Jaguar F Type V S Convertible

Jaguar F-Type V8 S Convertible Review: That Sort of a Thing

Jaguar F-Type V8 S Convertible (45)

Images: Hanoz Patel

Prelude

A shark doesn’t present itself for amusement like a trick-happy dolphin. It hounds for the vaguest traces of blood in the deepest, darkest corners of the bottomless abysses.  A shark lives to kill. A shark can’t be tamed.

Marv, the unstoppable brute from Frank Miller’s Sin City doesn’t care if he’s slaying a hound or a human when he’s on a pursuit. Cuts and gashes don’t count, blood’s meant to be expended, limbs are meant to be lost. Ferocious, ruthless, and unimpeachable for his unwavering brutality – Marv is Rambo’s wet dream.

marv Sin City

marv4

Amanda Knox. Murdered her roommate, allegedly. Went through trial, won public sympathy and was declared innocent in the US. Re-trial in Italy convicted her, sentencing her for twenty eight and a half years. Her extradition from the US to Italy hangs in the balance as she leads a perfectly normal social life. Beautiful, unassuming, beguiling – Amanda brutally killed her room-mate. Probably she didn’t. Either way, one wouldn’t ever get fresh with her. One dare won’t.

Amanda knox

Angel faced dame, redolent of innocence, gazing you with her gooey, heart-rending eyes, possessed by paranormal powers, scheming to chew on your jugular, feast on your blood as you approach – wild, vicious, enduring, gorgeous, desirable, all at the same time. The F-type is that sort of a thing.

As she rests

Jaguar F-Type V8 S Convertible (42)

There’s chaos on my building’s stilt level today. It’s as if a UFO has landed in the parking lot. Kids, grown men, pretty young ladies, even middle aged Tambrahm ladies with their salt and pepper braids and silk sarees are flocking the white sports car that rests smugly in parking slot no. 17. Two watchmen have been deputed to keep the people at a distance – people who’re shoving each other aside for a clear selfie with the exotic metal. One may tend to feel for the watchmen at first, but going by their gleeful faces it’s probably the high point of their career. Life, for all we know.

Jaguar F-Type V8 S Convertible (65)

It doesn’t take more than a few moments for the F-Type to gather attention. And a crowd. Anywhere

The word seems to have spread wide and far, and I curiously observe a multitude of mortals from various blocks of our huge housing society visit and appreciate this splendid exponent of automotive art.  It’s the sheer power of the white convertible’s visual magnetism, its consummate charisma which is pulling those curious eyes in throngs. Those parking slots have been home to much more expensive metal, I can tell you that. And yet, never have I seen anyone as much as twist a neck for a second glance. As I look down at the commotion, amused, from my balcony, I say to myself – there’s got to be something extraordinary about this one.

As she moves

The F-Type doesn’t as much grab attention on the road as it changes the dynamics of the traffic around you. It’s a dodgy, dodgy car to drive on the oomph deprived, pothole ridden Indian tar commuted upon by some very invidious mortals at times. The envious bloke in the Mercedes ML-Class following you unabashedly insists you race him. Since you don’t give a tinker’s damn, he day-flashes incessantly and brings his car’s monstrous snout as close as he could to the F-type’s sensuous rear to instigate you. It’s only after receiving the most deprecating glare does he swerve out and disappear.

Jaguar F-Type V8 S Convertible (48)

In the meantime, you have been hounded by half a dozen cars of all makes, models, shapes and sizes. For a moment, you’d imagine it’s a heist. It’s just the metal you’re in. The shirtless bhaiyya in the Tata Sumo to your right is lewdly gesturing from the other end of the car as if you’re the leading lady from the latest Bhojpuri film. You’re tempted to run your fingers on your beard, just to be sure. The young lady on the left, in the backseat of the Ertiga has clambered over her mom to extend her hands out and get a closer shot with her Lumia. Mom doesn’t mind. The bald fellow leading you has his neck twisted at an anatomically disturbing angle, and he doesn’t care about the profanities showered upon him from the adjacent vehicles he’s swerving onto.

Windows of all the cars around you, even the ones overtaking the chaos from a distance have a cellphone camera plastered on the inside. You’re conceited, embarrassed and amused – it’s a complex emotion you rarely ever experience. Adulation and envy abounds. This is how SRK gets treated when he’s spotted in Mumbai. The F-Type can elevate you from being a non-entity to a real Rockstar. And we haven’t yet spelled a word about the music it makes. The F-Type convertible is that sort of a thing

The way she looks, the way she croons>>>

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