In the early 1980s, my first job was as a car cleaner at a Hyundai/Subaru dealer located at a bleak little spot near Hyde, on the outskirts of Manchester.
The demographics dictated the cheap and cheerful used-car trade-in which it was my job to clean, ready for sale: ageing Fords, Vauxhalls and Datsuns, with occasional ‘exotica’ like a Saab 96.
The cars were boring, but not the staff. It was a place full of intrigue that would have done justice to a soap storyline with a full range of key players (that were at turns either mean, stupid or vicious), and a supporting cast of bit-part characters – mechanics, valeters and sprayers – who could only live up to the malignant atmosphere they found themselves in.
Brown paint and a beige vinyl roof is a typically ’70s combination for this classic Chrysler
Actually, in the summer it wasn’t such a bad life. There was a strange satisfaction in ‘minting-up’ some shed of a Vauxhall Chevette with nothing more than a rag, a bottle of T-cut and some tyre black, while listening to the romantic exploits of my colleague Simon, a square-jawed Lothario who would shed his upper clothing at the first glimmer of sunlight.
