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Meet the 'Duke of London': Britain’s youngest and most eccentric classic car dealer

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Meet the 'Duke of London': Britain’s youngest and most eccentric classic car dealer | Top Gear

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Would you buy a used car from this man? We visit Merlin McCormack's HQ to find out more

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Meet the 'Duke of London': Britain’s youngest and most eccentric classic car dealer

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Would you buy a used car from this man? We visit Merlin McCormack's HQ to find out more

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Would you buy a used car from this man? We visit Merlin McCormack's HQ to find out more

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Meet the 'Duke of London': Britain’s youngest and most eccentric classic car dealer

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Meet the 'Duke of London': Britain’s youngest and most eccentric classic car dealer

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Meet the 'Duke of London': Britain’s youngest and most eccentric classic car dealer

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Would you buy a used car from this man? We visit Merlin McCormack's HQ to find out more

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Actually, Merlin McCormack does not identify as a ‘car dealer’. Reclining in his tumbledown office, I ask how he prefers to be branded. “We like to wind people up. We decorated our ****ing showroom like Terry Tibbs’ [the used car salesman from Fonejacker] because the thing is a complete farce. I dunno what I am. Guess I’m an idiot who likes cars.”

Self deprecation and a sense of humour (along with a bottomless well of car knowledge inherited from his restoration mad dad) are part of what’s got Merlin, only 31 years young, here today. Lord of all he surveys here in his showroom – a ‘need to know’ location stuffed with 1960s Americana, late 1990s Ferraris, myriad Porsches and smatterings of esoteric Alfas, Fiats and Astons.

We’re somewhere in west London. His tinsel flecked headquarters hide in plain sight – even armed with directions I drive clean past and back up in bafflement asking for directions. Not one of the native Londoners nor hurried travellers off to nearby Heathrow have a clue they’re mooching mere metres away from literal millions worth of modern classics.

Photography: Tom Barnes

Anyway, he’s no lord. He’s the Duke, of London. Another joke that got out of hand and became the name of his brainchild. “‘Duke of London’ was a title offered to Churchill after World War Two,” Merlin explains. “Because he was humble and I guess haunted by war, he politely declined it. But I was arrogant enough to anoint myself as Duke of London.” He laughs and musters a straight face.

“Truthfully when Instagram started up, we were just trying to find a catchy handle. When it came to actually formalising it as a business, we were like ‘What should we call it?’ And I thought – sort of joking – ‘You may know me as the Duke of London’.”

Merlin’s story has that rogue done well sheen that would make a quality Guy Ritchie caper. He openly admits to being lazy at school, far more interested in wheeler dealing than studies. “Guess the first thing I sold was, erm, tobacco, but then I got into cars. Bought my first one before I could drive.” How old? “Eleven. A Peugeot 205 with a dodgy steering rack. I paid £32 and a penny. The guy was fuming. My mum had to go pick it up for me.”

He acknowledges he’d have got nowhere without the enthusiastic support of his parents, especially when too young to actually drive his stock. “As soon as I looked old enough to ride a moped we started buying those. Vespas mainly. Didn’t have to rely on mum, so our driveway was soon full of them. Then I went back to selling cars as soon as I was able to drive.”

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These days the grindset manosphere pressurises boys to be hustlers, to make their first million before they’re out of nappies. So did Merlin’s mates admire his entrepreneurial adolescence? “They thought it was weird. And they still do to be fair. But we were the weird kids at school anyway... we made a little bit of money but then we’d reinvest it and lose it or waste it – it wasn’t until the market started picking up around 2012 we saw an opportunity, and that’s become Duke of London.”

It’s now much more than a purveyor of modern classic cars. On a separate floor in Merlin’s bunker, we find a mouthwatering storage facility, stuffed with mothballed examples of the very latest supercars in warm, secure suspended animation, waiting for their owners to jet in and select a unicorn for a Mayfair weekend.

There’s redevelopment afoot in the building – more car storage. Another local facility will spawn a car meet up venue, cafe and restaurant. It’s driven on by tens of thousands of @dukeoflondon social media fans who appreciate the relaxed, impish tone of the whole outfit. I ask Merlin if the old guard have had their noses put out of joint by this upstart making it up as he goes along.

“People are generally nice... but I’ve always been an antagonist and I hope I never lose that.” He picks a millennial example. “When we first started out no one was using Instagram. Now these big dealers have got teams running their platforms. I used to go to a Christmas lunch for car dealers, and remember being sat there with them mocking me for putting cars on Instagram. ‘You can’t sell cars on there...’” he trails off, his point already made.

The cowboy look, like Duke of London itself, is brash, unapologetic and doesn’t take itself desperately seriously

It’s a fabulous late spring evening, so we head to the roof where Duke of London photographs the merchandise. Merlin’s arranged some of his current collection – a fastback 'Stang, a Bentley Azure with top permanently dropped and his Ferrari Testarossa, recently clipped on a kerb outside his own showroom. It’s eclectic, imperfect, and each machine tells a story.

The man himself reappears in one of his trademark outfits. The cowboy look, like Duke of London itself, is brash, unapologetic and doesn’t take itself desperately seriously.

I ask if that exuberance ever hurts trade. “I think with age it’s become less frequent,” Merlin replies. “When I was 20 or 21 people turning up to buy their first Ferrari off me would presume ‘oh, it’s your dad’s business’.

“We get less of that now. People realise we’re knowledgeable and passionate. But I’m probably looking older anyway. Ten years in the trade would do that to you.”

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Actually, Merlin McCormack does not identify as a ‘car dealer’. Reclining in his tumbledown office, I ask how he prefers to be branded. “We like to wind people up. We decorated our ****ing showroom like Terry Tibbs’ [the used car salesman from Fonejacker] because the thing is a complete farce. I dunno what I am. Guess I’m an idiot who likes cars.”

Self deprecation and a sense of humour (along with a bottomless well of car knowledge inherited from his restoration mad dad) are part of what’s got Merlin, only 31 years young, here today. Lord of all he surveys here in his showroom – a ‘need to know’ location stuffed with 1960s Americana, late 1990s Ferraris, myriad Porsches and smatterings of esoteric Alfas, Fiats and Astons.

We’re somewhere in west London. His tinsel flecked headquarters hide in plain sight – even armed with directions I drive clean past and back up in bafflement asking for directions. Not one of the native Londoners nor hurried travellers off to nearby Heathrow have a clue they’re mooching mere metres away from literal millions worth of modern classics.

Photography: Tom Barnes

Anyway, he’s no lord. He’s the Duke, of London. Another joke that got out of hand and became the name of his brainchild. “‘Duke of London’ was a title offered to Churchill after World War Two,” Merlin explains. “Because he was humble and I guess haunted by war, he politely declined it. But I was arrogant enough to anoint myself as Duke of London.” He laughs and musters a straight face.

“Truthfully when Instagram started up, we were just trying to find a catchy handle. When it came to actually formalising it as a business, we were like ‘What should we call it?’ And I thought – sort of joking – ‘You may know me as the Duke of London’.”

Merlin’s story has that rogue done well sheen that would make a quality Guy Ritchie caper. He openly admits to being lazy at school, far more interested in wheeler dealing than studies. “Guess the first thing I sold was, erm, tobacco, but then I got into cars. Bought my first one before I could drive.” How old? “Eleven. A Peugeot 205 with a dodgy steering rack. I paid £32 and a penny. The guy was fuming. My mum had to go pick it up for me.”

He acknowledges he’d have got nowhere without the enthusiastic support of his parents, especially when too young to actually drive his stock. “As soon as I looked old enough to ride a moped we started buying those. Vespas mainly. Didn’t have to rely on mum, so our driveway was soon full of them. Then I went back to selling cars as soon as I was able to drive.”

These days the grindset manosphere pressurises boys to be hustlers, to make their first million before they’re out of nappies. So did Merlin’s mates admire his entrepreneurial adolescence? “They thought it was weird. And they still do to be fair. But we were the weird kids at school anyway... we made a little bit of money but then we’d reinvest it and lose it or waste it – it wasn’t until the market started picking up around 2012 we saw an opportunity, and that’s become Duke of London.”

It’s now much more than a purveyor of modern classic cars. On a separate floor in Merlin’s bunker, we find a mouthwatering storage facility, stuffed with mothballed examples of the very latest supercars in warm, secure suspended animation, waiting for their owners to jet in and select a unicorn for a Mayfair weekend.

There’s redevelopment afoot in the building – more car storage. Another local facility will spawn a car meet up venue, cafe and restaurant. It’s driven on by tens of thousands of @dukeoflondon social media fans who appreciate the relaxed, impish tone of the whole outfit. I ask Merlin if the old guard have had their noses put out of joint by this upstart making it up as he goes along.

“People are generally nice... but I’ve always been an antagonist and I hope I never lose that.” He picks a millennial example. “When we first started out no one was using Instagram. Now these big dealers have got teams running their platforms. I used to go to a Christmas lunch for car dealers, and remember being sat there with them mocking me for putting cars on Instagram. ‘You can’t sell cars on there...’” he trails off, his point already made.

The cowboy look, like Duke of London itself, is brash, unapologetic and doesn’t take itself desperately seriously

It’s a fabulous late spring evening, so we head to the roof where Duke of London photographs the merchandise. Merlin’s arranged some of his current collection – a fastback 'Stang, a Bentley Azure with top permanently dropped and his Ferrari Testarossa, recently clipped on a kerb outside his own showroom. It’s eclectic, imperfect, and each machine tells a story.

The man himself reappears in one of his trademark outfits. The cowboy look, like Duke of London itself, is brash, unapologetic and doesn’t take itself desperately seriously.

I ask if that exuberance ever hurts trade. “I think with age it’s become less frequent,” Merlin replies. “When I was 20 or 21 people turning up to buy their first Ferrari off me would presume ‘oh, it’s your dad’s business’.

“We get less of that now. People realise we’re knowledgeable and passionate. But I’m probably looking older anyway. Ten years in the trade would do that to you.”

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Would you buy a used car from this man? We visit Merlin McCormack's HQ to find out more