Women! Know Your Limits!

I have to preface this with a video. Some people might not have seen it and it puts what I am about to say in context; a fairly tongue-in-cheek context.

http://www.carsite.co.uk/gallery/videos/id/5346-harry-enfield---women-dont-drive
(I can't get it to embed and the YouTube version has been removed by the BBC.)

In the Telegraph, a woman, Belinda Parmar, has been blathering on about being treated badly by car salesmen. Well, the news is that car salesmen are creeps. They are just as bad with men, but they tend to treat women differently. That is all. Differently, not better, not worse.

Here's a bit of what she is saying:

There’s no place on earth that’s more of a man’s world than the car showroom...My first stop was a Nissan show-room: the sales rep was an older gent. He’d obviously read in some salesman’s manual that if you wanted to close that deal you ought to use somebody's first name. Again, again and again. “Belinda”, he said “Why don’t you see the new ‘Note’”, “And Belinda, while you are at it take a look at the beautiful new colour - what do you think of that Belinda? Belinda...”. 
I’m not alone in feeling underserved and ignored by this entire industry

Oh grow up. If you, as a woman, want to be treated like a man, I suggest the following line of attack, based upon my own experience. But don't go on moaning about how terrible it is being a woman.

This is the advice I gave her:

Belinda. Belinda, my pal: You have failed to understand the first thing about buying a car. It's a fight. It's cocks on the table time, and sorry, Belinda, but you don't have a cock.
Last time I bought a car (for my wife, incidentally, who is sensibly just not interested because she wastes her time all day making sick people better) I went to a car supermarket.

Now, on any ordinary day I am invisible. I am one of those people who used to trot around Harrods, and be ignored - that is until I asked them to put my purchase on my Harrods account, which in those days was like a magic word.
Anyway, I could wander around at a time-share presentation and nobody would bother me. That's how invisible.

So how shocked are they when I say I want "that car"? They are shocked, because I ask for a deal, and they don't do deals. So I'm walking away, or rather I am making walking away signals. I want a deal. "Oh," says Wayne, "I'll have to talk to my boss". So Wayne goes off and gives me some time. Rather like the time you get when they have arrested you and you are left to sweat a bit in the interview room. He comes back. "It's bad news, Wrinkled. You see,,,Wrinkled, we can't really give you that much for your trade in Saab."

Wayne is a Scandiphobic bigot, I think and clearly is not in love with Sara Lund.

"Well, Wayne" I say, "I think, £9,400". Wayne cacks himself. He is sweating. He is trying not to ring up his mum for a good cry. "I'll have to talk to the boss" says Wayne. "Ok, Wayne" I say.

I get a cup of water from the cooler and it gets even cooler in my ice cold grip.

Wayne returns and says, "I have had a word with the boss, and we don't normally do this, but we can go to 9.5 and frankly, there is no money in it for us."
I calmly get out my debit card and pay for it like it was for a jumper in M&S. Even the secretary starts ovulating.

So as I said, its a macho, cage-fighting, posing piece of theatre and you can play the game, or pay up. Women, know your limits.