good deal shorter than at the start of her journey. Certainly beyond the help of a wee sup filler and some T-cut. It was a total write off. The only consolation was the wee shite that caused the crash was banned from driving within five days of the accident. My only complaint was that he didn’t get forty lashes and hung by his balls until he was dead. A tad harsh you might think but it would certainly cut down on re-offending. Well it would stop him re-offending that’s for sure.

Anyway being the golden boy and favourite son I nobly agreed to let my mother have my car. It was absolutely nothing to do with the losing of a game of scissors, paper, stone that myself and my two brothers played over a dish full of car keys. Whilst I may have been runner up in this meaningless game I obviously gave up my motor vehicle because I love my mum the most…..

But just on a theoretical point, I would like to suggest that in the game of Scissors, paper, stone claiming a ‘re-toss’ because your paper is laminated and your opponents’ scissors are plastic is not in the spirit of the game. Neither is the claim that your stone is ‘volcanic’ and has set the fire to the paper a valid assertion. Despite an exhaustive Internet search I was not able to procure a set of ‘authenticated’ rules so had to acquiesce to the decision of the conniving back stabbing two-faced Judases that claim to be my brothers. But as the saying goes ‘Don’t get mad, get a big stick’ (no that’s not a typo)

So it was with a heavy heart I stepped on to the forecourt. Very much like my Hoover purchasing escapades the salesman seemed to fall into two distinct categories.

In one camp you have the I’m just going to sit in my office smoking cigarettes and scratching my lazy fat arse whilst completely ignoring all the punters category. No amount of waving twenties will bring these lardbuckets out of their cosy office whilst a page three tit is on offer or a crumb of scotch pie is to be had. For the purpose of brevity we will refer to these individuals as ‘The Fat Boys’.

Camp two is composed of extremely pushy and insistent men (it’s always men) who have crisp white shirts, pristine suits & ties and wear gallons of cheap aftershave. They always strike me as rodent in nature. They will attempt to steer you towards the biggest most expensive pile of rusty shite you’ve ever had the misfortune to clap your eyes on. They will be talking talking talking ALL the time. These are the ‘Weasels’.

I was ambling down the first row of vehicles ‘Renault Clio?’, ‘Nope a bit girly’, ‘Fiat Chinquecento?’, ‘alright if I lived in Lilliput’, ‘Porsche 924?’, ‘A bit-‘ This loud nasal voice suddenly appeared at my ear ‘Oh An excellent choice sir!’, ‘Forfuuuu-‘ I nearly shat my pants. ‘For Christ sake it’s dangerous to creep up on people’ I shouted clutching my tightening chest. The weasel continued on unperturbed at my outburst.

He was running his hand lovingly over the front wing, almost caressing the paintwork. It was rather unsettling ‘A mans car this one sir, for real men’ I raised my eyebrows as I peered back into his beady little eyes ‘What as opposed to fake men?’, ‘An eighteen hundred four cylinder engine sir’, ‘get a lot of impostors in here do you?’ I continued. ‘Purrs like a cat sir, oh very smooth, very very smooth’, ‘unlike your patter it would seem’, ‘Leather upholstery sir, can you smell it? Can you?’, ‘Well I certainly smell a lot of bull’. He was oblivious to my sarcasm and I managed to edge away as he leant his head against the bonnet and kissed the paintwork.

The site portacabin had the obligatory fat boy ensconced inside. A four pack of pies nestled on the edge of his desk with one hand reaching out to wrestle the nearest offering out of the cellophane wrapper. Thankfully the rest of his porcine features were obscured behind a copy of the daily star. The murmurings of ‘phooarr look at the jugs on that’ suggested he was going to be occupied for some time. I felt able to peruse the remainder of the ‘fleet’ in peace. It didn’t take long.

I wonder if they are all numerically dyslexic because you look at the numbers in the window of the car and ye think ‘aye if ye just swap that 1 and that 6 around you’d be nearer the mark. Or ‘och they’ve obviously put that up in the wrong car’ as you stare incredulously at the suggested price for a decaying lump of painted tin.

Or perhaps I’m just a miserable tight baldy teuchter who thinks ye should be able to buy a brand new car, get five years free servicing, two thousand pounds cash back, a holiday to Hawaii and a blow job form a stunning brunette all for thruppance ha’penny! If Carlsberg sold cars that’s all I’m saying …….

Anyway must go I’ve got a stick to sharpen and a few jobbies to poke through relatives letter boxes.

Doei