The Rise and Fall of TVR — The Curse of TrevorCars

There’s something very British about TVR. Not in the tweed-wearing, tea-sipping, orderly-queueing sort of way. No. TVR is British in the same way that an exploding kettle with a hand grenade inside it is British. It’s the story of a company that kept setting itself on fire — sometimes literally — and then coming back with a grin, a louder engine, and slightly fewer functioning electrics than before.

And it all started in Blackpool. Not Monaco. Not Stuttgart. Not even Coventry. No, the tale began in a damp corner of Lancashire in 1946 with a teenage boy called Trevor Wilkinson who, instead of playing with marbles like the other kids, decided to start a car company. He called it TrevorCars, which sounds less like a performance brand and more like someone who’ll rent you a Nissan Micra for £11 a day.

Trevor wasn’t a businessman. He was an engineer with ambition and a welder. He believed that if he could bend steel into the right shape, shove an engine in it, and paint it red, people might buy it. And sometimes, they did.

His first car, simply known as TVR Number One, was a crude, lightweight thing with a tubular chassis and a Ford side-valve engine. It looked like it had been designed with a crayon and handled like an ironing board with wheels. But it was the beginning. The name TrevorCars didn’t last — wisely — and was shortened to TVR using the only three letters he could get out of his own name without making it sound like a Scandinavian jazz quartet.

The early years were shaky. The factory wasn’t so much a production line as it was a garage with big dreams. Trevor built what he could afford, which often meant borrowing parts from whoever wasn’t looking. Suspension from a Beetle. Engine from BMC. Headlights from somewhere between “scrapyard” and “skip”. Fibreglass was chosen not because it was glamorous, but because it was cheap and didn’t require expensive tooling. The cars were light, agile, and terrifying.

By the late ’50s, TVR was building the Grantura — a car so ahead of its time, it didn’t really work in its own time. The bodywork was sleek, the layout clever, and the performance enthusiastic. Unfortunately, so were the reliability issues. Electrics were temperamental, build quality was variable, and the heating system worked better as a placebo than an actual source of warmth. But it was a sports car, it was British, and it was different.

Then came the ‘60s. Like most things in the ‘60s, it started well, involved questionable decisions, and ended in tears. TVR had success in America thanks to a deal with an eccentric American racing driver and entrepreneur named Jack Griffith. He took the Grantura, dropped in a thumping great Ford V8, and called it the Griffith 200. It was glorious. Also nearly undrivable. It was like giving a chainsaw to a toddler — powerful, entertaining, and probably going to end in an accident.

But just as it looked like TVR might finally make it, disaster struck. The American deal fell apart, money dried up, and in 1965, the company was bankrupt. Trevor Wilkinson quietly walked away. The man who had founded TVR, bent metal into dreams, and started it all with a borrowed welder — gone. But not for long.

That same year, a young chap called Martin Lilley — whose family had been selling TVRs through their dealership — stepped in and bought the company. Martin was well-dressed, respectable, and alarmingly competent. He turned the chaos into something vaguely resembling a car company. Production increased. Models improved. The interiors no longer looked like they’d been assembled blindfolded. And yet, somehow, it still felt like TVR. Unrefined, raw, thrilling.

In 1975, the factory caught fire. Because of course it did. Half the production line went up in smoke. But instead of shutting down, they just built new moulds and carried on. The cars kept coming — the 3000M, the Taimar, the convertible 3000S. All powered by Ford’s Essex V6, all wearing those distinctive curvy bodies like a badge of mischief. They weren’t as fast as the V8 Griffiths, but they had charm. That sort of Blackpool charm — slightly rough around the edges, and a bit too loud after a few pints.

But by the late ’70s, sales were slowing. The world was changing, and TVR needed a jolt. That jolt arrived in the form of Peter Wheeler.

Chapter 2 — Wheeler Dealers and V8 Thunder

By the early 1980s, TVR was running on fumes. Not metaphorically. Literally. Fuel tanks were leaking, dashboards were warping in the sun, and the product line had all the appeal of a hastily reheated lasagne.

Enter Peter Wheeler. A chemical engineer by trade and a TVR owner by accident, Wheeler bought a Tasmin in the early ’80s. He liked it. He also thought it could be better. So, in true TVR fashion, he bought the company.

Now, Wheeler wasn’t your usual car executive. He was a blunt, barrel-chested Yorkshireman with a moustache and a Labrador called Ned, who once famously redesigned part of a TVR’s bodywork by chewing through a clay styling model. Peter looked at the brand and thought, let’s stop pretending to be Porsche. Let’s be the hooligans. The result? Fire and fury.

He immediately ditched the Ford V6 engines and started cramming Rover V8s into everything. If a body shell existed, he tried fitting a 3.5-litre V8 into it. If it didn’t fit, he simply made the bonnet lumpier and tried again. TVRs went from “quirky” to “loud” in the space of about 10 minutes.

The 350i was born. Then the 390SE. Then the 400SE, the 450SE, the 420SEAC. There were so many special editions that even the engineers forgot what the letters stood for. Some say SEAC meant Special Equipment Aramid Composite. Others say it stood for “Sod Everything And Charge”.

Build quality? Still questionable. But performance? Biblical. These cars could outrun Ferraris for half the money and with double the tyre smoke. They didn’t have airbags, traction control, or even proper door handles. Some models required you to reach inside a hidden slot in the sill to open the door. It was like starting a car using a cheat code.

And then came the S Series — the S1, S2, S3, S4 — each one built with just enough improvements to almost be reliable. Almost. But by the early ‘90s, Wheeler was bored. The Rover V8 was old hat. He wanted a proper engine. His own engine. So, he built one.

Chapter 3 — The Cerbera and the Engine That Wouldn’t Die Quietly

In 1996, TVR unveiled the Cerbera — a car that looked like it had been carved from molten anger and packed full of spite. Under the bonnet sat a 4.2-litre V8, code-named AJP8, designed in-house by TVR’s own engineers. The A stood for Al Melling, the J for John Ravenscroft, the P for Peter Wheeler.

This engine wasn’t just powerful. It was absurd. Early versions made 360 bhp. Later versions? 420. It sounded like thunder mixed with the death wail of a dinosaur and could catapult the Cerbera from 0 to 60 in just over four seconds. And it did all this while weighing less than a family fridge.

Then they made a 4.5. And then they made a Speed Six — an even madder straight-six engine for the next wave of cars, including the Tuscan, Tamora, T350 and the frankly unhinged Sagaris. These were the cars that defined TVR in the early 2000s. Glorious shapes. Enormous power. Zero safety systems. Buying a TVR wasn’t just a purchase. It was a statement. “I’m not afraid of death. I invite it. And I want it to sound brilliant”.

The Tuscan in particular gained fame, especially when it appeared in the film Swordfish, where it looked more expensive than the actual actors. And the Sagaris? That thing looked like a space lizard that had swallowed a volcano. It had side-exit exhausts, a bonnet that didn’t open properly, and suspension stiff enough to double as dental equipment.

But for all the madness, there was genius. TVRs of this era were stunning to drive — once you learned to stop fearing them. The handling was raw, the steering alive, and the brakes… well, they existed. Most of the time.

The interiors were a mixture of aircraft cockpit and Victorian jewellery box. Gauges sat where they shouldn’t. Switches did things you didn’t expect. And yet it was all part of the charm. You didn’t buy a TVR for Germanic logic. You bought one because you were tired of things that worked properly. But behind the roar and the bravado, the numbers were starting to crack.

Sales began to slow. Reliability was still inconsistent. The factory was under pressure. And Peter Wheeler — now a seasoned veteran of building brilliant nonsense — was ready to move on.

In 2004, he sold the company. To a 24-year-old Russian called Nikolai Smolensky. Because of course he did.

Chapter 4 — Vodka, Visas and Very Bad Timing

When Peter Wheeler sold TVR to a 24-year-old Russian banker, there was a collective pause among car journalists, enthusiasts, and probably the entire north of England. Nobody knew whether to laugh, cry, or start Googling “how to move a factory to Siberia”.

Nikolai Smolensky arrived with sharp suits, big promises, and the kind of optimistic confidence you only get from never having actually run a car company. At first, things looked alright. He said all the right things. TVR wouldn’t change too much. The workers would stay. Production would continue. There would be new models. Better quality. More reliability. Maybe even — whisper it — airbags.

And then it all unravelled faster than a fibreglass bonnet in a heatwave. First, he decided to outsource body production to a company in Italy. Which sounds exotic until you realise TVRs are complicated beasts, and trusting an unfamiliar supplier to mould their bodies was like handing a soufflé recipe to someone who’s never used an oven.

Then he tried moving production back. Then he stopped it altogether. Then he started it again. Staff were let go. Orders vanished. TVR dealers started running out of cars to sell, and customers were met with long silences where updates should have been. The whole operation became a game of musical chairs, except the music was being played in three countries at once and the chairs were on fire.

In 2006, after a particularly confusing series of press statements that hinted TVR was simultaneously relocating, shutting down, expanding, and reinventing the wheel, things ground to a halt. The workers were laid off. The phones stopped ringing. The production line went cold.

And still, the fans wouldn’t give up. In protest, hundreds of TVR owners formed a convoy known as “London Thunder” — rolling into the capital in an angry, petrol-scented, V8-fuelled parade of loyalty. They drove through central London with their exhausts barking and banners flying. They wanted the world to know: “We don’t care that these cars fall apart. We love them anyway”.

Smolensky, seemingly unmoved by all of this, announced plans for a new model. It was going to be called the Typhoon. It would have 600 horsepower. A supercharged V8. It would cost more than any previous TVR and have proper aerodynamics. Just one problem: it didn’t exist.

One prototype was allegedly built. No one is quite sure where it went. Some say it’s in a warehouse somewhere. Others believe it drove straight into the sea in protest. Either way, Smolensky quietly exited stage left, and by the end of 2006, TVR was no more. Again.

Chapter 5 — The Resurrection (Again)

Fast forward to 2013. The global economy was still twitching from its latest nervous breakdown, and most people had forgotten about TVR or assumed it had finally collapsed under the weight of its own eccentricity. But deep in the heart of the British car scene, one man hadn’t forgotten. His name? Les Edgar.

Les wasn’t your average investor. He wasn’t a banker. He wasn’t a venture capitalist with a slick haircut and an offshore account. He was a video game developer. A petrolhead. A man who, in his youth, had once sold millions of copies of Theme Park and Populous, only to then say, “Right, let’s build a V8 and bring TVR back”. Which is precisely what he did.

Edgar formed a new company, bought the rights to the TVR name, and set out to rebuild the brand the right way — with proper funding, proper planning, and a solid engineering team behind it. No more guesswork. No more winging it with a MIG welder and crossed fingers.

And if you’re rebuilding a legendary British sports car, who do you call? Gordon Murray. Yes, that Gordon Murray. Designer of the McLaren F1. Engineering wizard. Man of wind tunnels and carbon-fibre dreams. He joined forces with Edgar to design the new TVR. It would be built using Murray’s new iStream process — a fancy manufacturing technique that allowed for lighter, stronger, safer cars without needing a billion-pound factory.

Cosworth came on board too, supplying a reworked version of the 5.0-litre Ford Coyote V8. Front-engine. Rear-wheel drive. Manual gearbox. Less than 1,250 kg. The blueprint was pure TVR — all the right bits, but this time with actual engineering.

In 2017, the covers came off. The new TVR Griffith was unveiled at the Goodwood Revival. It looked stunning. Long bonnet. Short rear overhang. Muscle-car aggression with British muscle charm. It sounded like it should be illegal and looked like it had been designed by someone who knew what speed felt like in a jet.

Orders rolled in. Deposits were paid. A factory site was announced in Ebbw Vale, Wales. Jobs were promised. Production would begin soon. TVR, it seemed, was truly back. And then… delays.

There were whispers about planning permissions. Then Brexit got in the way. Then Covid. Then the Welsh government changed its mind about the factory lease. Funding fell through. The site sat empty. The production start date slipped. Then slipped again. Then vanished altogether.

As of today, the new Griffith remains “in development”. But this is TVR. Being on the brink of chaos is part of the process.

Epilogue — The Last Rebel

So where does that leave us? TVR has been dead more times than your average soap opera villain. It’s burned down, been sold to a Russian, bounced through bankruptcy, moved across continents, promised new models that never arrived, and yet somehow — somehow — it is still here. Sort of.

The parts business keeps ticking. The community is still alive. Griffith deposits are still held by customers who are either very patient or very optimistic. And every now and then, someone still mentions TVR with the kind of reverence usually reserved for mythical beasts or near-death experiences.

Because TVR was never about perfection. It wasn’t even about common sense. It was about noise. It was about grip — or the lack of it. It was about sitting in a lightweight, overpowered fibreglass coffin with a five-speed manual and a dangerously vague understanding of braking distances, and thinking, “Yes, this is what driving should feel like”.

It was about a company that kept going, even when it probably shouldn’t have. Even when it was out of money, out of time, and occasionally out of bolts. Because someone, somewhere, still believed in it.

And maybe that’s why TVR has endured. Not because of business plans or spreadsheets or marketing departments. But because of passion. Because of stubbornness. Because of people who think cars should make your hair stand on end and your passengers scream.

TVR isn’t a car company. It’s an attitude. A noisy, daft, unpredictable, glorious attitude.

Written by: Paul Pearce