Jean P

BEWARE

My journey with The Car Spot was like a rollercoaster designed by a mischievous leprechaun. Here’s the abridged version: 1. Warning Lights Galore: The car came with more warning lights than a disco ball. Breaking? Engine? Take your pick—they’re all here! 2. Shock Absorber Tango: The shock absorber danced like a drunken sailor. The Car Spot’s omission? Mentioning it. 3. Wobbly Door Drama: The front passenger seat door wobbled like a Jenga tower. Surprise! It wasn’t part of the original description. 4. Sat Nav Mirage: The satellite navigation system promised dynamic routes and low CO2 magic. I got none of that. 5. RAC Warranty Mirage: The RAC warranty? A mirage. Apparently, my car’s service history was a Jackson Pollock masterpiece—splatters of inconsistency, smudges of neglect. Last one was over 4 years ago! 6. MOT Countdown: The fresh 12-month MOT? A cruel joke. The expiration date loomed, and my car sweated like a nervous exam-taker. Would it pass? Or would it cough up its secrets? It did cough up more secrets. 7. Refund Refusal: I stood before The Car Spot, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. “Refund?” I implored. Their response? A dismissive chuckle, as if I’d asked for the moon on a silver platter. “No refunds,” they declared, their eyes glinting like mischievous imps. And just like that, my money vanished into the abyss. 8. Car Held Hostage: Behold, the grand spectacle! The Car Spot, like a dragon guarding its hoard, clung to my precious wheels. “Repairs,” they claimed. But weeks turned into epochs, and still, my car languished in their clutches. It’s as if they’d cast a spell—part Dementor’s kiss, part bureaucratic nightmare. 9. No Car, No Money: Imagine my plight: carless, penniless, and teetering on the brink of madness. The Car Spot had stripped me bare, leaving me with naught but a bus pass and a broken heart. Legal action loomed like a storm cloud, and I, a mere mortal, prepared to battle the titans. And so, my fellow travelers, heed my warning: avoid The Car Spot like a plague-ridden rat. Their showroom may gleam, but beneath the glossy surface lies treachery. As for me? I’ll hitchhike to justice, armed with indignation and a lawyer on speed dial. Fare thee well, dear reader, and may your wheels never wobble like mine did.