Coming as I do from a family of longtime auctioneers, I think I know how to buy and sell. But not everyone has this ability.

My late father was the absolute master of the art and I’ll explain to you what I mean. It’s much more of a refined skill than just being plain tight.

Even though at the time the family operated two livestock marts, Dad preferred to sell the fat cattle privately one-on-one in the farmyard. This took place most autumn Saturday mornings as the cattle became fit, and the week’s chosen buyer would appear as arranged. Let’s say it was Al Capone (or at least that’s what we called him).

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Al Capone would walk grunting around the cattle in his brown shop coat, poking the odd lumpy fat black whitehead with his nail-tipped ash plant and despatching an occasional smoker’s spit. We knew this meant that bullock was going nowhere, but Dad was having none of it. It was all or nothing.

Playing for time, Al Capone would pull out a packet of Major cigarettes, tap one on the box, light it with a swift action and flick the match at the offending bullock. After a long slow pull inhaling on the fag, he’d carry on his appraisal and throw the glowing butt on the ground.

Dad, not known for his patience, would ask him to make an offer which would, of course, be laughed at. A second and third would follow and by the fourth offer, Dad would tell Al Capone to go home and come back when he was ready to talk sense. Al Capone would then call Dad’s bluff and start walking towards his car.

Now it was a case of who would blink first and it could be either.

With his hand on the car door, Al Capone might offer another 20 quid as his final offer to which Dad would retort ‘Now you’re beginning to talk sense.’ The prelude over, the real dealing could begin. Half an hour later a deal would be done and Al Capone would spit on his hand and offer it to Dad. This was graciously accepted and with the serious business over the craic would begin, both of them changed personas. Dad had sold the 15 cattle for 50 quid a head more than he expected. He’d surprised himself.

Buying was the same. I remember being with Dad buying a new Volvo loader from Pat O’Donnell and it was just role reversal whenever he was buying. It was a cringing education for me and I would have felt sorry for a lesser man than the very shrewd Pat O’Donnell. With the machine price agreed, Dad then got the pallet forks thrown in.

We still have them.

The art of selling is being lost and there are too many machinery salesmen now who haven’t a clue how to sell. Some don’t even answer their phones or ring you back. I see this all the time and it annoys me greatly.

When I want to buy something, whether it be a pair of Wrangler Texas 821s or a machine, I expect a salesperson who knows the product and earnestly wishes to sell and is open to offers. Yes, a salesperson can be too pushy and all over you like a rash and I don’t like that either, but it’s about striking the balance. That’s the art of selling.

Recently I phoned two salesmen about a machine – I’m not going to say what in case an unusually keen salesman might read this.

The first guy never answered my message and the second guy eventually answered, but not another dicky bird out of him. Unbelievable. Should I take it personally?