The Great Corsa
Disposal
by Tom Woods
Returning a
car you never actually hired to a depot you’ve
never visited is the ultimate test of “The
Blag.” It requires the confidence of a cult
leader and the frantic energy of a man explaining
why there’s a goat in a nightie in the
garden.
I pulled into
the “Budget-Lite” return bay in a 2014
Vauxhall Corsa that smells of wet dog and regret.
It is my car. I have owned it for six years. But
today, it was “The Asset.”
I slammed the
door with the weary authority of a businessman
fresh from “closing a deal in Brussels”
and marched to the desk.
“Returning?”
asked Kevin, a man whose soul had clearly been
dissolved by disputes over fuel levels.
“Yes,”
I snapped, tossing the keys down. “And
frankly, Kevin, the suspension on the ‘Sport’
model is insulting. I felt every pebble between
here and the Cotswolds. It’s like driving a
vibrator with indicators.”
Kevin frowned
at the keys. They had a “World’s Best
Dad” keyring and a loyalty tag for Slough
Hand Car Wash.
“Sir…
this is a 2014 Corsa. We stopped stocking these
years ago.”
“Exactly!”
I boomed. “I requested the Premium Executive
Upgrade at Edinburgh. They told me this was a
‘vintage ergonomic experience.’ I’ve
spent twelve hours in a seat with the lumbar
support of a garden rake.”
He typed
furiously into a computer powered, apparently, by
Victorian steam.
“I have
no booking for you, sir.”
“Of
course you don’t! Edinburgh’s systems
were down. Paper manifest. They told me I could
return it here at Gatwick as a gesture of
goodwill.”
“This is
Slough.”
“Slough,
Gatwick, Edinburgh—it’s all roads and
despair, Kevin! Don’t get trapped in the
geography of failure!”
By now, a
manager had emerged, sensing the unmistakable
aroma of a customer about to demand compensation.
“The
issue,” I said quietly, “is that I am a
Diamond Tier Elite member of the Global Rover
programme and I have been forced to drive a
vehicle that sounds like cutlery in a tumble
dryer. If this is not resolved immediately, I
will contact your regional director. Gary.”
Nobody wants a
conversation involving a man called Gary.
The manager
sighed the sigh of a man choosing the easiest
path through life.
“Kevin,”
he muttered, “just ghost the return and let
him go.”
I walked out
trembling with adrenaline, leaving behind my own
failing Corsa and several entirely fictional
complaints about DAB radio reception.
I am now
without transport.
But somewhere
in Slough, a multinational car rental company is
trying to work out why they suddenly own a 2014
Vauxhall Corsa with three hubcaps no MOT and a
suspicious smell coming from the boot.
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