Tired of being subjected to revoltingly florid language on car blogs? Annoyed that every single car written about has to be more special than the last? Frustrated by the constant use of tired, hackneyed phrases like sense of occasion?

Then you’re going to hate this article and should probably go and read something else because this car really is something out of the ordinary. It used to belong to a celebrity; and Hooniverse usually avoids celebrity like the plague, but this particular VIP was Her Royal Highness the Queen Mother.

None of which is as important of the fact that it’s a 1971 Jaguar XJ12. And I’ve driven it.

Hooniverse isn’t averse to an occasional bit of twelve-cylinder Jag action. Only a little while ago young Shant found this Daimler Double-Six for sale, and wasn’t slow to make the regal connection. This time, though, the sheer royality of this machine speaks for itself.

Resplendent in Royal Claret (naturally) with a contrasting maroon pinstripe, there’s something aside from the colour that pulls your eyes towards this car. It’s some other gravity that causes your gaze to run along the car from nose to tail repeatedly, exploring every inch of that long wheelbase, and with good reason. This was, allegedly, the first long wheelbase XJ ever built, having a slight stretch after the “B” pillar to offer more stretching room for luxuriating aristocrats.

Of course, extra length soon became optional for even the non blue-blooded, but the Vanden-Plas interior was exclusive to the crown, usually only being available in a Daimler. There are other extras that mere mortals were denied, too; the dark tint to the rear screen was laid on specially; as was the little flagstaff that took the place of the usual leaper, upon which was hoisted a miniature Royal Standard when the Queen Mum was in command. Of course, it’s missing now, but in its place are rubber bungs which tell tales of the past.

And suddenly, here I am sitting on the delightfully patinated leather upon which that most royal of derrieres has perched so many times. I find myself apologising for having to corrupt her driving position; sorry Ma’am, but you definitely weren’t 6’5″ like me. Anyway, the helm position is a great seat to occupy in any Jag, not just one with such provenance. The speedometer and tachometer look like they could be have come from the control panel of a 1950s power station, but are flanked by a horizontal row of auxiliary gauges which provide housekeeping data like how much fuel you have remaining in the two tanks, which probably won’t be much very often.

Below all that is a long row of rocker-switches, each of which click with the same feel as an old Roberts radio. Yeah, it all feels of its time; but that’s no surprise. At least there is tactility and satisfaction, and I can proudly declare that I have operated the Queen Mothers dipped-beam headlights. I have also held on to her steering wheel, with its glass-smooth Bakelite rim that’s little thicker than a strip of liquorice and its delicate half-oval horn ring, which I refrained from parping with my clumsy shovel-hands; those dainty be-gloved royal pinkies reserve that right for themselves.

Twist the key and nothing much happens; the 5.3 V12 is famed for its total quietness and this unit has stayed true to that reputation after over forty years. But pull the selector back to drive (this car pre-dates the “J-gate”) extend a toe a little forward, strain your hearing as if trying to hear people talking across oceans and you’re suddenly acutely aware of an awful lot of moving parts doing wonderful things. Cars seldom glide away from a stop, but this one does. Being that this was an accompanied drive and I was being entrusted with a car of actual value, I was taking extra special care and trying to prove my worth to the Jaguars chaperone. It was like the first dinner with your girlfriends parents, where you’re on your best behaviour despite inner urges to be acting rather more naughtily.

Thrashing the car of a deceased royal parent around a high-speed bowl would have been approximately as acceptable as leaving a turd in the glovebox; but a gentle turn around the Hill circuit was enough for a decent education into the ways of the Biggest Cat.

As with any older car, you can make no assumptions that anything still feels like it did when it was new. With so much maintenance over the years and the natural cellulite that attacks us all over the years, this XJ12 has aged gracefully in an almost organic way, and there is something extremely human about the way the car responds. This is not a car that needs to be rushed, although you get the feeling that there are deep reserves of creamy power available just under the surface if temptation gets the better of you. I did enjoy a few tantalising glimpses of the thrust available; but my co-pilot wasn’t shy about reminding me that there was two-tonnes of car for me to stop using forty year old brakes.

Turbine-smooth is one of those phrases that get thrown around with notable whimsy, but there is no better metaphor for the eerie way that the 5.3 generates and delivers its power; I know of no engine offered today which provides such utterly fuss-free motivation, especially when we consider that there is no computer trickery or drive-by-wire at play here. Just smooth linkages and exquisite mechanical balancing. And a quite unmistakeable noise, too; a breathy warble which can speak loudly but never shouts.

The steering wheel is so vast that a ten-to-two grip is genuinely natural. This is a car that you feed, rather than throw, into corners; it responds so deftly, so naturally it’s like pouring fluids. That’s not to say you can’t hustle it; I didn’t lest I found myself forcibly ejected from the car and possibly immediately executed. But it feels better suited to long, sweeping corners than a series of tight switchbacks.

None of this is in the least bit surprising, but what does intrigue me is how relevant this car still feels. I know that the fashion today favours the more “dynamic” approach of guts rather than glide; but there’s a lot to be said for the innate restraint and effortlessness that a car like this can still display. With sweet little wheels and that legendary Jaguar Independent Rear Suspension setup doing their combined best to provide poise without sacrificing smoothness, this was a very accomplished car in its day. It still is.

And that engine, or powerplant, went on to do great things; lasting from 1971 in the E-Type, through to eventual emissions-related discontinuity in 1997. It usually produced between 250 and 318 horsepower and ranged between that original 5.3 and final 6.0 capacity, although there were some interesting deviations along the way. Notably, there were long-time Jaguar associates Lister who enbiggened the unit to 7.0 litres, churning out 546hp and slotted it, eventually, into the Lister Storm. And before that there was Tom Walkinshaw Racing, who strapped a pair of turbochargers onto a 7.4 litre stretched lump, with a resultant 750hp. Which sounds rather fun, but Her Royal Majesty had little need for such getaway power, the beat retreat was handsomely dealt with by those twelve cylinders as their maker intended.

By now I have lead the Jaguar back to base, ready for another loyal subject to enjoy its rarefied atmosphere. It only remains for me to perform a few admiring circuits of the car, taking in details which are still missed even on today’s Jags, no matter how sharp they may be otherwise. The XF and Son of XJ do look great; but the inherent rightness of the XJ Senior hasn’t diminished over all these years.

Gawd bless it.