My Dad drove leased Ford wagons for his business back in the late '60s. He didn't like foreign cars but my Mom wanted an XK-E really bad . . . so he bought her a new '68 MG-B GT and told her that was as close as she was going to get to a Jag. The first day of ownership we had our entire family of six in that car! At the first stop-light my Dad knocked a Pall Mall out of the package and pushed the cigarette lighter in the MG. The entire car died. By the time the tow truck arrived, my Dad was firmly convinced his first foray into foreign cars was a lesson he never wanted to have to learn again.
But my Mom kept driving it and on my 16th birthday she drove me in it to the license office to take my written test for my learner's permit. When I came out, she was sitting in the passenger seat of the MG. I asked what she was doing and she simply said "Just drive". I protested that they'd never even let me sit behind the wheel before, and I had no driving instruction, never driven any car—or any vehicle beyond a Schwinn—nor had any experience with a clutch. "Drive" she said. So I did.
So my love of fun cars came from my Mom. But my distaste for anything British came from my Dad. And I've still never owned a Ford.
52-years of BMW ownership!