Donald MacInnes: If the balaclava fails, haggis is an offaly good way to sell your car Having realised that the gearbox in our nine-year-old Daewoo could only be less effective if it had been constructed of congealed Haribo, we prepared ourselves (and by that I mean "swallowed a few Nurofen") for an excursion into the netherworld of the used-car salesman. Cue ominous music* Luckily, there is a "quality pre-owned automobile centre" near our house, so if the negotiations turned violent, we were within sprinting distance of home. That shouldn't suggest that transactions in which I am involved always turn nasty, but one must be prepared. In my homeland, haggling is a full-contact sport. It even involves equipment. Where do you think haggis got its name? It's not primarily a foodstuff: it's an implement with which to strike your business contact if he offers you too few fringles for your stoogly. It only morphed into a main-course option when one clan chief tried to batter the other across the jaw and left a chunk of haggis in his opponent's mouth. "Why that's... that's delicious!" cried the recipient, before the two sat down to eat their way to fiscal agreement. My first experience of south London private-motor sales was in 1998, just after I moved here. I had bought a Renault 5 GTX for £400 from a friend in Scotland and used it to drive down. Trouble is, the insurance was about £80 a month and my first London job (as the News Bunny on Live TV) didn't pay enough for me to run such a car, so I put it in the paper. Before long, my doorbell rang and I opened it, to behold a sniffing, skeletal hoodie called Curtis. He seemed quite street-smart and dreadfully working class, in a way that made even my edgy Glaswegian roots seem a little frou-frou. I became convinced that he knew just by looking at me that I had only paid £400 for the motor and the £750 I was asking was quite ludicrous. Surely he could see that I was lying through my teeth! As a result, I decided to wear my balaclava. Whether it worked or not I'll never know, but he soon reached into his tracky bottoms and extricated a wad of twenties as thick as a DVD box set of Only Fools and Horses, before counting out the £750 and then handing it to me. He then leapt into the car and drove off in a cloud of blue smoke. I hope he had many happy years' motoring, but if not, if you're reading this, Curtis, be advised: I've got a haggis and I'm not afraid to use it... Next week: Our New Car, Part 2.