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

Her heart and soul

That V8 engine we just talked about is a feral being. For today’s paranoia driven automotive world, obsessively curated by electronic minions, the F-Type is akin to a heroic warrior fable from the medieval times. Sure, it’s got its own safety net with a very functional electronic limited slip differential and all sorts of control obsessed paraphernalia. None of that, however, matters, with near 500 of those British Bloodhorses rearing up in unison to snap apart any shackles that even those wide 295 / 30 Pirelli P Zeros, shod on monstrous 20 inch wheels may try to tie it down with. Limited or liberated, differential or calculus, Dynamic or God mode – the F-type snorts and roars and leaps and growls and refuses to act docile. Sharks don’t do dolphin shows. Marv doesn’t die even when you subject him to an electric chair. Not to mention, Amanda Fox is still out of penitentiary bounds.

Even with those beastly traits, its baffling how those Jimmy Choo shoes, used to walking the red carpet handle the Martian Indian surfaces. To our bafflement, the F-Type V8 S handled some of the most punishing Indian speed breakers with nonchalance. We have seen pretenders costing a quarter of the F-type’s price getting their privates caressed and humped. Like that didn’t astonish us enough, the ride quality is phenomenal for a hardcore sports car. Sure it does feel a bit jarring over the interlocking paver blocks in Mumbai, but it’s nothing that you can’t live with. Hit the wider roads and the experience gets even better. The F-Type, even with all its barbarian traits, hugs you with gentleness and care in its arms. It isn’t your everyday sedan, but it isn’t the typical sportscar rudeness which endorses making your spine pierce through the back of your neck while passing over a pothole.

The top speed, unlike the more civilized counterparts, can hit a triple ton without much ado. Thanks to the 495 PS and 625 Nm of supercharged madness, ton comes up in a lightening quick 4.1 seconds. The F-type is a startlingly fast car for those not used to this kind of performance, for it not just goes fast, it feels fast, too. Sitting amid that monstrous power monger and the driven wheels, you get a front row ticket to its theatrics. It’s an involving, immersive, captivating experience. Unlike the clinically effective and emotionally dysfunctional cars which would take you around a circuit in a blink without letting your pupils dilate by a nanometer, the F-Type is a passionate, emotive being. It talks with you every moment it spends with you. It entertains you, titillates you, makes you feel good, it tickles you to bring that wide smile on your face, and it demonstrates what made our forebears get so obsessed about these metallic contraptions. Motoring is a therapy, and the F-Type is proof. And just when you think she’s your bum-chum, your go-to buddy in distress, the one you can discuss your secrets with, she’ll terrify you with a spooky face and a piercing shriek. And then it’ll smile wickedly. The F-Type isn’t the sort of a thing you cross the lines with.

Little imperfections are the most vital constituents of what we humans think of as perfection. It’s the raspiness of Bob Dylan’s voice, it’s the unwholesomeness of the Lucknowi cuisine and it’s the lack of an O in Muhammad Ali’s record.  Clinical is boring, functional is drab, assurance amounts to boredom. Doubt, by all means is the very essence of adventure, of all the unsullied pleasures a man ever desires. The F-Type is that sort of an imperfect thing.

Talking of imperfections, I would have that lovely steering wheel a tad lower for my liking, though I wouldn’t change a thing about its chunkiness. I do wish those big knobs on the central console were finished in a heavy, shiny metal, though, and I would have loved to see some red contrast in the all-black cabin. Oh, and I so want those plasticky shifter pedals to be replaced with something more appropriate in this grand setting. On second thoughts, I don’t give a damn, as long as I don’t have to impress a pretty lady sitting in the passenger’s seat. The F-type’s influential character would insulate you from all that shallowness for the majority of the time.

Push the start button and the F-Type snarls to life. It’s a rumbling, angry note that makes onlookers aware of its evil intents instantly. And yet, the F-Type is a perfectly driveable car for the city. It will gracefully pull up its designer gown to tiptoe over the atrocities hurled at it by the Indian tar. It’s a high maintenance girlfriend, though, and you’ll have to live with a fuel efficiency of less than 4 kmpl. The F-type spews unburnt fuel even in the ECO mode. This girl loves throwing wads of crisp notes to the beggars while on a shopping trip.

Dab the right pedal with some disdain, and the F-Type warns you with a growl, a scowl and a jiggle. The F-Type loves to shake its booty. Thanks to the big, bad supercharger, breathing through its gigantic snout from under the hood, all of those 650 pails of torque can be fetched from as low as 2500 rpm, all the way to 5500 revs. So even at slow speeds, a slipshod movement of the right foot would have this baby wiggle her shapely rear with a flourish.

Build speed, and the connected hydraulic steering does its bit to keep the experience as genuinely authentic as possible. The force inducted motor isn’t specifically as keen to spin as a naturally aspirated engine would, though the acceleration across the entire rev-range is of manic proportions. The F-Type, even with its aluminium construction is a relatively heavy car, and yet, it charges forward violently irrespective of where the needle rests on the tacho. The acceleration is overwhelming and impressively emphatic across the range.

And that’s where the raunchy character of the F-Type comes to the fore. The F-Type presents itself as an incredibly easy machine to break traction with. Into the corner, a flick of the wheel, a dab on the throttle, and the F-Type would start swinging her tush. Rear wheels spinning with abandon, you just need to apply the opposing lock to be going sideways. The stiff, balanced chassis, the chatty steering and the well honed suspension come together to create a thrilling amusement park on four wheels for you.

Unfortunately, we don’t have the wide open racetracks that present themselves ever so often to one Chris Harris. But if you are lucky enough to find the width and isolation, the F-Type would make you forget your hunger, thirst and all other sensual hankerings for as long as you hold that meaty wheel with both your hands. The new ZF 8-speed automatic transmission plays the perfect foil to that delightful engine, allowing lightening fast kickdowns and equally swift upshifts. A lazy transmission would have been a big downer on this sort of a setup, and the 8 speed auto astonishes with its alacrity.

It’s not a precision tool, the F-Type. It just doesn’t have the unrelenting grip or the single minded ‘go-faster’ focus of one BMW M5 we once tested. It’s quirky, temperamental, and headstrong. It’s not meant to create the fastest lap record on a trick circuit. It invites you to wrangle with its fat steering wheel as it slides sideways and manufactures the rare scent made of spent rubber. It’s a real man’s machine.

The F-type isn’t the luxury yacht you park in the bay on a sunny day and have a drink with your playthings in. It’s the expedition liner which would take you into roughest deeps, and let you know what the salt in the seawater tastes like when the waves hit you in the face. A Hitchcock thriller, an anomaly in the Matrix, Fight Club’s Tyler Durden, Dylan’s rasp – an imperfect perfection.

The F-Type is that sort of a thing.  

Price: Rs 1.75 Crore ex-showroom

Tech specs

Engine Type V8
Displacement 5000 cc
Fuel Type Petrol
Max Power 488 bhp @ 6500 RPM
Max Torque 625 Nm @ 2500 RPM
Bootspace 200 litres
Fuel Tank Capacity 72 litres
Front Tyres 255 / 35 R20
Rear Tyres 295 / 30 R20
Transmission Type Automatic
No of gears 8 Gears
Kerb Weight 1665 kg
Drivetrain RWD