EVERYONE A WINNER

How time-share operators fool simple people

like Nicky Bird

I AM not in the habit of winning things. I have the opposite of the Midas touch. So when a company called Holiday Ownership Exchange announced to my startled house- hold that I was the lucky winner of one of five lovely prizes, I hesitated a brief and fatal second before junking the mail. If I was greedy, I was also intrigued about the catch. Arid, as it turns out, it is very simple. Attached to your personalised letter is what looks like a cheque. It states the 'minimum redemption value' of your prize. In my case the figure was £159.95.

The letter contains details of five prizes — a Ford Fiesta (valued at £5,500), a compact disc player (1419.95), a video camera (£719.20), two return air tickets to Florida (£634.92) and a colour television (£159.95). A simple soul automatically assumes that he has won the colour televi- sion, because the redemption values are the same. And this happy suspicion is confirmed by the 'Award Code' which is printed above the prizes — the letter E is prominent. And as the fifth and cones- ponding prize is the television, you are clearly encouraged to assume that this is your bounty. The letter conveys a subtle sense of urgency. 'RECENT NOTICES IGNORED', it screams, 'THIS IS YOUR FINAL NOTICE' and a lot more besides until the terrifying threat of failure to respond which will 'IMMEDIATELY RE- LEASE YOUR AWARD TO OTHER PERSONS'. This was the clincher: the thought of some other swine walking away with my telly, or even driving off with my nice new Fiesta.

Even the dumbest of mugs will not assume that he can merely turn up at the Leicester Square offices of Holiday own- ership Exchange without a little something in return. And the nature of the something is outlined in the small print on the back. You must call Beverley (this turns out to be a generic word for a receptionist) and book a 'tour' of about two hours.

I rang 'Beverley' and, despite being warned that competition was stiff for this 'unbelievably popular presentation', I got an appointment at 12 o'clock next day. I toddled along in the heat to Leicester Square and found their offices in an ugly block on the west side.

My fellow 'award winners', or mugs, have mostly arrived early and are busy smoking in a large L-shaped room with not enough tables and chairs. There are about 60 of us in all. We are asked to fill in a form detailing our social and spending habits — and income. Under Children I put 2.4 to see what the computer will make of it. We hang around expectantly for 20 minutes until the counsellors appear, one per family or couple. They come in ones and twos, smiling the smile of the pro- grammed, and calling out the names of their targets. Most are men under 30. Mine is called Richard.

We are ushered into a windowless room, decorated with supposedly attractive scenes of an Algarve development, with a video screen prominent in the corner. Because he asks politely, I let Richard call

me Nicholas. He asks after my income, and how much I spend on holidays. I tell him. Richard then computes, most inaccurately. My annual expenditure on holidays and makes up a figure for what a time-share would cost me. He swivels his notepaper around so that I can react more forcefully to the startling savings I should make if I Purchased a share in a small cell in the Algarve. I am suitably impressed. Indeed, as I am a notorious tipper of rude waiters, I Positively slap my thighs in wonderment.

Our friendly chat is interrupted by the arrival of the principal speaker, who addresses us with the aid of many dia- grams, flow charts and magi-markers and Practised glibness. He starts doing some sums and the magi-marker squeaks over the shiny white board. He tells us that the cost of our holidays will increase by ten per cent a year because of inflation, and that this is a very conservative estimate. He then does a lot of very quick and impress- ive adding up to show that by the year 2009 our holidays will cost a very great deal of money indeed. However his speech avoids any mention of how wages tend to keep up With and often exceed inflation.

After the speaker has outlined the in- credible money you will actually make by investing in a 30-year lease, Richard glides back with more coffee and a calculator. 'Impressed?' he asks, knowing the answer. 'I'll say', I reply, wondering how long before I can collect my telly. Suddenly the lights darken and it is time for The Video. We sit in silence as Mr Frank Rough tells us all about the lovely Algarve and our lovely hotel. Poor Mr Bough: disgraced and eking out a living on Sky Television, forced to do promotional

Videos to keep his ample turn full of dinners. After a few minutes' viewing it is clear to me that our hotel is a ghastly place that couldn't fill its rooms without flogging them off to mugs at marketing events like this. The design is cut-price Albert Speer, the place a concrete patchwork, the weath- er windy. We see Mr Bough dining alone on 'international cuisine' with only the camera crew for company.

My earlier grovelling attempts to please have convinced Richard that I am a serious punter. After the video I am told to await the arrival of a Senior Consultant. She arrives. She is aggressive. This is the Hard Sell. How will I pay? she asks. I don't know, I reply. To be frank I still don't know what it is I have to pay. She explains, quickly and impatiently, that a two-bed apartment will cost me around £33,000, payable over three years with a £7,000 deposit. How will I finance the deposit? Er . . . cash, I suppose. Right, if I don't require their finance facilities it may be possible, but she'll have to get permission, to offer a substantial discount if I sign immediately. Perhaps I should discuss it with my wife and bank manager. I reply, but she is having none of it.

There is one special apartment left. She shouldn't really be saying this, but she thinks she can get her Director to approve my buying it, seeing I am a cash buyer. But I'll have to sign now, now, and the saving will be an incredible £18,000! I still protest that I should discuss it with my family, we do not normally sign away such sums after watching a video of Mr Bough.

She is cross with me now. I am clearly a fool who cannot see the advantages of saving £18,000. She flashes some figures across the page and turns the sheet towards me. But she misplaces a crucial decimal point, and when I gleefully take refuge in this she stands up. 'Thank you. Goodbye,' she hisses, and she is off. Richard says nothing but a sign has passed between them. He beckons me to follow. As I skulk guiltily past the Senior Counsellor, I see her pinion another poor wretch. 'I think I can get my Director to approve it,' I am sure I hear her say: 'special apart- ment. . . just for you. . . unique oppor- tunity. . . a saving of £18,000. .

Richard takes me out to the reception area to collect my prize. He reaches from under the counter for a typewritten sheet

of the prizes. He points to the code on my original letter and tells me that the letter E does indeed indicate what prize I am to get. Goody, goody, goody, I think: after all the tedium and distress Mr Bough has caused me I am to pick up a new telly for my bedroom. But, ah, what's this? Richard is pointing down the list of prizes and the holiday for two in Florida has the letter E by the side of it. And I will tell you why. Because the particular list that Richard has reached for has six prizes — a new one has miraculously appeared at the top. So my colour telly is now not E but F — and a thing of my dreams. And is there another list, possibly? One that rewards with a colour telly those that sign away their holidays for the next 30 years?

And what of the holiday? In no sense of the word could it be classed a prize. The two tickets to Florida do not include board and lodgings and you must stay out of season in a designated hotel at a basic rate of £15.75 per person, per night. That is for the bed. So this 'award' could actually cost you well over £1,000 if you are in the habit of eating and drinking and staying alive. This is in no way an 'award' of £634.92. I went and suffered partly to find out what the trick was. The cost to me was two hours in a smoke-filled room but others yet more supine than myself clearly fell for the damned statistics, The Video, and Mr Frank Bough.

At one point in the lecture I asked what was the resale value of our time-share lease if we no longer wished to visit our 'luxury apartment' and enjoy 'succulent seafood specialities'? What was its 'redemption value,' as they put it? Our leader was not happy. But it was the reaction of the audience that was odd. You would have thought I had done something nasty on the carpet tiles by their expressions of horror and embarrassment. Without such happy and gullible folk, sly operators like the Holiday Ownership Exchange would not be in business and Mr Frank Bough would have to fill his paunch elsewhere.