ROBIN FLETCHER

TWO DIFFERENT JAGS

Abig name in manufacturing assures me the only reason JLR is building its new battery plant in Bridgwater, Somerset is because it needs more power than the city of Birmingham, and nearby Hinkley Point is apparently the only place with enough juice. Having sufficient energy to power a Jaguar takes me back to Christmas Day 1968. I was a busy two-year-old happily embracing all things Santa at my granny’s house in Cottingley, Bradford. As nonbelievers we did not have to wait until we’d been to church to unwrap presents, which meant that as soon as me and my sister woke up, it was action stations.

As a hyper-active little boy with no consideration for anything beyond my own personal enjoyment and pleasure, I was first down to the living room. There, apparently, I spied the largest wrapped present, assumed it was for me (correctly as it happened), and dived in. While I remember some things about 1968, including the release of the Beatles' Yellow Submarine film, I don’t specifically recall my self-centred actions on Christmas Day. But I do very much recall what was under the wrapping paper – a bright red, open-top, pedal car Jaguar Mk2. I did not need a nuclear power plant to get my new motor up and running, simply two short legs. And so the first and only Jag I have ever technically owned kept me busy and broadly out of trouble over the next year before I outgrew it.

It took four years before a toy Jag was replaced by the real deal when a promotion at work saw my dad sitting behind the wheel of a silver blue metallic XJ6 complete with red leather seats. I thought this was the coolest motor on four wheels, especially the chrome electric window controls below the central arm rest console. The family Jag was certainly impressive and looked the part, but beauty, as we all know, can be deceptive. Who knew for instance that my schoolboy tendency to ruin nearly every family outing by being violently travel sick would get considerably worse in such a smoothrunning executive saloon? And while the twin chrome fuel caps either side of the boot lid hinges were worthy of a design award, that was of little comfort to my dad as one tank drained completely on the mere 65-mile journey from Heathrow to the Oxfordshire village of Bloxham at the end of a business trip.

It was the triple combo of clearing up sick, unreliable electric windows and soaring world oil prices that hastened the departure of that XJ6 back to the company fleet, to be replaced by a Rover P6 offering a princely 24mpg in place of the Jaguar’s miserly 13mpg. Jags and Daimlers then remained a distant presence in my life over the next 20 years. I recall a primary school friend whose dad ran a firm which did the carpet trims for Jags and another friend’s dad who occasionally gave us a lift in his company Daimler with a Neil Diamond eight-track cassette poking out of the dashboard. Then there was the school friend whose dad would occasionally hover around in a white XJS (a very Ian Ogilvy/ Saint II vibe in the late 1970s) and the two bosses whose company Jags were essentially glorified ashtrays on wheels.

Living and working in Birmingham in the mid-1980s inevitably meant the launch of the new XJ6 in 1986 was sufficiently big news to pique my motoring interest, particularly as the former lead singer of a lamentably sad teenage band I’d once played in was by then courting the daughter of a certain Sir John Egan. But all this was peripheral stuff compared to the zenith of my Jaguar story, when in the summer of 1994 I got the chance to get behind the wheel of one for real.

The opportunity came shortly after I headed north to Blackpool to take up the editor’s chair of the local evening newspaper. While waiting for the delivery of my first brand-new company motor, and somewhat fed up with the tired temporary Rover 400 I was running around in, I seized the opportunity to babysit my boss’s maroon XJ6 for a week while he jetted off to sunny climes. So it was that twice a day, to and from the Fylde village of Stalmine in Lancashire, I sailed this stately barge into the staff car park of the Blackpool Gazette. Actually driving a Jag for real, with a suitably powerful motor replacing the power of my little legs, was a wondrous first in my then brief motoring life. It was also the first time I’d driven anything other than a traditional manual car, so the thrill of selecting Drive on the big J-gate set-up in the front centre of the car was additionally exciting.

As I recall, I was actually quite pleased to hand back the keys, mainly I suspect because I’d managed five days without pranging it. The secondary reason however was about horses for courses, because at no point during the loan period did I actually take the big cat out for a proper cruise, instead insisting she weave and duck along coastal country lanes. I realised then that rather like trying to teach a fish to climb tree, I was not exactly playing to her strengths, but I shall always be grateful for the opportunity to drive a Jaguar, however brief the experience.

I seized the opportunity to babysit my boss’s maroon XJ6 for a week while he jetted off to sunny climes... As I recall, I was actually quite pleased to hand back the keys, mainly I suspect because I’d managed five days without pranging it