We begin our big cat safari with a word from Mrs. Smit aka Mrs. Jaguar:
“I really don’t like the fried-egg headlights. I also have no idea what he was thinking, buying a so-called family car with cream leather that doesn’t fit in normal parking spaces and can’t take a pram in the boot.”
Quintin Smit isn’t the first man in history to see his pride and joy met with less than resounding approval from his better-half.
It seems unlikely that a more original XJR exists in South Africa. The tools are still in their factory packaging. The door sills, astonishingly, still have their blue protective plastic films. There is genuinely not a single mark on the magnificent cream interior. The preserved state of this car is more due to exceptional care by each of her owners, rather than lack of use, which makes it even more special.
To be fair to Mrs. Jaguar, the family car game has moved on since the days of executive saloons. The MPV started the trend of large family cars and the SUV perfected it. Super-SUVs have replaced super-saloons on our roads. These cars have loads of space for the pram and the entire family, unless you buy a look-at-me SUV with a sloping rear roof.
Even worse, the average consumer has flown in the face of petrolhead folklore by declaring that there is in fact a replacement for displacement – small, turbodiesel engines.
Yuck.
No doubt about it, then – this five-metre-long 4.0 supercharged V8 Jaguar XJR is an endangered species. She’s a throwback to a time when golf was what executives played on Saturdays, not what they aspired to drive. Just as well, perhaps, because golf clubs are probably the only thing that will fit in the exceptionally shallow boot. We can’t dispute that criticism from Mrs. Jaguar.
Love them or hate them, the four small headlights define the front of this car. The enormous grill could devour your Korean hatchback whole, while the growler emblem suggests a strong willingness to do so.
If you have ever had the pleasure of owning a kitten, you will instantly recognise the side profile of this car. Low and sleek, the Jaguar is stalking its prey around every corner. The rear is even prettier, with sculpted tail-lights rounding off the boot. This is a design study in muscular athleticism.
But don’t mistake this car for a muscle car, even with that V8 badge. This cat kills silently, perhaps slightly disappointingly. The current Jaguar model range includes some of the angriest sounding cars that money can buy. The previous generation of Jaguar drivers preferred silencers on their guns. If you want a V8 that scares the neighbours, this isn’t it.
The XJR does have a sport button, but the only noticeable effect is that the automatic gearbox shifts at higher revs. Bad behaviour is almost impossible, as the ‘box won’t let you rev above 3,000rpm in park or neutral.
Almost impossible.
Have you ever used a laser pointer to send a dancing red dot along the floor in front of a cat? All hell immediately breaks loose. The same happens when this predator sniffs a sweeping bend.
With the whining supercharger as the only sign to her prey that the end is near, she simply defies physics. It cannot be possible that this almost 20-year old grand piano can dispatch corners with such poise and grace. But, she does.
Although we didn’t take the car on a track to truly test the limits, in real-world spirited driving conditions there is absolutely no body-roll. The car genuinely feels no bigger than a 3-series and the steering gives plenty of feedback. All but the hottest hatches are sent home for a cold shower, without a drop of your tea being spilt.
As we head back into urban conditions, Hyde hides and Jekyll reappears. We are now in a stately, highly respectable Sunday car – the same one that was ripping apart mountain passes just a few minutes ago. The magnificent cream and wood interior doesn’t so much as hint at the fury that was unleashed in the mountains. Nobody looks twice as we swoosh along the streets of Somerset West. The schizophrenic cat is resting after her meal.
In the modern world, the XJR is ironically unpretentious, despite her original market position as a car fit for royalty. Amongst shouty hatchbacks and vulgar SUVs, the Jag is quietly confident. Instead of accelerating, she simply teleports you from A to B. The experience is almost surreal.
In 1999, this car would have screamed status. In 2018, she merely whispers it. Like most truly successful people, she just wants to blend into the crowd, with nothing left to prove to anyone.
After a fantastic morning, it was time for a catnap. She’s earned it. The Jaguar, that is – not Mrs. Smit.
