I HAVE this weird theory. If Britain ever gets into a really serious war again and people have to be called up to fight, every car salesman should be immediately conscripted into MI4, 5, 6 or 7.

These people have all the skills necessary to get their prisoners to break down, confess, turn double agent, or even buy an armoured car against their will.

Gone are the days of the rubber truncheon, bright lights and electrodes attached to the testicles.

The persuasive techniques employed by the motor industry are more subtle - showroom full of shiny vehicles, the computer sitting threateningly by the glass wall and the dreaded complementary coffee.

They know that when they have to show you how to operate the space-age drinks dispenser, they have you belittled, broken and ready to sign up to anything.

Yes, we ran the gauntlet of car buying at the weekend. My teenage daughter has passed her driving test and was ready for her first car. It's a minefield of motor models, mileage and money.

On the way we passed Toys R Us and she said: "Do you remember how excited I used to get when we were going to buy toys, dad?" Oh happy days.

The cars from there were pedal-powered, plastic and low mileage. No matter how many bumps she had she never lost her no-claims bonus. We've left Toys R Us behind, we've been through Boys R Us now it's Cars R Us.

We ventured into the shark-infested territory of the motor dealers' alley. The salesman were standing on their forecourts, rubbing their hands and beckoning us in like touts outside an Amsterdam sex show.

We dived into one dealership with hundreds of cars on display. Where do you start? And as we peered through one car window trying to read the mileage, a young salesman appeared from nowhere in that vast carscape. I swear he was squatting between two vehicles waiting to pounce.

All we did was express a slight interest in one car and then we got the invitation into the showroom. Take a seat, have a FREE coffee, and let's take some details for the computer.

All I wanted to know was how many miles it had on the clock.

Name? Age? Take-home pay? Inside-leg measurement? Sexual orientation?

I'm still uncomfortable with the fact that all they need is my postcode to be able to pull up all my personal details, family tree and the fact I was late with last month's Visa payment. Tut-tut, sir.

So I weaken. How much will you do that car for? Then comes the good cop, bad cop routine. "I think the manager's in a good mood, sir. You seem like a nice family, so I'll go and ask him if he can do something special for you." Have you noticed that you never see this imaginary manager? When the salesman goes through that door, he could be walking into a store cupboard, picking his nose for five minutes and coming back with the figure he thought of in the first place.

"You're in luck, sir. He'll knock a million pounds off if you sign up now." Can we haggle a bit first. How about throwing in an engine and a steering wheel? By this time we are edging back into the car lot and apologising that we'll just try a few more garages first.

"Sorry, sir, the manager also says that if you leave the premises the car goes back to its original price for ever."

That's when I notice the perimeter fence has barbed wire and there are watch towers with armed guards. The nice young man's face suddenly changes into Arfur Daley, complete with super-spiv moustache. They must have slipped something into the coffee.

Panic sets in. Please let us leave, I have a wife at home and she'll be worried. My daughter has her gerbil to feed. They'll be sending out search parties from the office.

Anyway it is a nice car, the mileage and price are right and those swinging dice are lovely and fluffy.

And what's my daughter doing all this time? She's siding with the young salesman and muttering something about a CD player.

OK, I'm beaten. Where do I sign? How many years do I have to go without food and alcohol before it's paid off?

Please, bring back the innocent, sweet nostalgia of Toys R Us.

Updated: 09:17 Tuesday, October 19, 2004