Confessions of an un-reformed tackle buying maniac
- Details
- Published on Wednesday, 28 February 2007 11:56
- Written by Bob Graham
The first tackle salesman said, “This reel will last two lifetimes”. That’s when he lost the sale. I don’t want a reel to last even one lifetime; two or three years is enough. How will he stay in business selling reels that last forever? How will I last out a full close season without
traipsing round tackle shops looking for the latest, and guaranteed to increase my troot catching statistics, equipment? Some salesmen have a very short term view. Look, I’ve got a cupboard full of reels, rods and lines and I don’t want any badly trained sales assistant stopping me adding to it.
The second salesman was a bit better. He qualified his prospect…. badly, but at least he tried. I was looking for a new jacket. Now fishing clothing is usually a distress purchase with me but my old jacket had lasted twenty five years and was starting to look too disreputable even for a troot catcher with no fashion sense. During the process he found out that my old jacket was by a very well known maker and I had paid through the nose for it back in 1981 and he immediately sensed, without taking any effort to ask my budget, that he had a real mug, which most times I am but the manager was with me (bless her), credit card in hand since I had been a good boy that day and trailed round shoe shops without complaint (I think she felt guilty as well). “What’s the damage?”, I asked and smoothly he said, “No damage, this jacket is an investment and it will last the rest of your life”. Another sale lost; how could he know that I was an accountant and knew the difference between investment and purchase? And why did he suggest in any way that a troot catcher was anything other than immortal.
The third salesman was, in technical terms, a looney, and an eighteen year old looney to boot, although he stood back and watched carefully while I fingered the rods. A couple of them were second mortgage quality and I feel that he saw the wild look in my eyes before he attacked. “Lovely rods,” he said, “would you like to try them on our casting pool”? Would I? – is Chuck Berry the king of rock and roll? – and in five minutes we were outside with rods, reels and lines that would stretch the limit of my credit cards. “Just let me show you what they can do,” he said and, with a couple of false casts, had a full line and some backing out. Now I don’t know about you but no pimply little eighteen year old s**t is going to show up my casting inadequacies. Another sale lost.
The fourth salesman wasn’t a salesman. He owned the local tackle shop, and the minute I came in he knew that his October week on the Tweed was secure. “How are you getting on, looking forward to the start of the season”? “Just let me hold your wallet while you have a browse around”. “It’s two years since you bought that last outfit and I noticed your jacket was looking a bit tatty last year”. “You could do with a new pair of waders as well”. “Look – I’ll throw in a spool or two of nylon and a new bag, just have a wee wander around, while I look them out”.
Now that’s what I like – no pushy salesmen, just a fellow fisher who understands the need for shiny new tackle to start the season.