1990 Jaguar XJ40 – Car & Classic Fleet

Cars are more than just machines, XJ40 or otherwise. They’re the soundtrack to our childhoods. For many of us, they’re the reason we fall head over heels for classics. They’re magical snapshots that transport us back to simpler times, to places we thought we’d forgotten and for every petrolhead, there’s the one brand that started it all. For me, it was Jaguar. Yes, yes, we know – it’s practically a dirty word these days. And, sure, we’ve all heard the rumours: Jaguar owners are 95% more likely to be involved in some tax dodging schemes and “borrow” your personal belongings without asking. But beyond all that, there’s something else, something deeper. In the article I penned recently I pondered, ranted, and indeed raved about Jaguar’s rebrand. And, as I put it, there’s just something inherently naughty about a Jag. It’s the only way I can describe it.

The first car I remember was my grandfather’s Bordeaux Red Jaguar XJ6 3.6, E782 JYY. It was also the first car I ever drove, at the tender age of six – thanks to a crash course from my grandfather and uncle, who were both not just family, but the kind of men who believed in teaching you the important stuff in life, like how to handle a car. That car wasn’t just any car though, it was the one that brought me home from the hospital after I was born. And while I was probably a fully – fledged petrolhead before I could even speak (actually I’m sure of it), the bond with that particular Jaguar turned into a lifelong obsession with owning my own XJ6 one day.

I can still remember being picked up from school by my grandfather, the engine captivating me with its glorious, raspy straight-six snarl. And every time, without fail, I’d say, “Give her some stick!” because, honestly, what’s the point of owning a Jag if you’re not going to make it sing for its supper? Even back then, when Jaguars weren’t quite the “cool” cars they are now (well, recent developing aside that is!) being picked up in a ‘Jaaag’ made me feel like the king of the world!

Unfortunately, in 1990, my grandfather was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and as his mobility rapidly declined throughout the ’90s, he was eventually forced to give up driving. Mobility, alongside ease of getting in and out, had to take precedence, and the XJ6 was traded in for a Renault Scénic in 2001. My beloved Jag, the one I had so many memories in, was sadly scrapped shortly after.

I had always dreamt of the day when I could take my grandfather and uncle for a spin in my own XJ6, just so they could see how much their influence had shaped my love for cars. I must’ve said a thousand times, “I’ll have my own when I’m grown up.” It was my promise to them – and to myself – that one day I’d make that dream come true.

Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be. My grandfather passed away in December 2013, followed by my uncle in June 2014. The loss of the two men who had sparked my love for cars left me absolutely devastated. They were my heroes – my reasons for these petrolhead passions in the first place, not to mention my link to Jaguar. But even in the darkest moments, the dream of owning my own XJ40 never faded. It was always there, like a little flame that simply refused to go out. Then, in August 2016, while aimlessly browsing online (as anyone who’s ever gone down a Car & Classic rabbit hole will attest), I stumbled upon an XJ40 that seemed to check every box on my wish list: red, analogue dash, a 4.0-litre engine, and, thankfully, no sunroof. I was hesitant at first, unsure if it was real, or if my heart was just getting ahead of my head, but I couldn’t shake it from my mind.

I talked myself out of it. Common sense kicked in, along with the usual fears of big bills and all the potential headaches that come with owning an XJ40. Or any classic car for that matter. That flame, which had burned so brightly, flickered for the briefest of moments, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The more I tried to talk myself down, the more I felt that pull. With some gentle nudging from my now wife (who probably saw the glint in my eye and knew there was no turning back), I made the offer. And to my surprise, the seller accepted. It felt like the universe was finally giving me that little piece of the past I’d been yearning for – and maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of the future I was destined to be a part of.

The story of how I collected the XJ40 is a rather unconventional one. I arranged to pick up the Jag on September the 3rd, 2016, and nervously found myself arriving at a pub on Parliament Street in Westminster. After meeting the owner, Stuart, I followed him down a maze of alleyways, until we ended up in front of what looked like the most unassuming little hut you could imagine. At this point, I was starting to wonder if I’d made a terrible mistake. Particularly with a brown envelope full of cash stuffed into my pocket. A security guard patted me down, handed me a lanyard with my picture on it (which only added to the confusion), and led me through a maze of corridors. We finally ended up in an underground car park filled with an array of diplomatic cars and various classics, many of which were covered in about an inch of dust.

But then, a familiar silhouette loomed into view. The cover came off, and just like that, a seismic wave of nostalgia hit me like a freight train. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and for a moment, I almost forgot how to breathe. There it was – the XJ40. It was like stepping back in time, and suddenly, everything else faded away. After a quick chat, Stuart drove the car into the courtyard so I could get a better look at it in the cold light of day, and that’s when I realised where we were. New Palace Yard, with Big Ben looming over me. Suddenly, the surrealistic nature of it all clicked into place – I was buying a car in the heart of London, right next to one of the most iconic landmarks in the world. I’ve never had a car buying experience like it, and I doubt I ever will again.

It turned out Stuart wasn’t just a guy with a car to sell; he was the head of security at the Houses of Parliament. After giving the Jag a thorough once-over, I made my decision. We then counted the cash in the Commons Bar (as you do), before I finally got back behind the wheel of an XJ40 for the first time in 15 years. The moment I slid into the driver’s seat it was like slipping on an old pair of jeans – comfortable, familiar, and just… right. All the years melted away in an instant, and it felt as if I had never been away.

But the best part about it all? I was escorted out of the main gates by six armed guards, and even snapped by a few tourists who probably thought I was some important dignitary! I drove out of there in my new XJ40 feeling a strange mix of excitement and disbelief, but it wasn’t until I was safely on the A2 with the chaos of London was behind me that it really hit me: I finally had my own Jag.

About a month later I took my grandmother for a ride in the car before she passed away in November 2016. Despite her dementia, she recognised the XJ40 as “just like Henry’s Jag.” (My grandfather was also called Henry!) It brought her a moment of comfort, a little sliver of familiarity in a world that was slipping away from her. For me, that moment was incredibly special – a full circle of sorts.

Originally G560 HOA, my XJ40 now proudly carries the private registration E7 HFS – a tribute to my grandfather’s car, and to us, with our shared initials. This XJ40 will stay with me for life, and just as my grandfather did, I’ll be making new memories, one drive at a time. But that’s enough romanticising for now. By this point I imagine you’re wondering just how monumental a mistake buying an old Jag has been. Well, the simple and perhaps inconvenient truth is this: it’s been an absolute joy to live with. Honestly. Sure, it’s graced a few prestigious events – the NEC Classic Car Show in November and the Platinum Jubilee at Windsor Castle in ’22 being the crown jewels, but don’t let that fool you. It’s no show queen. Enough royal puns? Excellent.

I use it as much as I can, even for hauling guitars and gear to gigs. I’m not afraid to take it out in the rain, but I draw a very firm line at wintry conditions. It’s rust-free, and I’d rather keep it that way, thank you very much.

The ride? Well, it’s like floating on a magic carpet. And, should you feel the need, it can hustle its way down a B-road with surprisingly limber agility. The AJ6 straight-six is a gloriously characterful engine and absolutely bomb-proof, too. It’s a car perfectly suited for daily use and it doesn’t break a sweat in the worst of M25-ey traffic jams or in the warmest weather the UK summer can muster. On that note, we’ll just gloss over the fact that the air con hasn’t worked since I bought it but then who needs air conditioning when one can simply be peeled off the seat upon arrival?

Of course, there’s the matter of maintenance. Yes, it can get expensive but that’s where a good specialist becomes your best friend. Luckily, shortly after buying the car, I found mine: Andrew Spiteri of S.E. Jags, London. He’s been looking after it ever since and is, quite frankly, the only person allowed within a 500-metre radius of it with a spanner. Frankly, I think he’d be offended if I let anyone else touch it. I suspect he views it as just as much his as mine at this point. Over the years, he’s done plenty of work, but only preventative maintenance and a few improvements. Astonishingly, it’s never broken down, never failed to start, and, bizarrely enough, it’s been the most reliable car I’ve ever owned. Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds and I’m touching wood as I type this.

The XJ40 was off the road from 2022 until March this year, but after our daily Polo GTI’s alternator got rather bored of alternating, we were stuck without a car while it was in the garage. So, I presented the Jag for an early MOT, and it flew through with no advisories. Not bad at all for an old XJ.

Now, I won’t pretend there haven’t been moments when I’ve fantasised about rolling it off Beachy Head. After getting it back on the road this year it became abundantly clear that two years of inactivity hadn’t been kind to the suspension. It groaned like an ancient galleon in a Force 10 gale. Knowing I had the NEC show coming up, I booked it in with Andrew to tackle a list of jobs. High on the list? Addressing some rather spectacular engine and transmission oil leaks. I was growing weary of the car cosplaying as the Exxon Valdez…

The work was completed at a predictably substantial cost, and I took it to the show, where it performed faultlessly and left our display carpet squeaky clean having not lost a drop of oil. Naturally, this triumph was short-lived. As I was unpacking the car before tucking her back into the garage, the glare of the headlights illuminated a suspicious trail of fluid on the road, leading directly to the front of the car. The following day, my freshly painted garage floor was covered in power steering fluid. It looked less like I’d parked a car in there and more like the Torrey Canyon had been dry-docked. Some inspection revealed the power steering pump was leaking, so off it went to S.E Jags for a replacement. After the work was done and I returned home, it didn’t take long to notice it had reverted back to type. A fresh trail of fluid stretched from the road to my driveway. A closer look revealed that the high-pressure steering pipe had now decided to join the rebellion, leaving a rather generous, oily wee all over my garage floor… once again. Apparently, fluid containment is optional.

But I’m delighted to report it’s all sorted now. And as frustrating as it is, I’ve come to understand that when it has moments like this, it’s just “being a Jag.” You forgive it. There are moments when, for absolutely no logical reason, it will develop a completely random fault that will inexplicably solve itself at a later date, at a time of its choosing. But that’s because it’s not a machine; it’s a living thing, and like most living things, it can be fun, joyful, and a good laugh, but extremely annoying, flawed, and moody in equal measure.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.