Rather than insert the usual review that makes it appear that its been written by some weird-beard who gets paid 7.5p per listing, I thought it would be nicer and more helpful to tell a boring - but thorough - story.
I kept staring at the advert over and over, doing the obligatory man-maths (man-maths: making the financially reckless appear completely logical). I kept on lying to myself and anyone that would listen about why I needed a Golf R Estate to carry my ladders and the dog (the dog that's the size of a Wellington Boot). We all do it. We all convince ourselves that we need 310bhp. And we need it all to neatly packaged into an unassuming car so that we appear grown-up, normal, sensible, middle-management, newspapers on Sunday, John Lewis, biscuits for Gran, shirts under jumpers, chino's on the weekend, wine instead of Stella. That sort of thing. We all need something that's got sufficient enough power to smear the dog into the grain of the boot plastics. Utterly unnecessary, but achingly cool. In my defense, when you've got the car disease, what can you do? There's only two cures:
1. More power
2. Old age
Anyway, after I could practically recite the advert, I reached out and contacted the seller (Gav). We arranged a viewing for the weekend, and he sent a video. It all looked good. This was bad news. I needed to talk myself out of it. I beamed a holding deposit and waited the 4 or so days until I could get down. Suffering. Anxiously.
The car was ready for inspection when I landed perfectly on time. I was staring down the side of the car like a creep outside a school looking for any signs of damage, zero. Not looking good for me. Inside, just as clean and everything worked, even all the useless tat that nobody uses. Radar cruise. Don't care. I mooched about the outside again, nothing. I needed not to buy it, but the thing was immaculate. Couldn't find fault. It even had proper tyres instead of a set of mismatched Wuhan Ditchfinders. Went for a test drive hoping that the windows would fall out or a wheel came off, but nothing. Upon returning, and because I'm a man of honour, I did the deal. He helped me sort out out insurance, talked me through the warranty and handed me ooodles of paperwork to go with the car. I promptly escaped back up north from whence I came. I even found £4.75 in one of the cubby holes on the way home. Being an honest chap, I told Gav but I ensured that I was far enough away from Wolverhampton that returning the cash would be economically unviable. This was promptly converted into Greggs sausage roll.
I've been caning the car ever since; driving about like a member of the Cambridge University Netball Team. You know the sort, passengers and contents flailing about the place like a wayward addict on a bad mix. Relevant authorities on alert.
