Massive consumer law Range Rover refund


Car industry take note: Australia consumer tribunal hands down record-setting $283,000 refund against epic lemon Range Rover


I think of this as a Fairy Tale, called Shitbox Lullabye.

Once upon a time, kids (actually in 2015) a nice lady named Sally Morphy - who has a thing for horses, and admittedly lives some distance from the poverty line - let’s call her ‘the Duchess’ - looked out the window at Chippenham Castle and made a rather bad decision. She bought a $235,000 Land Rover Wanking Tractor (otherwise known as a Range Rover Autobiography).

Procured it from an evil dealer in Redneckistan (which some people call Queensland).

She lives in the rolling, green hills of Poshtovia (that’s about five million bogans further south).

Imagine how much fun you could have for 235 big ones. The size of the hot tub. The Calibre of the hookers. The purity of the cocaine.

This was not in store for the Duchess, sadly. She had what I think of as a philosophically common Land Rover experience, which, unlike the kiddies’ books, never ends with the words ‘happily ever after’.

Not until the Kill Bill restaurant scene, anyway.

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The Duchess of Poshtovia got her fine Wanking Tractor in April 2016. Just a few weeks later, in June, a demon, from hell, posessed it, and the gearbox light came on.

Kids these days. She got six or seven weeks without a fault. In a Range Rover. Gotta be a record.

Apparently there was a lot of head scratching at the dealership.

They followed it up with some concerted brow-furrowing among top Land Rover exorcists. Still nothing.

Ultimately the light went off.

July: The demon returned and the coolant light came on.

The dealership’s top exorcist dutifully topped up the coolant.

September: Coolant light. Again. Dealer replaces the sensor.

Can you imagine if Land Rover had built and operated the Space Shuttle? How much more entertaining the live coverage would have been?

October: The Wanking Tractor unexpectedly failed to get it up one morning. Wouldn’t start. Just lay there, flaccid.

November: Coolant reservoir … problematically, a bit empty.

Happily ever after.

At this point, the Duchess of Poshtovia has decided that perhaps she and the tractor should have a relationship with a different dealership.

According to dealer number two: The Wanking Tractor is fine. These things happen. Still abusing itself to factory specifications, or words to this effect.

So the Duchess does a very smart thing: She commissions her lawyer to write to dealer number one, formally rejecting the green ovalled bag of dried turds because she would not have procured it had she known how breathtakingly shit it truly was.

The Duchess - and I applaud her for this, too - had an expert engineer inspect the Wanking Tractor. He found there was a risk of (quote): “sudden and catastrophic engine failure”

I’m pretty sure that’s not in the brochure.

Long and short of it: The Duchess’s cup runneth over, it goes to trial, and the Chief Inquisitor and Grand Visigoth of Shitbox Determination, Blair Ussher, handed down the rule of law:

“...the repetitive and undiagnosed failures made the car unreliable … and the prospect of the defect leading to a sudden and catastrophic engine failure rendered the motor car unfit for its basic purpose, that is to be driven on or off roads...”

I don’t think that’s in the brochure, either. But it should be. He also found that the vehicle was unsafe and not durable - coincidentally direct contraventions of Shitsvillian consumer law.

Thus he ordered the evil green dragon (Jaguar Land Rover ‘Straya) to refund to the Duchess $283,191 - being the purchase price, expert fee, replacement car costs and (of course) interest.

The Duchess will now try to slay an additional dragon (reclaim her legal costs totalling $134,000).

Doctors say Jaguar Land Rover ‘Straya might regain the use of its legs and even sit comfortably once all of the inquisitor’s instruments are formally removed from its anus.

In the meantime they are administering palliative care to assist the dragon with the humiliating public oxygenation of its anti-consumer practises.

The oxygenation hurts more than the cash, incidentally.


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