It’s clear that in the ‘verse, the distinction between hot and unfortunate is razor thin. In terms of unrealized potential, this particular Jaguar could rule the jungle, Panthers and Aztecs be damned. But knowing when to quit is pertinent when you start chucking the Coventry bits and shopping in GM’s backalley parts bin.

With the general description, how could you not get damn excited about a stuffy Mk. VII whose own personal Marshall Plan involved cramming a Chevy LT1 down its blueblooded throat?

Easy – when the door opens and you find yourself staring at what seems to be the passenger compartment of a late ’80s Cadillac Seville, somehow filling the interior with a low-rent, high-neckburn atmosphere of ill-begotten ideas made possible by cold American lager. It’s likely hell is upholstered with this particular shade of button-tufted leather. Were it a wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing, we wouldn’t demur, but this Jaguar-in-a-bowtie raises our hackles. Could you rock it?
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