Not Kevin this time.
But someone who couldn't help, with the best intentions in the world, getting so far up your nose that people wanted him to be abducted by a cannibalistic cult, tied to an altar and finely minced. Ahem.

Young, depressingly keen and cheerful, always on time, booted & suited, and desperate to learn the 'tricks'. And just so absolutely overwhelmed and doing a little puppy-dance of joy at working for Brand X and actually getting to drive one home every night, that I swear he generated his own crack-like level of endorphins.

Anyhoo, this was the age of the training trips all over Europe when new models were launched. The older and bolder used this as a chance to meet up with old colleagues, sink a bevvie or nine, occasionally steal a car, and generally abuse the facilities. Our lad would be the one who would retire at ten to study the technical information, be on time for every presentation, sitting at the front radiating keen-ness and unnerving the instructors who thought they'd got a Moonie or something in the front row frantically scribbling notes.

Now, the real technical stuffis done by the blokes in overalls. Technicians, they're called. The sales guys are required to know the basics, be able to press the right button, and why this bit of kit is better than another maker's. No-one has EVER asked a sales guy how exactly the multi-channel ABS, Stability Control, or roll-over sensors ACTUALLY work. Is the fact that the wiring loom is fibre-optic likely to influence your purchasing decision, or the cost to change?

Now boy wonder would return from his training trip, hangover and STD free, and from then on EVERY customer got 'The Demo'. The 'Features and Benefits'. Whatever. He'd have the seats out to prove that they did, in fact, come out. He would load six CDs into the drive to prove, in fact, that it was a 6 disc changer. Nothing too much trouble. Unfortunately, his targets included people just after a brochure, people trying to find the bogs and on one memorable occasion the person servicing the coffee machine.

I can only describe it as being locked in a building with a rather excitable puppy in a new suit. Lovely lad, and there was no reason to roll your eyes heavenwards and mutter "oh fuck nooooo" when you knew he'd be working with you for the day, but too much nice can be as bad as a professional bastard such as myself.

However, things started to go wrong when a chap came in. Wanted to buy a couple of cars for his company. He wouldn't be driving them, and couldn't have cared less about pollen filters, lumbar adjustment, multi-zone climate control or whatever. However, he was in the path of the tsunami of technical detail, with no handy palm tree to cling to...

After yet another eagerly explained 'feature' I could see him getting a tad exasperated. By the time he was on to the detail of roll-over immobiliser coding he was looking at his watch.
As he reached paintwork warranty he had had enough (bear in mind this is Manchester so assume broad Lancashire accent)....

"FOR FOOKS SAKE STOP TELLING ME THIS SHITE AND JUST TELL ME HOW MUCH THE FOOKIN CARS ARE AND WHAT FOOKIN DEAL YOU'LL DO ME FOR CASH........"

Our boy hits the metaphorical brick wall, and stutters to a halt, sweat beading on his forehead. As the resemblance to a rabbit in the headlights grew ever stronger, one of the more experienced lads took pity (after recovering from the stifled hysterics of course) and wandered over with a casual "off you go lad".

It was the beginning of the end - I don't think he ever sold a car and I think we 'transferred' him to marketing where his enthusiasm and energy wouldn't be noticeable as they were permanently coked off their tits.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Tue 29 Jan 2008, 10:52, Reply)