It's twilight, so I've turned the Jag's headlamps on, and it's spitting with rain, so I'm occasionally flicking the toggle-switch that operates the spindly wipers. The interior is full of the old-car scent of leather, slightly musty carpets and headlining, and occasional petrolly fumes from the carbs. It's evocative stuff. And as we idly chit-chat away the long minutes, I glance across to my left, and there's a pub called The Blind Beggar.

The Blind Beggar. And then it comes to me. The Blind Beggar in Whitechapel Road was where Ronnie Kray shot and killed another East End thug called George Cornell in the late-Sixties. And here we are, sat in the archetypal Sixties gangland saloon. And there's a undeniable frisson of excitement because, let's face it, that's part of the appeal of this car. The Krays were murderous bullies but that whole 1960s-great-train-robbers-gawd-blimey-get-Carter-carry-on has a murky but undeniable romance. All seedy clubs and sawn-offs and Babychams and dollybirds. In 1966 this was the car that all the villains wanted, and the coppers too.

Fact was, in the Sixties the Mk2 Jag was the quickest thing on the road with four doors and a boot. A fit 3.8 with the manual gearbox was good for 120mph-plus and 0-60mph in around eight seconds. And OK, this 3.4 with the auto box (handy when you're stuck in traffic) isn't that quick, but with its chrome wires and bonnet 'leaper' it still looks the part. Small wonder the Mk2 is a firm favourite at the Classic Car Club, and it was an obvious choice for our first dip into the stable. Just to recap, we've got ourselves a year's membership of the club, so we can choose from dozens of cars at four locations across the UK, and enjoy them for a few days at a time. It's the painless way to enjoy classic cars without the hassle of having to get them repaired when they break down (they all do that, sir).

The Jag feels lusty enough, even with the auto. There's a bit of a judder as the torque converter takes up, but the straight-six roars enthusiastically and it's plenty quick enough to keep up with modern traffic. Once on to the motorway it's happy to cruise at around 80mph. Rides well, too. And with the optional power steering it's even fairly wieldy (sorry to disappoint you, but the Mk2's no sports car, and without power assistance it's actually a bit of a mare in the handling department). Where it feels its age (as do most classics) is in the brakes. Apply modern-car pedal-pressure and you'll wonder if it'll ever actually stop; squeeze really hard and there's reasonable retardation, but you need to plan ahead. With modern radials it grips surprisingly firmly; in fact, with the power-sapping slushbox, tyre-squealing power-oversteer is present only in your Sweeney-fuelled fantasies.

But then that's what cars like this are all about. Feeding a fantasy, taking a nostalgia trip. All too soon it was time to take the Mk2 back. I took a different route out of London on the homeward journey in the 350Z. Didn't want to break the spell.