I could hear the thud even though I was sitting at my desk 50km away in Dublin. The sound was the annual letter from my broker announcing the imminent expiry of my car insurance policy.
The letter had a very nice tone to it , mind you. Heaven and Earth had been moved to find the best price. He had trawled insurance companies and underwriters across the land, had travelled through the night on horseback because there was a chance, just a small chance, that a cut-price policy was for sale by a man in a tweed coat in a far flung shed, in a dark shadowy corner of Co Leitrim.
But alas when he arrived all he found was a steaming pile of actuary, risk and blatant chicanery sitting silently and alone in the middle of a smallholding near Drumshanbo. Smoke and daggers, as the man said. Despite their best efforts, my broker people were recommending that I renew my policy for about 30 per cent more than last year and would shortly be relieving me of nearly 800 quid.
The broker people, in all fairness, have saved me several thousand over the years when some insurance companies I had contacted directly laughed down the phone at me due to a) my tender years b) my maleness c) my Co Louth-ness and d) the immense size and wonder of my 2 litre diesel engine, before refusing to quote me anything other than twice the value of the car itself.
This time I felt I could do better on my own. The arrogance of it. Having booked some time off work, I hit the internet without success. One company told me my “claims profile does not meet our new business underwriting criteria for this channel”.
I then hit the phones in earnest and found myself ringing some of those numbers you hear advertised on the radio over and over again. You know the ones that promise insurance “from” a certain price. They don’t tell you the rest.
(Ring ring.) "Hello, I'm Brittany, how can I help you today?"
“Hello, hi, yes, howrya, I’d like to get a quote for some car insurance please”
"No problem, sir. (Reads from laminate.) All answers you give will be recorded, parsed, analysed and used to turn you into a liar in the event of you buying a policy from us and daring to make a claim for anything. Those same words may be twisted to meet our narrative, but I didn't say that, you did and we have the recording. If you get angry we will pull out the recordings and make you seem mad but we will remain passive-aggressive at all times. Is that okay?"
“Great, can I get your name and date of birth first? First line of your address? Email address? Is this the best number to contact you on?”
“Yes, great. Thanks”, I reply with all the details.
“How long have you held your licence?”
“20 years and six months.”
“Clean licence?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Claims?”
“One for a theft five years ago, but it was covered by a no-claims bonus protection policy. Wasn’t my fault either.”
So far, so good (as the man said to himself as he was falling from the burning building).
This is where it gets more difficult.
“Do you have access to a second car?”
“Er, yes . . .
“And do you drive it regularly?
“Er, yes I suppose . . . it depends which key I find first on the hall table.
“Is your car always parked on the driveway?”
“Well, yes, although there was one time we went into town and ended up having a few pints and we got a bus home. Then we drove the other car back into town the next day and I picked it up. Is that okay?”
“Fine, Mr Logue . . .
“Was your car imported?”
"No, I bought it off a guy in Ballinteer. " (Brittany later told me the car had in fact been imported from the UK).
“Has the car been modified in any way?”
“No, except for a set of roof bars if that counts.”
“Does your car have any modified audio equipment in it?”
“I wish.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m a journalist, although not the ones you see in the movies, you know, I don’t drink all day and then rush to the scene of the murder after a tip-off from the guards. In fact I am so office-bound that often whole seasons come and go outside the window and I haven’t noticed.
“But you ARE a journalist, Mr Logue.”
"(Sigh). Yes I am."
"Okay, Mr Logue we are just calculating your claim." (Sound of huge cogs clanking and clattering, levers being pulled and steam puffing into the air in the large quote factory can be heard in the background.)
“So, our usual insurance underwriter is not quoting you, Mr Logue, but our alternative insurer is for €1,087. Does that match your renewal amount, Mr Logue?”
“I’ll ring you back when I’ve picked my jaw off the floor.”
(Paddy Logue was last seen, catatonic-like and foaming slightly, riding a horse through the night on the way to Hackballscross.)