TV review: The Dealership

Politicians, estate agents, doorstep sellers, call centre workers, ambulance chasers, and yes, journalists have all had the docu-soap treatment from producers seeking to cash in on the armchair viewer's obsession with pantomime villains we love to hate.

So the only real surprise about The Dealership, a fly-on-the-wall peek into life at a used car sales centre, is that such a show was so long coming.

Last night was the second of a three-part saga, spotlighting the likely lads at the Essex Car Centre near Dagenham. There may not have been an Arthur Daley sheepskin coat in sight, but his smooth-talking blarney, and brazen wide-boy behaviour was alive and kicking.

With finances tight, savvy customers are giving dealers more of a run for their money than ever. Which is bad news for salesmen, who are more desperate than ever to close a deal and clinch their commission.

But for some, it's clearly tough. Newcomer Scott, who was fitting double glazing a couple of weeks earlier, is still on probation and can't close deals.

It hardly takes a rocket scientist to work out why; while jovial James, the dealership's star salesman, is a natural stand-up comic, Scott's 'smiling mask' could give England footie captain, scowling Steven Gerrard, a run for his money.

And life at this cut-throat dealership resembles the African savannah. There are predators who are quickest to spot an opportunity to dominate, and walk away with the biggest spoils, and weaklings who must always look over their shoulders, hoping to feed off scraps.

The only thing missing are middle of the road types. Evidently, you can't simply steer clear of the limelight and live a quiet life in this profession. In the world of used car sales, this show suggests there's the right way, or the highway. Let the customer get the better of you and sink, or grow a thick, extrovert skin and swim.

There's certainly no shortage of diamond geezer-style charm on this Essex lot. Or, for that matter, cheesy one-liners from a manager who, at one point, compares his staff to motors – apparently, if you're a Clio, you need to aspire to become a Mondeo. Then, and only then, can you start dreaming of being a Lamborghini. Pass the bucket.

The most entertaining part of the show, stereotypically narrated by former EastEnders wide-boy Jamie Foreman, was pinpointing the kind of customer behaviour which clearly infuriates sales folk. The refusal to take a car on a test drive, the reluctance to go and sit down in the office for some number-crunching, and above all, the 'let me go away and sleep on it' line.

While the clichés were flying in front of house, it was a different story behind the scenes, where Eastern Europeans beaver away cleaning and polishing the motors.

They don't sugar-coat things. Gregor, the portly boss-man, cut through all the baloney to declare: "I only employ Polish people, because they are more reliable." And cheaper, Gregor, don't forget that!

This being Essex, it was inevitable that a gang of nice but dim peroxide blondes would eventually strut in. Sure enough, they arrived at the half way point and didn't disappoint, ticking a glut of stereotype boxes by first struggling to tell the difference between a manual and automatic gearbox, then getting totally befuddled calculating loan repayments.

Would I buy a used car from these folk?

If a whipped dog like Scott came wandering out, I'd certainly be tempted to have some great sport, trying to tie him up in knots until he offered me a deal which his boss couldn't afford.

Carl Jones