alanclark5

I know that it is always tiresome to read an article by a private owner about some interesting car in his possession and to find that it consists entirely of praise and loud boasting, so I will accordingly endeavour to modulate the former and refrain entirely from the latter.

A great deal of nonsense has been, and in some quarters still is, talked about the XK. When it was first announced, many cried that it could not possibly be put on the market at the ridiculously low price of �988, and that only a few record-breaking cars could be built for advertisement. Others went to the other extreme and proclaimed that, since the car covered more of the Silverstone circuit in the 1949 Production Car race than three of the ERAs competing in the Grand Prix, it was an immediate certainty for Le Mans and the Mille Miglia.

Later it was easy, by compounding a synthesis of these two propositions, for the sour-grapers to maintain that since XKs were being built at the rate of 40 a day, costs must be being kept down somehow (sinister inference) and anyhow look at the way they were being licked by Allards and Talbots, which just proved it. Indeed, I confess to holding the first view myself; my reaction when the car was first displayed at Earls Court was, like that of every other enthusiast: it simply can't be true.

Now what exactly is `it'? I maintain that it is simply a very fast and utterly reliable two-seater tourer with high comfort and safety factors. In my opinion - though I admit that Leslie Johnson and others have gone towards proving this wrong - the XK as it emerges from Coventry is not a suitable competition sports car. Not, that is to say, suitable for sports car competition in the highly developed Continental sense of the term. But do not the majority of us buy our car for competition, not on some foreign track but on the open road where conditions are less arduous and victory can be just as sweet? How many readers share the admittedly heretical view of a Californian friend of mine? At Earls Court this year we were at the stand of a British sports car firm which charges twice as much as Jaguar for a car that is 10mph slower and we became involved in an argument over the merits of the rival products. Our opponent fired what he hoped was a final shaft. "It depends," he remarked with dignity, "on what you want in a car."

"Hell, man!" replied my companion. "I buy a sports car for just two things - trapping dolls and passing Cadillacs."

And I hope I'm not treading on anyone's toes when I say that I think that it was with those objects in mind that the XK was originally conceived and that it achieves them with supreme ability. But to say this is to put the XK's merits at their lowest, and in fact as we all know it is not only the most beautiful-looking and the fastest car ever made in England, but an absolutely standard version can win an Alpine rally.

One of the most pleasurable features of the XK is the practical and aesthetic excellence of the cockpit. The abundance of leather, trim and firm, the cleverly designed steering wheel with the golden Jaguar head in the boss, and the expensive-looking and accurate Smiths instruments give the passenger and driver a delicious anticipation of quality which is in no wise dispelled by the car's performance. Not that the XK does not feel almost ordinary when one first gets in and proceeds in cautious fashion through the gears, and even when she gets a little bolder it is difficult to appreciate her performance without constant glances at the speedometer or direct comparison with other vehicles. There is none of the, literally, breathtaking surge of a Cadillac-Allard or a hot-rod and when one demands maximum acceleration from bottom or low revs in second, one is conscious of the 28-odd hundredweight attached to the prop shaft. But at about 50mph in second with the engine running between 4,000 and 5,000rpm and with over 1,000 revs still in hand, the feeling of exultation is tremendous. That driver of a Cadillac (or anything else for that matter) who had a nasty gleam in his eye at the last traffic light looks as if he had selected reverse by mistake. The extraordinarily intoxicating thing about the XK acceleration is that it feels progressive. To express it in the simplest Russell and Whitehead language, she seems to be going (faster) and (faster) (faster and faster). That this is no proud owner's illusion can be ascertained by a quick check with The Autocar road test figures, which show the car to be quicker from 70 to 80mph than from 60 to 70.

To slow up this beautifully dressed and very unobtrusive demon king of the road, one has a highly efficient set of Lockheeds, which give 207 square inches of lining area. Very efficient, that is, in ordinary weather, but when there is a lot of water about, one's rate and direction of deceleration become less predictable. To prevent the entry of water, Jaguars now provide baffle plates which should, in wintertime, be worn over the air scoops of the front drums, but my own experience is that in severe conditions the water still manages to penetrate.

The steering is quite delightful, light at all speeds, accurate and totally oblivious to road shocks. It is not unduly high geared but sufficiently sensitive to allow the car to "correct its own sides". The lock is excellent and one can make a U-turn in most main streets.

Some of the first cars delivered in the States had a rather poor body finish and I noticed some very shabby ones over there last spring (1950), but I am assured by the production manager of Jaguars that current cars have eight coats of paint baked on to them, and certainly my own car shows no sign of losing its complexion. One or two early coachwork rattles have been cured and the whole body now feels as tight as a drum.

Criticisms? Very difficult to find any. I dislocated my wrist trying to change down from top to third while running the car in, but the gearbox is now very pleasant to feel. The hood, too, took some mastering; blood was drawn, and the horn used to get jammed on, via the medium of the tip-forward seats, when heavy showers overtook one outside maternity hospitals. My only serious criticism is that driver visibility with the hood up is rather poor, particularly at night, due to the shallow angle of the windscreen, and the fact that the excellently constructed side screens tend to get rather opaque.

But with the Basic Things of the car I can find no fault. The engine is truly magnificent in appearance and performance and is, I think, the finest internal combustion engine ever produced in this country. It is absolutely reliable, has no suggestion of a flat spot, feels as if it will run up to 8,000rpm, is mechanically incredible, will not pink or run on, uses no oil or water and gives gas mileages as high as 32mpg (normal dicing around gives 22).

Performance? My car seems, if anything, faster than those used by the press to which data I would refer readers. Point to Point Averages are always astonishing even if they represent hundreds of miles without ever shifting from high (don't forget that top gear acceleration from 20 to 40mph, identical to M. Dynaflow Brick) and one can always be certain of looking at one's watch and finding it earlier than one had thought.

In conclusion I should like to say that no car I have ever owned has given me so much pleasure and that every time I drive it, still, I always get the feeling that it ought to have cost around �2,000.

Cloisters: Thursday, January 22 1981

On the way from The Telegraph building to Brooks's, where I was going to meet Euan, and driving somewhat Frenchly I just failed to slip inside a red Hillman as he accelerated away from a pedestrian crossing. The occupants immediately put on police caps and flagged me down. They insisted I take a breath test. "If this bag changes colour one iota I will give you �100," I said. Of course, looking back I now see that might have been constituted as an overture for a bribe. However, fortunately the celebrated "crystals" did not alter colour at all. It is somewhat alarming though as one puffs down the plastic tube to see them darkening. This is simply the moisture in one's breath and not the alcohol content, which in my case was nil. All the same, I noted that the division of the colour beyond which a positive reading is indicated and a blood or urine test follows seemed very high up the tube; I got the impression that not much of a drink would get one into trouble.

A little later that evening I went downstairs into Pratt's, which was empty except for, sitting heavily and gloomily in one of those upright circular leather chairs, holding a whisky and soda dark as a piece of mahogany veneer, the Home Secretary (William Whitelaw).

"Ah, Alan," he said, not greeting me with any great warmth.

"I have just been breathalysed," I said mischievously (breathalysed invariably means " and produced a positive reading").

But the Home Secretary was very splendid, thundered and spluttered, said it was monstrous, where did it happen, on what grounds did they stop me To my delight I realised that he was angry with the police at breathalysing me, not the other way round. I told him that the test had been completely negative and he was almost disappointed. I think that he might well have done something about it if it had been positive. The Drinkers Union.

� Copyright of Telegraph Group Limited 2001.