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Which wouldn't be too bad if the thing that he tried to sell you was something that you always wanted to own, but more often than not it wasn't. In fact more often than not the stuff that you bought from Bennett was stuff that you had never dreamed of owning, but after spending five minutes with him, you would wonder how you ever got this far through life without needing his stuff before.
Dennis Bennett was the archetypical "wideboy" salesman. With his brylcreamed slicked back hair, long camel-hair coat and immaculate suit and shoes you could not help but be impressed and ready to spend money with him - and he knew it. Bennett had his sources, and only Bennett knew where he sourced his stuff from. Even when he was once raided by the police and had his stock and notebook confiscated, they never discovered his sources, and luckily for Bennett none of the confiscated stuff was "hot". True to form when he went to the police station to reclaim his stuff he made several sales to the police officers - we didn't expect any less of Dennis Bennett.
Only once did he ever reveal one of his sources.
Burtons Tailors were the largest employers in Leeds from the 1930's through to the mid 1970's. Burtons main factory was in Harehills, a Victorian suburb to the east of Leeds city centre, where tens of thousands of women sat all day (and all night) long sewing made-to-measure suits and many other items of clothing.
Burtons had a factory shop where all sorts of mis-matched garments, end-of-line stock, shop returns and manufacturing mistakes were sold off cheap to the workforce. Entry into the shop was strictly controlled, you had to be a bone-fide employee with a security pass, and you had a limit to the number of garments you could buy each month - Burtons did not want their employees to become rich and idle by running a black market from their factory shop - if you were seen in the shop too often you would be asked to leave by security.
Bennett had a Burtons security pass for the factory shop.
He did not work for Burtons, had not ever worked for Burtons at any time in his life, and did not know anyone who worked there.
But he acquired a security pass.
Not only did he acquire a security pass but he was allowed free access to the shop stock at any time and could purchase as much of the stock as he desired.
Dennis Bennett made a killing with Burtons factory stock, every Friday after finishing work early, his blue Ford Escort would be filled from floor to roof with Burtons stuff, to be flogged off around the pubs and clubs of Meanwood and North Leeds over the weekend - and there was a big demand for his Burtons stuff. So much so that he would slip in the odd non-Burtons item now and again, items that would not normally sell but items that Bennett's clients would buy, thinking that they had come from Burtons.
Which is why, as a gullible 14 year old I ended up buying a brown pullover and cardigan combination (very trendy in 1971 to wear a pullover underneath a cardigan, both in the same material), only to discover later that it absolutely stank of smoke, even after many washes it would smell like an old bonfire and eventually had to be given up for dusters. Years later Bennett admitted that one of his sources was fire damaged stock - manufacturers just could not get rid of the smell of smoke after clothing had been soaked through with fireman's hoses during a fire and they would sell off everything for shredding and conversion into industrial cleaning rags - except for the stuff that was diverted into Bennetts clutches.
So it was that every Sunday afternoon we would sit as a family, lazing around after a huge Sunday dinner - (we never, ever missed a proper Sunday dinner except for the time that our dad brought home a dead rabbit to eat) - when the cry would be heard "Bennett's here", and there outside in the street would be Bennett, unloading his blue Ford Escort with this weeks goodies. A long session of bargaining would follow, lasting most of the afternoon with our dad and Bennett both trying to impose their will on each other,
"Your Gary could do with a new pair of trousers, Frank"
"No he's OK for trousers Bennett"
"Those ones he's got on have got holes in the knees, I've got some lovely Trevira ones in the car"
"No he's alright for trousers Bennett"
"They're his size, 34inch waist - what waist are you Gary?"
"30 inch"
"That's what I said, 30 inch waist - you'll grow into them, you're a growing lad, what size leg are you, 31 inch?"
"29 inch"
"That's what they are, you'll look a right bobby dazzler in these, Trevira they are, tell your dad you need a pair for school"
"I need a pair for school dad"
"No he bloody doesn't Bennett, not a pair of bloody Trevira ones anyway, have you got any in Polyester?"
and so it would go on … until we bought something. Or (more likely) until my dad agreed to take some of Bennett's stuff for further dispersion amongst my dads circle of favourite pubs and clubs, in a way he acted as Bennett's sales rep, they would meet up at our house every Sunday to exchange last weeks cash with this weeks goods, the money that my dad made on his little retail operation being put away into an old elastoplast tin and saved for our summer holiday - we were never short of cash and we were never short of new clothes, although we couldn't have actually verified the source of either commodity.
But every dog has his day, every bubble has to burst, and Bennett's last two deals were absolute gems ….
The Slippers
Around my 18th birthday Bennett dumped a huge case of gents slippers at our house.
They sold as fast as you could take them out of the box.
For whatever reason tartan slippers were in vogue that year, no self-respecting family man would be seen without a pair, or several pairs and our dad could not sell enough of them - between them he and Bennett made a fortune.
By this time our dad was more like a business partner to Bennett, putting up some capital to enable Bennett to obtain bigger and bigger quantities of his "stuff", which in turn introduced Bennett to bigger and better wholesalers - Bennett was becoming a big shot and the wholesalers thought that he was a genuine businessman with several retail outlets - how surprised they would be to see one of Bennetts "retail outlets" in Otley Road one night.
I had spent the Friday night imbibing with several friends in the Woodman pub in Headingley, and knowing that my dad was 100 yards down the road in the New Inn, suggested that we scrounge a lift home with him. With three mates I found him in the New Inn finishing off his last beer, he threw me the car keys and told us to wait in the car.
So there we were sitting in the Austin Princess listening to Radio Luxemburg when one of my mates pointed out my dad walking down Otley Road towards us, followed by a crowd of at least twenty blokes. He leaned in through the window and asked for the car keys then went round the back of the car, followed by the swelling crowd, and opened the boot.
Within minutes Otley Road, a normally busy four lane highway through the heart of the Leeds suburbs was filled with drunken old men taking off their shoes and trying on carpet slippers.
"Embarrassed in front of my friends" is not a strong enough phrase for it - I can still see my mates gazing in awe through the back window at the crowd collectively hopping around one foot trying to get shoes off and slippers on in the dark, some of them were in the middle of Otley Road in their new slippers holding one foot up into the oncoming car headlights to get a better idea of the tartan colour.
"Your dad is selling slippers out of the boot" one of my mates muttered in a daze.
"I know", said I as I slipped further down into the seat, wishing we'd gone home on the bus.
By this time the car was completely surrounded by shoeless, drunken males in a buying frenzy,
"Have you got these in an eight Frank?"
"Do you do plain colours ?"
"Can you see what colour these ones are Jack?"
"Has anyone got a torch?"
People were driving past, stopping and reversing back to see what was being sold, then taking their shoes off to check the size, and strolling proudly up and down Otley Road in pitch darkness in their newly acquired slippers asking their mates if they looked alright.
In the middle of it all was my dad, pleased as punch with himself, handing out boxes and boxes of slippers and collecting wads of pound notes, shouting out to all and sundry to "come and get your slippers before they're all gone"
At one point a police car drove slowly past, carefully avoiding the melee and I fully expected them to stop and buy a pair, but fortunately they drove on not prepared to tackle such a large crowd of obvious slipper perverts at that time of night.
He made a fortune and flogged the lot that night, and slippers dominated our house for several more months until ….
The Spectacles
Back in the 1970's if you needed glasses you had to buy them from an optician.
It was as simple as that, and it wasn't cheap.
Even if you were only slightly short sighted and only needed glasses for reading the very smallest of small print, you still had to go to the optician and have an eye test then buy your glasses from him.
How much simpler things are today when you can walk into almost any supermarket, try on a pair of glasses and if you can read with them they're yours for a few quid Well our dad and Bennett had that idea covered back in 1978.
You see there was an alternative to buying your specs from the optician - having had the free NHS eye test from him you could ask him for the free NHS spectacles too. The only problem with NHS spectacles was that they were so ugly, heavy black-rimmed spectacles for men and pink "winged" frames for women did nothing for your ego and even though most people couldn't afford them, they always went for the opticians expensive alternatives.
Imagine our surprise then one Sunday afternoon to hear, coming from our hallway …
"How am I going to sell that lot Dennis?"
"They'll go like hot cakes Frank don't worry"
"You've been robbed Dennis, how much did you pay for this bloody lot?"
"Don't worry Frank I got them cheap, they'll go like hot cakes"
"Why did you get a tea chest full though? Look at them, just bloody look at them, you're never going to shift this lot, don't leave them here for gods sake"
"Just keep them for a few weeks Frank, see if you can sell any, do me a favour, keep them for a few weeks, go on …"
And so it was that we ended up with a tea chest full of used National Health spectacles in our hallway.
There must have been 500 pairs in the chest, all of them grotesque, some as thick as bottle bottoms, most of the lenses scratched, many of them with one or more arms missing, all of them completely unsellable.
Until our Uncle Sid came to visit.
Uncle Sid was the funniest of all our relations, I hardly ever saw him without a smile on his face, and we all enjoyed his too infrequent Sunday afternoon visits after the pubs had shut.
The very next weekend after the spectacles had been left, Uncle Sid came to call and during the course of the conversation just happened to mention that he was having trouble reading.
"Its your lucky day Sid," grinned our dad (if I had a pound for every time I've heard that phrase I'd be a multi-millionaire by now) "come out to the garage and see what I've got for you"
Irene, Sids long suffering wife, gave Sid one of those looks that says "don't you dare buy anything else off our Frank", as off the two brother-in-laws trotted, out to the garage to rummage around in the tea chest.
Ten minutes later they came back with a smaller box with a dozen or so pairs of specs that weren't too thick and that had all the correct component parts to pass muster as spectacles. Sid sat down in an armchair and held the Yorkshire Post at arms length, declaring that he couldn't read the small print. Our dad then proceeded to hand the specs over to Sid one at a time with Sid trying to read the paper with each pair, until finally he found a pair that were perfect - he could read the small print from thirty yards away.
That's when Auntie Irene exploded …. "You are not keeping that pair Sid, take them off right now"
"But I can see perfectly with them …"
"I don't care, take them off, we're going home"
"No, I'm keeping these, they're fantastic, how much are they Frank?"
"Two quid to you Sid"
"Don't you dare give him any money Sid, you can't just try on specs, you have to have your eyes tested properly"
"Well I can see perfectly well with these ones, give him the money"
"Sid, you look like Dame Edna Everage - they are womens specs, they've got diamante wings on them"
"I don't care, I'll only wear them in the house, no-one will see them, pay him the money and lets go"
My brother and I were helpless with laughter, Sid did indeed look like Dame Edna, his "perfect" glasses were womens heavy pink plastic ones with huge wings studded with fake diamonds, and he was determined to keep them, but not as determined as our dad was to sell them - if only to prove to Bennett that you could indeed sell anything to anyone.
Sid got to keep his glasses and wore them for many years, but they were always strictly for use inside the house, and poor old Irene was the brunt of many jokes from visitors about how "her" glasses were just like Dame Edna's.
The rest of the glasses stayed in the tea chest until the following year when they were thrown out with the newspapers in the great 1974 newspaper scam (more of which later). The NHS specs were the pinnacle of Dennis Bennetts career, we never discovered how on earth he came across them or how on earth he expected to sell them, but nothing that he ever sold after that came close to the great 1973 NHS spectacle spectacle.
Dennis Bennett could sell anything to anyone.
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