McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland by Pete McCarthy Page A
Authors: Pete McCarthy
Ads: Link
if you follow me, it’s only six days, and at the daily rate, I’ll just check on the calculator, that’ll be £223.95 plus tax.’
‘So, it’s more for six days than a week?’
‘That’s right, sir, yes, because of the discount, you see, sir.’
‘But can’t I just pay for a week and give you a car back a day early and then everyone gains, don’t they?’
‘I can’t do that, sir, not unless you hang on to it until tomorrow, and then it’ll be cheaper all right. Would you like to do that?’
‘But, bloody hell, what are all these extras anyway?’
‘Well sir, there’s £11 a day insurance.’
‘What?’
‘Ah y’see, you initialled for that, here and here. It’s fully comprehensive and there’s tax here and here and here.’
And on it goes. A litany of charges. Optional insurance, special insurance, roadside insurance, home contents insurance, booking fee, room service, adult video, gas bill, optional tip and two Four Seasons pizzas, all adding up to the final breathtaking total.
‘But what’s this here?’
‘The daily rate, sir. That’s the special BBC rate.’
‘But I’m not working for the bloody BBC.’
‘Well, the computer has you down as BBC, Mr McCarthy.’
‘I’m not from the BBC. I worked for them here once a couple of years ago. That’s all.’
‘Well, that’ll be it then. It’ll be in the computer and you qualify for that rate.’
‘But it’s ₤30 a day. I booked at £22.95.’
Well, that is the special BBC rate, sir.’
‘Seven quid a day more than the standard rate?’
‘Seems to be, sir, heh, heh. I’d say it’s time they renegotiated that deal now. They probably haven’t looked at it for a long time there.’
Suddenly a shifty youth with spots, jug ears and a company polo shirt materialises from out the back and hands a slip of paper to Ruaraigh.
‘Look, what I’ll do, Mr McCarthy, is I can put in a request to Head Office to bump your rate down from the BBC rate to the normal rate, like. I can’t promise anything now, but maybe they’ll send you through a discount on the old credit card.’
‘Thanks, Ruaraigh. I appreciate that.’
‘But the thing is, sir’—looking ominously at the paper Jug-ears has slipped him—‘it seems there’s damage to the car, sir.’
‘But there can’t be. I only just bloody parked it outside.’
‘I know that, sir, but our operatives have just been checking it out, sir.’
Jug-ears is out the back, staring like a vindictive gargoyle.
‘And there’s a cracked windscreen, sir.’
‘A tiny crack, yes, the size of a match head. A pebble hit it but I’ve got your comprehensive insurance.’
‘You still have to pay the first £75 of any claim, Mr McCarthy.’
I’m near to tears now, realising the only thing round here that’s comprehensive is the way I’ve been stitched up.
‘And the tank’s not full, neither, sir. So there’ll be £7.50 for petrol. You’re always better off filling up before you bring it back because we have to charge top whack.’
The bloody thing hadn’t been full when I drove it away. Hire cars never are. The needle drops from full to three-quarters when you’ve barely left the airport, because behind the phoney smiles of the front desk, in airport car parks all over the world, spaced-out jug-eared school-leavers, whose meals taste of nothing but petrol, are sucking on siphon pipes to swindle you.
‘So that makes it £714.84 to be exact.’
Less non-BBC discount, of course, if it comes through. I could have bought a car for less.
The flight, on the other hand, was £21.30 one way, Cork-London, one of the new no-frills deals that makes you wonder how they can afford a pilot who’s passed his test. Just before take-off, but well after take-off time, the family we’ve all been waiting for finally turns up. I spotted them in the bar earlier: three kids, mum and dad, and an out-on-parole brother-in-law, all in various combinations of Manchester United replica kit,
‘So, it’s more for six days than a week?’
‘That’s right, sir, yes, because of the discount, you see, sir.’
‘But can’t I just pay for a week and give you a car back a day early and then everyone gains, don’t they?’
‘I can’t do that, sir, not unless you hang on to it until tomorrow, and then it’ll be cheaper all right. Would you like to do that?’
‘But, bloody hell, what are all these extras anyway?’
‘Well sir, there’s £11 a day insurance.’
‘What?’
‘Ah y’see, you initialled for that, here and here. It’s fully comprehensive and there’s tax here and here and here.’
And on it goes. A litany of charges. Optional insurance, special insurance, roadside insurance, home contents insurance, booking fee, room service, adult video, gas bill, optional tip and two Four Seasons pizzas, all adding up to the final breathtaking total.
‘But what’s this here?’
‘The daily rate, sir. That’s the special BBC rate.’
‘But I’m not working for the bloody BBC.’
‘Well, the computer has you down as BBC, Mr McCarthy.’
‘I’m not from the BBC. I worked for them here once a couple of years ago. That’s all.’
‘Well, that’ll be it then. It’ll be in the computer and you qualify for that rate.’
‘But it’s ₤30 a day. I booked at £22.95.’
Well, that is the special BBC rate, sir.’
‘Seven quid a day more than the standard rate?’
‘Seems to be, sir, heh, heh. I’d say it’s time they renegotiated that deal now. They probably haven’t looked at it for a long time there.’
Suddenly a shifty youth with spots, jug ears and a company polo shirt materialises from out the back and hands a slip of paper to Ruaraigh.
‘Look, what I’ll do, Mr McCarthy, is I can put in a request to Head Office to bump your rate down from the BBC rate to the normal rate, like. I can’t promise anything now, but maybe they’ll send you through a discount on the old credit card.’
‘Thanks, Ruaraigh. I appreciate that.’
‘But the thing is, sir’—looking ominously at the paper Jug-ears has slipped him—‘it seems there’s damage to the car, sir.’
‘But there can’t be. I only just bloody parked it outside.’
‘I know that, sir, but our operatives have just been checking it out, sir.’
Jug-ears is out the back, staring like a vindictive gargoyle.
‘And there’s a cracked windscreen, sir.’
‘A tiny crack, yes, the size of a match head. A pebble hit it but I’ve got your comprehensive insurance.’
‘You still have to pay the first £75 of any claim, Mr McCarthy.’
I’m near to tears now, realising the only thing round here that’s comprehensive is the way I’ve been stitched up.
‘And the tank’s not full, neither, sir. So there’ll be £7.50 for petrol. You’re always better off filling up before you bring it back because we have to charge top whack.’
The bloody thing hadn’t been full when I drove it away. Hire cars never are. The needle drops from full to three-quarters when you’ve barely left the airport, because behind the phoney smiles of the front desk, in airport car parks all over the world, spaced-out jug-eared school-leavers, whose meals taste of nothing but petrol, are sucking on siphon pipes to swindle you.
‘So that makes it £714.84 to be exact.’
Less non-BBC discount, of course, if it comes through. I could have bought a car for less.
The flight, on the other hand, was £21.30 one way, Cork-London, one of the new no-frills deals that makes you wonder how they can afford a pilot who’s passed his test. Just before take-off, but well after take-off time, the family we’ve all been waiting for finally turns up. I spotted them in the bar earlier: three kids, mum and dad, and an out-on-parole brother-in-law, all in various combinations of Manchester United replica kit,
Similar Books
