When I was younger, my dad told me he wanted a Ford Capri. I didn’t know what that was, so I looked it up. It wasn’t some relic. It was beautiful: long bonnet, clean lines, rear‑wheel drive. It looked fast even when parked. No touchscreen. No ambient lighting. Just shape, intent and character. I didn’t need to hear one to know it mattered.
Then there was that Top Gear film Clarkson hosted for the E‑Type’s 50th. I remember watching, eyes locked. Not just because it was a lovely old Jag, but because someone clearly cared. It was a celebration, not a product demo. Even the modernised E‑Types looked more alive than anything you see now.
That contrast stuck. Today you see new models everywhere. Slick, well‑made, heavy on software. They are sold on range figures, screens and updates. Often impressive. More often distant. You don’t buy the car; you buy what it might one day be allowed to do.
