Ponk-ponk-ponk-ponk-ponk-ponk. The electric glovebox release rapid-fired, a tiny machine gun waging war on my sanity. This time, instead of slamming it shut, I left the lid lolling open like a yokel’s mouth.
Yet the tiny machine gun in the dashboard kept firing. Ponk. Ponk-ponk-ponk-ponk-ponk-ponk.
Chris Ward continues his report on life with a 2009 Jaguar XF-S, experiencing a few bumps in the road.
Two months in and the Jaguar XF-S has settled into the daily grind. As cruel as it may be to hobble a continent crushing beast with stop-start traffic, the Jag proves adept at leaping over life’s bumps and ruts.
We welcome a fellow sufferer to the DTW branch of Kitty-Fanciers Anonymous.
My parents have always been baffled by my fascination with cars. The curse is not familial; neither parent has a fluid ounce of petrol in their veins. Dad preferred football to fast metal and never learned to drive. Mam passed her driving test in her thirties out of gritty necessity, her car ownership journey characterised by a series of grudgingly bought and traded-in Fiestas.
I on the other hand absorbed everything automotive like an oversized Halfords sponge. A yearly highlight was a trip to the Daily Mail British Motorshow. The week long event coincided with my birthday, making a trip to the NEC a great present for a car mad youth. One of my most vivid memories is from the 1988 show; I was ten when Jaguar launched the XJ220 to a seemingly hysterical response. Continue reading “Big Cat Hunting (Part 1)”