[ THE INSIDERS ]
I look back fondly on now long-gone days of cruising streets lined with secondhand car dealerships, family in tow, eyes peeled for the next irresistible purchase
Back in the day – pre-internet and Google – we bought used cars by driving past car showrooms. At least my parents did. No research, no preparation. Jump in the family Ford and trundle down one of several local streets lined with little outfits selling secondhand motors.
Most towns had them. The dodgy-looking ones with bunting, caravans and roaming Alsatians you instinctively avoided. But in the Sixties and Seventies many smaller showrooms were just converted high street shop frontages with sliding doors, and two, maybe three rows of cars lined up inside. For a car-mad teen, these were cathedrals.
My mother bought a 1964 Sunbeam Alpine just by seeing it as we drove past on holiday. Poking its nose out of the opened showroom doors, one look was all it took. It was a Series IV with wires and overdrive; she bought it on the spot.
Dad bought a 1970 Vauxhall Victor FD the same way. Saw it out the corner of his eye. Parked the Cortina. Took the whole family into the showroom and drove away in the Victor. I remember these transactions as simple, amicable moments. You had to slide sideways between the closely parked lines of cars – and if you had the temerity to ask for a test drive, it was a military process, moving wheeled metal like chess pieces.
As we drove along, I’d strain both my neck and eyes, to look into these used car temples, and loudly alerting the family to the contents. You’d see really weird stuff, either parked outside on the pavement, or hidden in one of the shimmering rows.
‘If you wanted finance, known as the Drip, you put down £100 and drove away within an hour ’
I can still remember seeing a Cobra for sale on the Fulham Road in London for £1995, and later, on Warren Street, a blue 1965, C-registration Ferrari 330GT with the £2950 price stuck to the screen in those cheap day-glo letters the trade always used. Dad wasn’t interested though – but I did definitely try.
This was the early Seventies when these old cars weren’t yet classics but still had a raffish allure. Most dealers would have something ‘lumpy’ (as they called it) to attract interest. You’d see Silver Clouds and Bentley MkIVs nudging noses with Minis and Anglias and Jag XKs and Mk2s rubbing bumpers with Hillmans and Humbers.
This was a highly buffed, chromium world of secondhand cars where the salesman did his best to convince you that this was indeed the car that you’d always promised yourself. And they behaved to type. Moustaches, blazers, flannels and brogues. As an ingenuous teen, it’s here that I learnt to recognise patter, blather and half-truths, and spot filler, overspray and blue smoke.
Looking back, it seemed such a simple uncomplicated way to buy your motor. The choice was eclectic, the hurdles few and if you wanted finance – known as the Drip – you put £100 down and drove away within an hour, green logbook bearing your name and 25 quid’s worth of tax disc on the screen. All done by the dealer from his office, chain smoking, using an upturned old chrome wheel spinner as an ashtray. I remember all this fondly as a tantalising world of exciting used cars that seemed so easy and accessible.
Saturdays spent driving around searching for a replacement car were joyous family occasions. My non-expert parents enjoyed buying their cars this way. Luckily for them, as I grew older, I quickly learnt how to spot a wrong ’un and also discovered classified ads in the local paper. The days of showroom surfing were over. A brave new world of infinite possibilities beckoned.
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