An Unexpected Protest on The Tottenham Court Road

Refusing to be ripped off, Martin launches an impromptu protest inside the shop, loudly warning customers about its treatment of him. His one-man campaign drives potential buyers away, prompts the manager to call the police, and turns a £15 dispute into an expensive public relations disaster. When the police explain that Martin is within his rights to continue protesting outside the shop, does the manager finally give in and refunds the full amount?

It's a humorous tale of standing up for yourself, proving that sometimes the principle is worth far more than the money.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

An unexpected protest on the Tottenham Court Road. Retail companies can be downright rude and unfair, quite frankly, very pig ignorant and motivated by money, money, money. Having recently had a bit of good luck, which made a change, I found myself unusually flush with a little spare cash. Naturally, instead of doing something sensible with it, I headed over to Tottenham Court Road to buy a video mixer for a camcorder. I'd fancied having a go at a bit of filmmaking after hearing about a competition to produce a television advert for Cadbury's Rolos, you know, them chocolates. In my mind, this wasn't just a bit of fun, as it was the first step towards a glittering career in television, as it turned out. It became yet another brilliant idea that eventually took its rightful place in the Museum of Martin's spectacular business failures. I explained to the shop assistant exactly what I wanted to do. He looked like the sort of computer geek who knew his stuff, so I took his advice and bought the model that he recommended. It cost around 500 quid, a bit of cash, and the other half on the flexible friend. It wasn't exactly a casual purchase, but I trusted his judgment. I spent the whole weekend wrestling with the thing, pressing every button known to mankind, but I couldn't get it to do what I needed it to do. Though I kept ringing the shop every five minutes for advice, every call left me feeling as though I was being a pain in the arse and wasting their precious time. Despite following every instruction they threw at me, I still couldn't get the thing to do what I wanted it to do. After a week of battling with it, I'd had enough. By the following weekend, I'd completely gone off the idea of amateur filmmaking. I packed everything neatly back into the box it had come with and headed back to the shop, determined to get my money back. I explained to the manager that the mixer just wasn't compatible with my model of camcorder after doing some extensive research on the internet, that even if it had been, it was far too complicated for the likes of me to operate. They offered to swap it over for something else. But by this time I just wanted my money back. I had already wasted far too much time with this box of electrical bits and a three hundred page user guide. This never went down too well with the shop manager. He did everything short of barricading the till to avoid handing over my refund after a lively but polite exchange, me reciting the Sales of Goods Act almost chapter and verse. He seemed to reach the conclusion that I wasn't going away until one of us gave in. Fortunately for me, it was him that did eventually. I reminded him that under the Act, goods had to be of satisfactory quality, fit for the purpose, and they were sold and matched their description. I'd explained exactly what I wanted the mixer to do before buying it, yet it wasn't even compatible with my model of camcorder. It clearly wasn't fit for the purpose that I'd bought it for. That seemed to take a bit of the wind out of his sales. After a lengthy discussion, he reluctantly agreed to refund my money, but only after checking that everything was present and in good condition. I only had the item a few days, and I knew it was, so that sounded perfectly reasonable to me. Fine, I said. Go ahead and check. He took the box out to the back, then minutes later the shop assistant returned back at the counter to advise me that there's a piece of polystyrene missing from the box. I can't resell it now, so I can't refund you. I told him that everything I'd taken home was all there and still in the box, but he replied that he would have to deduct a fifteen pound fee for the missing item, which was a piece of polystyrene packaging the size of a fag box, and worth only a few pence. Yes, you've guessed it. That's what I thought. Fifteen quid for a bit of poxy polystyrene. Packaging that wasn't even there to start with. You're having a laugh, ain't you? I obviously protested, but he wasn't budging. He insisted on deducting fifteen pounds for my refund, and said, in a tone that suggested the matter was closed, until you return the missing piece of packaging, you won't be getting your fifteen pounds back. Well, there was no way I was letting him get away with that, was I? If I'd had the missing bit of polystyrene at home, which I didn't, it would have cost me a lot more than fifteen quid to jump in a cab, fetch it, and get it back to Tottenham Court Road before the shop closed. Like a lot of tight wads, he seemed the sort who was only too happy to take money off the punters, but deeply resented giving any of it back, even when he knew he had to. He simply had to have the last laugh. As far as he was concerned, by hanging on to my fifteen quid, he'd pulled a clever little stroke. He simply had to have the last laugh. In his mind, he'd managed to claw back fifteen quid and chalk it up as a victory. You won't be surprised to hear that I blew an internal fuse, did throw a bit of a wobbly, and began recruiting the other customers to my course. Anyone who looked as though they were about to buy something or go up to the counter, I muscled in, and they got an earful from me. I even intercepted people as they walked through the door. Don't buy anything from here, I warned them. They're a bunch of ripoff merchants. Just look at what they're trying to do to me. They want to charge me fifteen quid for a piece of polystyrene that wasn't even in the box to begin with. Naturally, the other customers shuffled around, looking thoroughly embarrassed, and quite a few decided they'd rather spend their money elsewhere. That really got under the manager's skin. He completely lost it with me. Get out of my shop, he barked. Get out of my shop right now and really started getting angry. But I refused to budge, but at least three distinctly unimpressed customers did. One of them had what looked like the best part of five hundred pounds of camera equipment spread across the counter, just about ready to pay for it. Instead, he quietly made his way to the door and walked straight out of the shop without buying so much as an AA battery. I can't imagine why. But I didn't feel an ounce of guilt. The manager then became increasingly aggressive, waving his arms around as though that was somehow going to intimidate me. Well, it didn't. I still wanted my money back, and I wasn't leaving until I got it. Finally, deciding he'd had enough, the guy then decided to call the police. Something I thought was positively encouraging, because I knew the law was firmly on my side. While we waited for them to arrive, I carried on giving my version of events to anyone who happened to walk through the door. It was priceless, and the longer it went on, the more frustrated the owner of the shop became. The police weren't treating it as a very urgent call, so they never really rushed to get there. People would wander in, I'd give them my little speech, and often they'd turn round and walk straight back out again. Couple of rubber neckers, however, stayed put, clearly enjoying the entertainment, I think. About twenty minutes later the police had arrived. One officer took me to one side while the other spoke to the shopkeeper, who by then completely lost the plot. After hearing both sides of the story, the police officer concluded that I wasn't committing any criminal offences. This was just classed as a civil dispute, they explained. They did, however, ask me to leave the premises, just to keep the peace. Obviously, I obliged. There was no way I was going to get myself arrested for the sake of fifteen quid. Fair enough, I said. But I'll be standing outside for the rest of today, and tomorrow, if necessary, telling every potential customer exactly how you treated me until you give me my full refund. The police then pointed out to the shopkeeper that while they could remove me from his premises, they couldn't stop me standing on the public pavement outside, provided I wasn't causing an obstruction or disturbance, which I wasn't. I think the police officer then said to the shopkeeper, If I was you, mate, I would just refund his money. You could end up losing a lot of sales. The verdict He quickly ended up refunding the missing fifteen quid. The silly man, in his determination to hang on to fifteen quid, he'd wrecked an entire afternoon's trade and made himself look a complete idiot in front of his potential customers and everyone else who happened to pass by. As for me, I'd had nothing to lose. Fair enough. A few people probably thought I was a complete nutter, but they didn't really know me from Adam, and the chances were I'd never see any of them again. It wasn't really about the money. Looking back, the whole affair was really a matter of principle. Why should I let the bloke charge me money for something that wasn't even in the box in the first place? In any event, probably costs no more than a few pence to manufacture. I never intended things to escalate the way they did, but I genuinely felt the shopkeeper was trying to take advantage of me. I suspect he thought I'd grumble for a minute or two, then give in and walk away, just as so many customers probably do. What he hadn't bargained for was the fact that I simply wasn't prepared to be fobbed off by my reckoning. His determination to hang on to fifteen quid probably cost him somewhere in the region of one thousand to three thousand pounds in lost sales that day. I wonder if he still thinks it was worth digging his heels in.