Mud, madness and the birthday of a British icon

HERE'S a date you probably haven't got scrawled into your diary - this week, believe it or not, is Jaguar's 75th birthday.

So far, the Coventry company's survived The Blitz, the ravages of several recessions and even the worst British Leyland can throw at it, which a couple of Life On Cars-reading mates and I thought was worth celebrating. Until we saw the mud.

The idea was brilliant; take a rotten Jag with a touch too many miles on the clock to a dirt track in Prestatyn, put up against a field of more mundane motors in a six-hour endurance race, and watch it win with style. Admittedly, the 19-year-old XJ40 we'd picked wasn't one of the Big Cat's proudest moments, but it's still a car from a company with seven Le Mans wins, a string of rally victories and a slightly successful F1 team to its name. We couldn't lose.

Unfortunately, the race took place on the same drenched day Southport's Air Show got cancelled, meaning the track was a quagmire of squelch and mud even Range Rover owners would think twice about tackling. The race commentator, sat snugly in his caravan, put in perfectly as the field of Micras, Polos and Escorts raced past; we were driving 3.2 litres of pure wheelspin.

I never thought I'd say this, but the Jag was just too big and too powerful, and with no grip we spent most of the time powersliding pointlessly as cars your mum used for the school run ten years ago tore ahead. We were losing, but because we were in a Jag, we were losing with style.

Our muddy outing is about as far from Jaguar's string of Le Mans as you can possibly imagine, but I loved every minute of each chaotic lap, made more terrifying still because the steering wheel seemed to have little to no influence over where the big Jag was heading. It was a rubbish and yet utterly brilliant addition to Jaguar's proud motorsport pedigree.

And here's the best bit; unlike the cocky whippersnappers who laughed every time their machines lapped ours, the Jag actually crossed the finish line, even if it was sliding sideways at walking pace. We might have been a long way off winning but we did the entire event, to quote an old Jag ad slogan, with grace, space and pace. A fitting tribute to the Big Cat, then.

The maker of Britain's most beautiful cars is 75 years old, and we found a smashing way to mark the occasion. Literally.

F1? Pah, this is much more exciting

I'VE just missed F1's most exciting race in ages.

Ferrari clutching its first win all season, Brit favourites Button and Hamilton both out in the early stages, Brawn's dream-come-true turning slightly more sour; I saw none of it, and I don't care.

While all of you were cheering Jenson on from the living room, I was stood in a mucky field just outside Carnforth, being rained on. My palms were plastered in the rubbery filth you only ever find on the tyre treads of decades-old HGVs, and my eardrums were knackered, destroyed from hours of sonic bombardment. Yet I was missing F1 for something much more exciting; banger racing!

Warton Stock Car Club is like some Arctic Monkeys ripposte to the stadium-rock smoothness of the F1 world tour, and about as noisy. You stand by some terminally rusty steel fencing - forget anything so sophisticated as seats - scoff chips, and listen to what used to be Ford Capris blow your ears to pieces.

And that's just the warm-up act.



Sure, sitting down to watch Brawn win is a nice afternoon, but if you want a great one you want to see fifteen caravans get torn to pieces in a matter of seconds. Actually, you need to, because no televised motorsport is this much fun. It's not big and it's not clever, but I haven't laughed so much in ages.

A friend our little group had gone along to support had spent hours decorating a dying Volvo V70 and stupidly-named caravan - Rapier Sprite or something - in the sort of dazzingly bright colours that haven't been seen in F1 in years. Both were ruined beyond recognition within a minute, and the crowds loved it.



Forget watching F1 from the sofa. Get out there, watch the Sierras and Granadas go out in style, and laugh yourself silly.

Or tape the Grand Prix, and do both...