Have you ever been to a car showroom and expressed interest in a car?
Did the salesman take you back to his desk and offer you a coffee?
And did he return with a cup of something scaldingly hot?
So you were trapped for twenty minutes, listening to his spiel, unable to escape because it would be rude to leave with your drink unfinished?
A few years ago I worked for an advertising agency and, assigned to a big car manufacturer’s account, I found myself shadowing a car salesman to learn the nuts and bolts of the motor business.
I especially enjoyed learning about the sales person’s tricks of the trade. Like where he or she seeks to befriend the potential buyer over coffee. They are specifically taught how to create a cup so hot, you will be a captive audience for as long as it takes to deliver their sales pitch. Genius.
What I absolutely loved about this was not just the sheer skulduggery (though as a deep cynic around everything capitalist, I did enjoy this) but rather the fabulous insight about Britishness. Surely no other nationality would feel so obliged to sit tight, enduring who knows what, while they wait for their drink to cool down – for fear of causing offence.
It reminded me of the wonderful passage in The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where Arthur describes the true nature of Britishness by the medium of motorway services and biscuits.
The Aspidistra 