This is what happens when dudes in polyester leisure suits wrest design authority from the pipe smoking tweeded twits with the leather patches on their elbows.  If you took every bad “I have a large penis and lots of money.  And I am athletic, see?” styling cliche of the 70s, couple it with the worst electronic systems ever, and a V12 that is impossible to tune, you get this:  a relatively OK, flabby and  pretentious country club car that WILL get you laid.  630CSi delusions;  Monte Carlo/Riviera/Tbird applications.

I  remember my first time up close with a Jaguar XJ-S.  It was red and $22,000 in 1977 stagflation money.  I thought that the puny back seats must really be the most comfortable seats ever, for crazy money like that, because who would ever buy a car with seats that did not work? (I had forgotten what the leg room on an E-type coupe looks like.)