T INTAGEL Casefile 3: Tintagel Scrap, Cornwall

in Cornwall is reputed to be the site of Camelot - the legendary seat of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Ta ble. But if Sir Bedevere, Sir Launcelot and Sir Galahad were to return in order to weigh in some old armour at Tintagel Scrap, situated on the modern town’s Susan Penhaligon industrial estate, they would be shocked at the poor service they received.

Before visiting, I first phoned up to see how much I could expect for an old lead water tank. The receptionist was noncommital. “Fucked if I know. Bring the fucker in and we’ll fucking weigh the fucker, won’t I,” he told me in his thick Cornish brogue. Such a four-letter outburst was certainly not what I expected from a fivestar establishment. But as I was to learn, it was par for the course at Tintagel Scrap. When I enquired if the yard operated a courtesy bus service from Newquay Airpor t I was told to fuck off.

After driving to the yard, I pulled up outside the reception hut and handed my keys to the valet parking attendant - a surly, heavily-tattooed youth in an oil-stained boilersuit who was sitting on an oil drum smoking. I asked him, before taking my car away, to remove the water tank from the boot. This he did, to his credit, albeit reluctantly and with a certain amount of swearing.

The decor in the reception area was an eclectic blend of styles with a muted colour scheme. tastefully distressed shelves loaded with dir ty car parts jostled for attention with pornographic calendars, piles of tyres and grungy racks of hammers and hacksaws. I could see the effect the proprietors had been trying to achieve, but sadly their ambition had not been matched by their abilities.

ALEX’S STAR RATING:

The same receptionist to whom I had spoken on the phone earlier told me he couldn’t weigh my water tank for at least another half hour. “On my fucking dinner, aren’t I,” he explained. Taking advantage of the unexpected delay, I decided to order lunch and asked him for the menu. He looked at me as if I’d asked for the Moon on a stick, laughed in my face and wandered off into a back room. Needless to say, I never got to see the menu.

Tw enty minutes later the receptionist reappeared, dragging my water tank across the muddy, oil-soaked yard to a set of rusty agricultural scales. “It’s a heavy fucker,” he told me. “But the fucking arse has dropped out of the fucking lead market so I can only give you two fucking quid for it, can’t I.” At this point I suddenly noticed that my car was fifty feet in the air, dangling off a magnet over the open jaws of a hydraulic crusher.

I’m afraid I can only give Tintagel Scrap a half-star rating. Yo u expect the occasional minor scratch when handing over your car to be valet parked - the odd ding and scrape goes with the territory. But to have my brand new Mercedes SL crushed into a two-foot cube was frankly unacceptable service.