I own a
Jaguar S-Type. I've wanted a V8 engined car for thirty+ years and over here in
the UK, if you're on limited budget your options are few.
It's got
nearly 300 horsepower and can be comparable to driving a strange combination of
a stately home and a jet fighter. Civilised, relaxing and refined, but also
fast as fuck (by most standards) and allergic to retaining fuel for too long.
I don't
actually like Jags though. I imagine them being factory fitted with a Nigel
Farage autobiography in the glovebox, probably with some cunty title like
'Outsider's Chance' or 'Gobshite Wankfrog', and spending most of its short life
being sat in the car parks of west Surrey golf clubs.
The sort
of thing an Alan Partridge character would purchase in his sixties for weekend
use and the occasional 'blast up to The Costswolds'. Sure you get the idea.
Anyway, if
they're more than a few years old (16 in mine's case) their value, along with
vital mechanical components, seem to fall out of their arse with each journey.
In the year I've owned it, it's spent most of its time sat outside doing
nothing whilst deciding what part I need to waste my next day off trying to fix
and how much of my income I can piss on it that month.
At some
point in this film, an S-Type gets smashed into a tree and mangled to oblivion.
I was tempted to take a screenshot, have it made into a poster and hang it in
front of the car as a warning. Keep fucking with me, and I'll do this, you
four-wheeled ponce.
Also,
'Four Wheeled Ponce' would be another good title for a book if Farage got into
travel writing. The cunt.
That
said, flooring the angry on that thing pedal reminds me I'm alive better than
most things do these days.
Also,
this film's pretty good apart from the last fifteen minutes when it becomes a
big pile of 'Eh?'
