One of the finest of designs, but few see it that way.

In the UK the ‘B’ is a fondly regarded design, but one rarely held up very high, and this is for all the wrong reasons.
If the BGT had been born with an Aston Martin or Bristol badge on its nose, or even a Healey or Lotus one — all badges it could have worn well — it would be revered in a way far beyond the cursory respect it has today.

If it was a rarer sight and less likely to be remembered as part of the rusting street furniture of late twentieth century Britain then it also might be valued a little more too.

And had it not lived long enough to be known as a long-in-the-tooth design corrupted by ungainly rubber bumpers and greater ride height (and some truly awful colours), then it would instead have left only a singular imprint of its formative, delightfully proportioned and detailed, sixties incarnation.

Were circumstance different then maybe the BGT would more easily be seen as a design for what it is: a calmly handsome, unusually harmonious, and well resolved sports-GT; one that is also uniquely accessible and unpretentious — like a Healey 3000 but without the cravat, or an Alfa Duetto without the shades. 

The MG BGT is truly one of the finest of designs, it’s just not many people see it that way.