British Classic Cars Archives - CARS // MOTORBIKES

Daimler SP250 Dart

When first seen – at the ’59 NY Motor Show – the Daimler Dart was derided as an ugly duckling. The consensus was that the fins looked dated, the headlamps bug-eyed – and the grille a bit … well, fishy! Over time, though, qualms over the SP250’s styling subsided. Daimler was on a downswing in the late Fifties. New management sought to remedy that – by emulating Jaguar, Triumph and MG. Daimler, too, would produce a sports car for the American market. The potential problem was that Daimler lacked experience with sports cars. Indeed, the Dart was the only one the marque made. To get the ball rolling, it used the chassis and suspension set-up from the Triumph TR3. After that, Daimler turned to the bodywork. Which is when things started to go awry. The glassfibre shell Daimler designed seemed fine. Until the going got a bit rough – at which point the doors were liable to fly open! The writing was on the wall for the Dart as early as 1960. Jaguar then took over the SP250 project. Sir William Lyons was the new CEO. As well as being a top-flight manager, he was a stylist of high repute. Sadly, Lyons and the Dart did not see eye to eye. Its unwieldy form upset his creative sensibilities. One of them had to go. It would not be Lyons!

Prior to the Jaguar takeover, Edward Turner was managing director at Daimler. Before that, he had worked at Triumph – in its motorcycle division. His engine design work there had achieved widespread acclaim. Indeed, in the bike world, he was legendary. Some of that had rubbed off on the Dart. Indeed – courtesy of Turner – its motor was pretty much flawless. Torquey but smooth, it catapulted the lightweight Dart to a top speed of 125mph. 0-60 took 9.5s. The engine’s hemispherical combustion chambers – and twin SU carburettors – were key to its performance. Plus, the SP250 returned a respectable 25mpg. Best of both worlds, basically. Brakes-wise, a full set of Dunlop discs were fitted.

In a bid to drive up US sales, attempts were made to upgrade the Dart. It was given a stiffer chassis and bumpers – as well as a few more creature comforts than it had previously provided. From a marketing perspective, the SP250 was pitched between the cheaper Triumph TR and MGs – and the more expensive Jaguar XK150. 2,644 SP250s were built. Production ceased in ’64. The ugly duckling never did morph into a graceful swan. But, beauty is in the eye of the beholder – and Daimler Dart fans loved it all the same!

Vauxhall Cresta PA

The Vauxhall Cresta PA appeared in ’57. At the time, Vauxhall – a mainstay of British car manufacturing – was under the aegis of GM, in Detroit. Unsurprisingly, then, the new Cresta PA picked up several US styling motifs. The rear fins, for example, were pure Americana … though suitably reined in for British tastes! Likewise, the PA’s wraparound windscreen clearly originated on the other side of the ‘pond’. Stateside-style two-tone paint – and whitewall tyres – were optional extras. The Cresta was Vauxhall’s answer to the Ford Zodiac. It was there in every larger-than-life line of the British-made car. The PA’s cabin continued the ‘Britmobile’ theme. Bench seats, white steering wheel and column shift all came courtesy of the American Dream.

Mechanically, the Cresta harked back to the E Series. Its pushrod straight-six engine produced 78bhp. That gave it a top speed of 90mph. Capacity was 2,262cc. Power was delivered in relaxed fashion. The gearbox was a 3-speed synchromesh set-up. Soft suspension was via a leaf-spring rear axle, wishbones and coil springs. Many of these components derived from the Vauxhall Velox – the Cresta’s slightly less sophisticated predecessor.

In ’59, the Cresta got a face-lift. Its three-piece rear screen became one-piece. Up front, the ‘egg-crate’ grille was revised. Coachbuilders Friary built an estate car version. The Queen gave it her personal seal of approval … she drove one for years. 1960 brought further Cresta updates. Its motor was taken out to 2.6 litres. That upped output to 96bhp. The PA was given larger wheels and fins. The gearbox was now a two-pedal Hydramatic auto. Or, alternatively, a dual overdrive manual. Front disc brakes were servo-assisted. British motorists gave the improvements a thumbs up. The PA sold soundly, right up to ’62. By then, though, its fins – whilst the ‘in thing’ in the Fifties – were starting to show their age. Its production run now over, the Vauxhall Cresta PA was put out to well-earned pasture. British cars would seldom seem so American again!

Daimler Majestic Major

At a glance, the Daimler Majestic Major may not seem much by way of a performance car. But – by the standards of its day, at least – it certainly was. Notwithstanding the Major’s large dimensions – as well as a separate chassis – it could outpace the best of them. And, it had manoeuvrability to match! Top whack was 122mph. Enough for it to glide with ease past many a sports car. Come the corners – and things were no different. Power steering saw to that. Key to the speed was a 4.7-litre hemi-head V8. 0-60 turned up in less than 10s – 9.7, to be precise. Impressive acceleration for a car of its bulk. Transmission was via a 3-speed auto ‘box.

Few saloons cruised Britain’s highways and byways like the Major. Of course – being a Daimler – elegance came as standard. The cabin was all one would expect from a car of its class. Leather pews – and a wooden dash – made it home from stately home. Seating arrangements were suitably spacious. The boot – about the size of your average black hole – could accomodate every golf club known to man. A limousine version – the DR45 – was tailor-made for the carriage trade. Funeral parlours doted on it. And yet – for all of its high-end charm – the Majestic Major had a trace of the common touch. It was drawn by the same designer as the FX4 taxi-cab!

1,180 saloon version Majors were built. Plus, 864 limousines. In the course of the car’s run, Daimler was taken over by Jaguar. indeed, a Daimler engine was ear-marked for a new MkX – Jaguar’s flagship model, at the time. Sadly, a prototype of the V8 motor was as far as it got. It blew all the Jaguar engines into the weeds. That did not endear it to Jaguar’s top brass. After all, shareholders might legitimately have asked what they had been doing for the last few years! So, the Daimler Majestic Major combined edge-of-your-seat speed with rarefied styling. In short, it was a souped-up saloon car for the wannabe aristocrat in all of us. Well, most of us, anyway!

Rover P5

The Rover P5 was private transport of the highest order. For years, it ferried the great and the good about their well-heeled business. Government ministers – and top civil servants – put down their attaché cases and relaxed on its sumptuous seats. Security picked up the purr of its engine, as one – whether at Downing Street, Parliament or Buckingham Palace. So, on state occasions, the four-wheeled presence of Rover P5s was a given.

The P5 was impeccably styled by David Bache. It was so-named because it was ‘post-war design number 5’. Its exterior was the pinnacle of saloon car sophistication. Sober lines – and toned-down hues – exuded due gravitas. The interior, too, was quality incarnate. The materials used said it all. The dash was fashioned from African cherry wood. The carpet was Wilton. Seats were, of course, luxury leather. To all intents and purposes, the P5 was a banqueting-room on wheels. The pliancy of its ride echoed the subtlety of its styling. The P4’s separate chassis was now history.

On the surface, the P5 was the quintessence of Englishness. From ’67 on, however, the US lay beneath – in the form of a 3.5-litre Buick engine. It brought some much-needed speed to the P5 package. No more running late for those executive meetings. Previously, the P5 had been powered by a 3-litre motor. Buick’s V8 made 185bhp. The P5’s top speed climbed to 110mph. The powerplant was sourced from parent company GM. Rover got it at a discount – since it had become surplus to requirements. The gearbox was 3-speed auto. Thoughtfully, Rover provided a toolkit – albeit, somewhat basic. It was discreetly tucked away in the dashboard. Not that the P5’s passengers would have had much of a clue what to do with it! Many of the key decisions of our times were made with the help of the P5. Many a soirée could not have happened without it. In motoring terms, society’s crème de la crème had never had it so good. We must be forever grateful, then, to the Rover P5 … I think!

Triumph Roadster

The Triumph Roadster was a direct challenge to the Jaguar SS100. In ’44, Sir John Black – owner of Standard – took over Triumph. He was keen to throw down the gauntlet to Jaguar. Over the years, Black had sold many an engine, gearbox and chassis to the automotive giant. Indeed, having Standard as a supplier played a part in Jaguar’s success. There was more than a hint of table-turning, then, when Black suggested to William Lyons that he take over Jaguar, too. Lyons was having none of it. Black retreated to lick his wounds – and scour his Standard components catalogue. Already, a vision of a new Triumph was forming in his mind.

Standard knew their stuff all right. In the Second World War, they had engineered aircraft. So, it made sense for Black to use the Standard 14 engine – and its gearbox – to power his Triumph Roadster. The motor had already been modded to take an overhead-valve configuration – by Harry Weslake, no less. Measuring 1,776cc, it had also served time on the 1.5-litre Jaguar SS. More Standard parts were sourced for the suspension. Up front, the transverse-leaf independent set-up of the Flying Standard Series was co-opted. At the rear, a Standard Fourteen back-axle found another home. Not everything on the new car harked back to the past, though. There was a brand-new ladder-frame chassis, for example – made from 3½″ round-section tubing. Roadster bodywork was aluminium. It was hung on a timber frame – since there was a shortage of steel, in the wake of the War.

The Jaguar SS100 served as design template for the new Triumph. Pre-war, it was a byword for style and sophistication. Frank Callaby drew a Triumph variant on the Jaguar theme. He was inspired by the SS100’s huge headlamps – and the languorous curves of its wings. For his part, John Black was adamant that a dickey-seat be fitted. The 3-plus-2 cabin was unique amongst post-war cabriolets. In ’48, the Roadster had a bigger engine installed. Power increased by all of 3bhp. Plus, the new model was 36kg lighter. 0-60mph was reduced to 27.9s. The re-vamped motor was a Vanguard ‘wet-liner’. It was linked to a 3-speed gearbox. The two Roadsters – 1800 and 2000 – had a combined sales tally of just 4,501. So, Sir John Black’s dream of supplanting Jaguar had not materialised. The Triumph Roadster will never be spoken of in the same hushed tones as the Jaguar SS100. Even so, it was a dynamic, attractive addition to the British sports car roster.

Aston Martin Lagonda

There was little doubt which car was the star of the ’76 Earls Court Show. The Aston Martin Lagonda fired up a furore of excitement around its stand. 170 orders were placed, there and then. Aston – still reeling from recent travails – were on cloud nine. Then the problems set in! The Lagonda sported futuristic looks – designed by William Towns. His cutting edge styling included not just the exterior lines, but the cabin area, too. A digital dash – and touch-sensitive controls – seemed straight out of Star Trek. But, this was ’70s Britain – not ’90s Silicon Valley. Technical gremlins surfaced from the get-go. As a result, the Lagonda’s launch was delayed three years. By the time it was finally released, its price tag had risen to £32,000. Aston thanked their lucky stars that it was still in demand!

In terms of traditional engineering, the Lagonda was fine. Its chassis was an updated version of a tried and tested set-up. Suspension, too, had been seen before. Following a few tweaks to sort an increase in weight, ride and handling were spot-on. Press reviews were upbeat. The Lagonda’s engine, especially, was praised. Its 5.3-litre V8 – with quad-cam layout – made 340bhp. Top speed was 140mph. That was impressive – for a saloon car weighing nearly two tons. Transmission was 3-speed auto.

Ultimately, the Lagonda was all about leisure. Avant-garde though it was, it also harked back to a more luxurious past. On its launch, then – in ’79 – Lord and Lady Tavistock were first in line. Air conditioning – and electric seats – came as standard. Coachbuilders Tickford turned out three stretched Lagondas – complete with colour TVs. But, for all of its state of the art buzz – and genteel pretensions – the Lagonda did not sell well. By the end of its run – in 1990 – a scant 645 cars had been built. It had signally failed to back up the hype – commercially-speaking, anyway. The high-tech teething troubles had not helped. In that regard, however, it paved the way for cars to come. At the time, though, Aston Martin’s Lagonda bit off more of the future than it could comfortably chew!

Riley RM

By the time the RM series was launched – in ’45 – Riley’s glory days seemed gone. Dating back to 1898, the firm had produced a steady stream of successful saloon and sports cars, throughout the ’20s and most of the ’30s. At race circuits, too, Rileys met with much success. Sales had been consistently impressive. By the late Thirties, though, financial fissures were forming. As a result, ’38 saw Nuffield take over the Riley reins. It worked. Before long, there was a resurgence of interest from investors. And, the post-war launch of the RM series saw Riley right back on track.

The RMA and RMB models were stylish saloons. Timber frames were wrapped in swooping steel bodywork. Topping it all off was a woven removable roof. Both A and B were fitted with Riley’s high-cam inline-four engine. The A was good for 75mph. The B took that out to 95mph. Riley’s motor had the longest stroke of any post-war British production car. As you would expect, then, torque came by the barrelful. Again, both A and B featured torsion-bar independent front suspension. So, good handling was also a given.

The most glamorous member of the RM club was the C. Since it was a tilt at the American market, it came with column gear-change. Well, it was only polite! Other notable updates were a fold-flat screen and lower bonnet-line. The RMC was pure roadster – to wit, an open 3-seater, with cutaway doors. In due course, the RMD appeared – as a 4-seater drop-head. It reverted to a more traditional body than the C. Completing the series were the RME and RMF. Improvements included hydraulic brakes, a hypoid back-axle and larger rear windows. In ’54, Riley revisited the E version. It received the honour of the final RM makeover. Its running boards were removed – and headlight pods streamlined. A set of rear wheel spats was grafted on. By this point, though, Riley were clutching at straws, commercially. Revered as it had been, the brand-name was now in decline. There would be one final throw of the Riley dice – in the form of the Pathfinder. But – according to critics – its four-cylinder motor was about all it had going for it. Back in the day, however, Riley combined British panache with sporting prowess. The RM series had made that abundantly clear!

DeLorean DMC-12

On the design board at least, the DeLorean DMC-12 ticked all the right boxes. Namely, a V6 motor by Peugeot/Renault, a chassis by Lotus and bodywork design by Giugiaro. For a roadster, it does not get much better than that. To say the least, it was a highly desirable blend of styling and functionality. But, of course, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. And – in the case of the DMC-12 – the automotive ingredients simply did not mix. In terms of weight distribution, it did not help that the DMC was rear-engined. For all of its expertise, Lotus struggled to optimise handling. And, if they could not do it, no one could. In a straight line, however, things were spot-on. A top speed of 130mph testified to that. Another suspect part of the DMC package was its ‘gull-wing’ doors. Sure, they looked great. But, for $25,000, you expected them to be watertight … whatever the weather! Deficiencies, though, in DMC’s door department meant that was not always the way. Plus – from an emergency services point of view – prising gull-wing doors apart could be a problem. It was not long, then, before the first cracks in the DeLorean plans appeared.

It had all started so swimmingly. John Z DeLorean was something of a whizz-kid, during his time at GM. He conceived the DMC-12 as a player in the realm of upmarket supercars. To make that happen, he would need to source serious funding. The UK looked like his best bet. He was strongly encouraged to start up in Northern Ireland – by the British government, no less. The region badly needed a boost. DeLorean seemed like the ideal man. There was no stinting on incentives. Grants and loans totalled £80m – in early ’80s money.

DeLorean’s dream lasted just two years. In 1980, the sky was the limit. By ’82, things had crashed back to earth. Improprieties were alleged. Indeed, DeLorean was arrested – on drug trafficking charges. Though he was subsequently cleared, it was not the best by way of PR! The whole sorry episode was the stuff of history – political, as well as automotive. BBC Nine O’Clock News sagas did not get any more gripping! John DeLorean had certainly made his mark on the world. As for his car, it had fallen short of expectations – dismally short. In different circumstances, though, the DeLorean DMC-12 could now be considered a classic supercar … of the sort its creator so desperately craved!

Ford Sierra Cosworth

The Ford Sierra Cosworth was a performance car for the people. For a start, it was a snip at just £16,000. For that, you got supercar speed and stability – plus, practicality. Ford passed their Sierra shell to tuners Cosworth – based in Northampton, England. And the ‘Cossie’ was born! Cosworth installed a two-litre twin overhead-camshaft turbo engine. The production car was an ‘homologation special’ – a certain number needing to be built to allow it to compete in races and rallies. So, such cars are limited-edition by their very nature. Ford’s Special Vehicle Engineering department was asked to come up with a competitive Group A car. There were several key components on the SVE’s spec-list. Toward the top were a close-ratio 5-speed gearbox, a limited-slip diff and power steering. As well as ABS, anti-roll bars and firmed-up suspension. 4-piston disc brakes were attached to wide alloy wheels.

The Cosworth’s body was modified Ford Sierra. Updates included widened wheel arches – and a ‘whale-tail’ rear spoiler. While the latter increased downforce, it compromised aerodynamics. And was not ideal in cross-winds! Still, if you bought a Cossie to make a statement – and you probably did – the rear aerofoil was spot-on. ‘Spirited’ drivers praised planted handling – along with fearsome acceleration. Top speed was 149mph.

Of course, the Cossie was a magnet for thieves and joy-riders. Insurance costs sky-rocketed. In time, the tearaways moved on to pastures new. Once rid of its hooligan rep’, the Cosworth transitioned into performance car respectability. The Sierra Sapphire and 1990’s 4×4 version duly followed. A further 16bhp would be coaxed out of the Cossie’s 16-valve cylinder-head. In racing, rallying and roadster modes, then, the Ford Sierra Cosworth delivered the goods. Though not literally, of course!

TVR Griffith

The seaside town of Blackpool, England, is famous for its Illuminations. Similarly, TVR – the sports car manufacturer, based in the resort – lit up the motoring world. It did so, not with a dazzling display of neon lights – but with the gorgeous Griffith. The new TVR heralded a return to raw V8 power. The TVR brand itself did not need rejuvenating – but the Nineties sports car market did. The Griffith played a pivotal part in that. In five-litre form, the Griffith 500 produced 345bhp. That gave a top speed of 163mph. 0-60 arrived in a tad over 4s. Such fierce acceleration reflected plenty of mid-range poke – as well as gargantuan low-down grunt. The Griffith was inspired by the TVR Tuscan – a pure-bred, blood-and-guts racer. The latter had first appeared in the late Eighties. The iconic TVR Tuscans tore strips out of each other, in a one-make race series. Even TVR chairman Peter Wheeler dived headlong into the high-speed fray. He battled it out with the best of them, in his own racing Tuscan. A fresh take on the company car, as it were!

Design-wise, the Griffith came with a full complement of curves and subtle touches. Most notably, the air ducts – on the bonnet and doors – were cutting edge cute. The interior, too, was impeccably styled. Copious amounts of leather and wood were inlaid with aluminium. Not surprisingly – with all its technical and aesthetic assets – the Griffith sold well.

With its RWD system maxed-out, the Griffith’s exhaust note was ear-splitting. With hood down – and revs up – British sports car drivers had never had it so good. The Griffith prototype debuted at 1990’s Birmingham NEC Show. To say it wowed onlookers would be understatement. Automotive folklore has it that 350 deposits were stumped up that same day. Which translated to an order every eight minutes! The first production cars swanned into showrooms in ’92. The Griffith was designed, developed and built almost exclusively by TVR. Given its relatively small operating scale, that was an astonishing feat. TVR went one step further, though. At £24,802 new, it even managed to keep the Griffith competitively priced!