FRIENDLY FIRE
OUR PHOTOGRAPHER UNWITTINGLY OPENS BOTH BARRELS ON THE PUBLIC
IFEEL I must use these pages to publicly apologise to the occupants of a silver Audi A4 Avant that I likely scared the bejeezus out of on an innercity on-ramp the other week. You see, the Jaguar really is a caged animal around town. Yes, one could probably deduce that the lowslung styling and hardly ambiguous ‘R-Dynamic’ and ‘P450’ badging
(that numerical figure standing for metric horsepower from the 5.0-litre supercharged V8) don’t exactly gel with a metropolitan jungle with restrictive 40 and 50km/h speed limits.
An obligatory prod of the exhaust button on cold start-up transforms what is initially a svelte eight-part purr into a rather loud, wet gargle, really ramping anticipation that the following drive will be broadcast to anyone within a 3km radius. In reality, the Jag quietly keeps to itself once you’re rolling along, slowly waking itself up. Driving the coupe with restraint has it humming instead of shouting.
Filtering through traffic, that initial raspy bark of the cold start never really comes back without a sharp introduction of your right foot with the throttle pedal. Even with the exhaust button on, drive mode in ‘Dynamic’, gear selector across to ‘Sport’ and paddles pulled for control of the ratios, the soundtrack remains initially covert. But while the decibels aren’t off the charts, be of no doubt that this four-stage set-up means the F-Type’s driver is in a full yobbo mindset. Claws out, ears back.
Just when you’re on the cusp of feeling short-changed as you’re working your way up the rev range, the valves in the exhaust suddenly open and the noise erupts from behind you. It doesn’t half have a growl on it when it decides to announce itself. Pedestrians duck for cover, birds take flight, glass shatters, the whole nine yards.
And that’s before another gear is plucked with the F-Type seemingly relishing the opportunity to extend its boisterous upshifts. Instead of snapping the next ratio quick smart,
the Jag lets it all hang out with an extended show that sounds like a rift to the Nine Hells opening in your wake. Whatever your aural inclinations, it’s impossible to deny how glorious this thing sounds.
There are also bonus theatrics on the overrun, which strike me as more of a genuine, natural by-product of excess fuel being dumped rather than the pre-programmed pops and bangs that some manufacturers offer.
My major issue with this frankly intoxicating mixture is it’s hidden in the mid-to-upper echelons of the rev range. It all kicks off at around 3500rpm, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but the big cat only sings up to a 6600-7000-ish rpm redline.
I say ‘ish’, as the actual rev limit is a mystery in the F-Type. Even when you let it know you want to take control of shifting with the paddles it’ll automatically pluck a gear on upshifts when you get near its indicated 7000rpm limit. Knock the shifter across and it’ll give you far more control. The result is that in most circumstances you have dialled a fair amount of momentum into proceedings when the music starts.
This would be less of an issue if the eight-speed automatic’s ratios were spaced in a sympathetic fashion. Instead the Jag is rather long legged. In first gear, you’re comfortably in the 30-50km/h mark by the time the chorus plays, in second, you’re fraying on the edges of legality when bidding for an encore.
The occasional squirt is one thing but shouting about it only while well on your way to breaking the limit seems inadvisable. Perhaps this vocal display is best kept aside just for a countryside blat, with the operatic performance just out of reach in urban driving. Such a tease.
On a recent highway drive, I started musing that as my Spotify playlist contains more than 1600 songs at the last check, I’d require almost 100 Melbourne-Sydney trips to get through my catalogue of tunes. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep Kirby distracted with a Scalextric track that long, so there will be no deep dive into the Jag’s otherwise decent optional Meridian sound system this month. Which brings us to the unsuspecting A4. Kirby had figured out the distraction that allowed me to scoop the keys off his desk, and my time with the F-Type was about to come to an end. I found myself second in line behind the Audi at a set of traffic lights, and my addiction demanded I get that sonorous hit a final time before journey’s end.
One lane opens to two, with an 80km/h limit ahead. Just enough for one last ear-splitting war-cry in first and second, all of which reached its dramatic crescendo just as the pert rear of the Jag was roughly level with the driver’s window of an unsuspecting Audi. Unleashed upon them was the F-Type at maximum volume. To you sir or madam, apologies. I think in the jungle they call that the ‘element of surprise’. Cats will be cats.