Why do only fools and horses work

Many moons ago, OK then, two months ago when I started this whole blog nonsense thing I said I may describe where I work and who I work for and after much thought I couldn't really decide on what to write. Because for the simple fact of the matter is no one would ever believe it unless you worked for them, even if just for one day.

First of all, let me introduce you to the staff at the branch I currently work at. There's me, G-Cup - the useless service manager. We'll call the owner Ronnie Kray. His son, Big D (so called because he looks like a capital D in profile) works there between 9.00 am and 9.02 am. Ronnie's other son Gene Wilder (or Arnold J. Rimmer, depending on the hair cut) runs the other branch, and Osama Bin Laden's twin brother manages aftersales at the other branch.

In our showroom we have Lofty the sales man, Murray Walker, the dealer principle who has apparently raced or rallied everything there is to race or rally. On the spanners we have Gareth the DET and resident Freddie Mercury lookalike champion 1986, 1987, 1988, 1993, 1994 and 2005. We also have Welsh Bastard, so called because he's, um Welsh, and according to Big D, a bastard. Then we have Betty Mary Jodie Murder She Wrote, the shit head apprentice who is a little bit simple. And he's training to become a vicar. No he's not, that's made up.

Not at all interestingly enough, I started at the other branch literally some years ago. I was employed by Bin Laden's twin brother. Except he doesn't wear a turban. And he's not from that neck of the woods. He lives in a cave somewhere near Four Lanes. Anyway, apart from Big D telling an American who came into the petrol pump station at one of our sister sites that "You still haven't fucking caught Bin Laden yet have you? He works for Fiat" after the 9/11 incidents, not much interesting happened.

Fast forward literally some more years, I get posted out to the new purpose built showroom for Alfa Romeo. Big D is now working (and I say working in the loosest possible sense) at this site. Wonderful. So was a pretty useless trainee sales "representative". He was (and still is by all accounts) ginger. And a tosser. For arguments sake, we will call him Ginger Tosser. Now, he was 17 years of age, had been absolutely everywhere, done everything, abseiled down the Twin Towers when they were being flown into etc... - you get the point. Big D and Ginger Tosser never really got along particularly well. This fact was galvanised when Big D was seen chasing Ginger Tosser around the dealer forecourt with an Air Rifle exclaiming "I'm going to kill you, you fucking ginger bastard". That was interesting scenario number 1.

Most of the other scenarios involve Big D, but let us get Ginger Tosser out of the way. Here was a young man (so we were told) with a questionable fashion sense and was extremely economical with the truth. He was also economical with any form of common sense. Including reversing a car (equipped with parking sensors) into another car. Supposedly he couldn't hear the parking sensors. Or crashing his car into a hedge driving in a supposed straight line going uphill. Then deciding he's going to quit his job as he can't take orders from me or the general manager, realising he's buggered up and goes pleading to Gene Wilder at our other branch for, yes you guessed it, a job. Then he leaves that and works for a rival manufacturer's dealership....for three weeks before he was fired. That month that particular dealership suffered it's worst ever customer service feedback in its illustrious 80 year trading lifespan. More recently he decided to "try" and "work" for our Fiat site once again and this lasted all the way up to when he thought it would be a good idea to steal the bosses daughter's mobile phone. Which just goes to show how stupid he really was/is.

Anyhow, the scenarios involving Big D are much more amusing, especially in hindsight. I would try to give you a little background information on Big D, but I cannot find the words. You need to see him to believe him. Let's just say he has mental problems. The next scenario below is interesting as he was arrested, which was a problem as Big D is on a suspended sentence. This was for driving at two homosexual men who were "at it" in their car in a layby near Truro whilst shouting some obscenities about gay men having sex. Quite what Big D was doing in the same layby is neither here nor there. It went to Court with Junior representing himself, and all was going swimmingly until he said he'd do it again. Nil point.

Ginger Tosser, once again, was involved in this scenario. He contacted the Police as Big D went to "hit" him. Police arrived on site whereby it took 4 people to arrest Big D, which he promptly rugby tackled one of the coppers and would not let go of his legs once gripped. So he gets carted off to Camborne nick for the rest of the day, then Ginger Tosser decides to drop the charges as they were as limp as an impotent man who hasn't taken his Viagra.

Two weeks later, the police arrived again. Now, bearing in mind, because of Big D's so-called problems he looks like he is grabbing hold of his meat and two veg, but it's the way he stands. But on this occasion, the police were called because an elderly lady had reported a man carrying a bucket and conducting a lewd act in public. In short, there was a man wanking into a bucket on the forecourt. So, the police arrived, and Camborne nick must have wondered what lucky (or unlucky) sod they could dispatch this time. After interviews, it transpires, Big D was carrying a bucket and walking as he normally does. 

I also think these fragments are worth an honourable mention:
- Driving an Austin Metro off the pier in Penzance for the sheer hell of it.
- Driving a VW Beetle into the river to "see if it would float".
- There is a wood and string bridge down near Penzance that you'd think twice of walking on. To drive a Yugo 45 on there and park and partake in afternoon tea is something else.

Of course, there would also be the weekly round of golf, which would include myself, Lofty, Welsh Bastard and Big D himself. What would normally happen is Big D would be on course for winning, Lofty would be on par for coming second and myself and Welsh Bastard would be clubbing for last. The thing is though, Lofty's game improved throughout the season, as did Welsh Bastard's. I would consistently finish last, which meant Big D was in limbo somewhere. Only he wasn't. I was beating Big D, which wound him up more and more. Whilst he was getting more and more teasy, we were falling about the place watching Big D turn into an amplified Basil Fawlty.

But come here, there's more. Like mentioned before Big D's father, Ronnie Kray, owns the business and the next scenario involves him. This really could only happen in Cornwall, especially at our dealership. Picture this, Jaguar XK140. Beautiful old classic car from the 1950s, we had one for sale and sold it to a gentleman who wanted to do a part exchange. Nothing unusual there, until you realise what the part exchanges were. A sit-on lawn mower and a knackered old tractor. Steptoe and Son have nothing on us.

Far more amusing was Ronnie's drunken heckling at the launch of the Alfa Romeo MiTo at Twickenham rugby ground. Annabel Croft, the television presenter and former tennis player, was the host of the evening and she seemed a very pleasant person. Ronnie knew nothing of what she did, so bluntly asked "Who are you? What do you do? Nice legs dear", in a kind of Albert Steptoe dirty old man sort of way.

Whilst the rest of us got carted away to have a tour of the rugby grounds and changing rooms etc at Twickenham, Ronnie stayed behind swiping multiple free glasses of champagnes and trying to chat up whatever waitress was available at the time. He also spent the night trying to woo the very pretty blonde ladies supplied as hostesses for the evening by Alfa Romeo. Anyway, meal time had arrived which was this Nouvelle Cuisine nonsense which looked beautifully presented but had all the taste and hunger fighting properties of tracing paper. Then the guest speakers came out to, well, speak. The managing director of Alfa Romeo came out with all his random bullshit that MDs are programmed to do, with the back chat of Ronnie sounding pretty much like "Fuck off, you're talking shit, you don't know what you're on about". Some other Alfa representatives came on, again to the sounds of "Fuck off" and "Get fucking real". Then a guest speaker none other than the snivelling twat (my words) Seb Coe came on, not to talk about the new Alfa or anything like that, but to stick his hand out for money for the 2012 Olympic games. He was greeted by quite a lot of hostility from our table, most notably Ronnie who chanted "You're not getting any of our money you overpaid prick. Pay for it yourself". Obviously with a skinful on board it was time to go as the bus was waiting for us. The bus was, but no sign of the driver for about 20 minutes. Ronnie declared he would drive it back to the hotel but after taking five minutes to get out of his seat only to topple back down into it, he didn't bother.

The thing is, the bus journey very nearly didn't happen for Ronnie. Alfa had offered to pay for a taxi for Ronnie, not to the hotel but back to St. Ives. You really would have to see it to believe it to work here. This job of mine was going to be a stop gap for 6 months. 9 years later I'm still there. Hey ho.