The last week in a convertible Jaguar F-Type has been bitter-sweet one. It is probably the last time I shall feel the touch of a big cat, and its butter-soft leather, propelled by the sinful surge of a supercharged 5.0L V8.

Each day was spent with roof down, except for the 40c day which we spent indoors. Him-indoors likes the heat, but not that much all at once. Other days saw the Jag fired up at the crack of morning tea to head out for chores, supplies, and a raft of very important appointments. Gay boys love an appointment, and they love getting there in an F-type, don’t I?

Something became clear: As much presence as it has, powerful, dinosaur-powered convertibles and coupés are going the way of the fuel that explodes deep in their inner sanctums. The sun is setting on the days of glorious, thirsty V8s. Have you ever noticed that when you’re in a particular car, you see many other examples on the road? We saw no F-types, not a one.

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2020 Jaguar F-Type
2020 Jaguar F-Type
2020 Jaguar F-Type

ABOVE: The last of Jaguar F-Type

I fired up the F-Type for an expedition into the bucolic bliss of the New South Wales countryside. As usual, I was to be fed and watered at my country pile, the George VI hotel in Picton. You’ve all heard me bang on about its impeccable service, and its attractive, if boganesque clientele. Perving aside, there are serious shakedowns to be had, thence and back. The curvaceous route threads its inky ribbon through gorgeous rolling hills, verdant in their coats of post-apocalyptic green. The place has been thrashed, flooded, burnt, and blown away, and still it puts on a show worthy of a DeMille epic.

The F-Type turned a stiff upper lip to the tests set for it, stepping around the Kamikaze potholes, like Biggles on a binge. Its 331kw has a blower, and boy does it hall-arse.

Most rear wheels drive convertibles are tail-happy once the power plant dumps a load, and F-Type is no different. The 2-step exhaust opens the gates of hell when the revs rise, letting out a cataclysmic-crescendo to herald its tumultuous parting. Sounding remarkably like the devil throwing mountains at the sun, it leaves bewildered bystanders in a thundering cloud of bold Britishness.

After a plate of stodge washed down with a half-pint of best, I stopped at the town’s only set of lights only to be accosted by a pair of school-aged skater-types. They asked for a spin around the block and I obliged, always on the lookout for the opinions of punters. It was the sort for thing I longed for as a scruffy teen, but never had the chutzpah to ask.

They were agog, as each in turn rode shotgun. I gave them my notebook and asked for comments. Although most of their scribblings were either illegible or unprintable, it transpires that gen Z’s have quite the vocabulary. Suffice to say they thought it worth the money at any price.

So, what of the pricey Prince of Posh?

It is not long for this world, now Jaguar has tolled the bells. To date, there have been no proposals for sporty replacements, electric or otherwise. In fact, the wider world has shown little fancy for frolicking in drop-top darlings. In truth, batteries of the size of a spritely sports car would have the range of the corner shops and back.

If the defunct XJ is a country pile on wheels, F-Type is the stable-block stocked with steeds.

F-Type is dead posh, and the last V8 versions are a fitting hooroo to the most regal of Blighty’s brands. Will a Jaguar really be a Jaguar without the sound track of a rampaging Goodwood in the background? Only time will tell.

We may not know what is coming, but with only the Range Rover having a full-metal-jacket EV model (i-Pace is a non-starter with a miserable 35 sold last year), Land Rover and Jaguar need a battery-powered win, and they need it now. Otherwise, the big gold-wool-bullioned red velvet curtain may be falling faster than a vegan sausage at a BBQ.

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