The Mechanic’s Tale

by Steve Matchett

  ‘Thanks Steve, that’s great,’ she enthused. ‘We’ll book you into a hotel for Tuesday night, St George’s, Langham Place, right next door to the studios. Ingrid Muir, the programme’s production assistant, will fax you all the details in the next day or so. See you on Wednesday morning. Bye. Oh, and good luck in the race!’

  I’d never been to Broadcasting House – somewhere I would willingly have paid to visit – and now I had been invited as a guest of the BBC, a hotel for the night, dinner, travel costs. What a treat!

  While in Argentina Benetton stayed in the luxurious Buenos Aires Sheraton, a beautiful hotel with an enormous, marble-clad penthouse bar overlooking the city’s many night lights, all very nice, as indeed was the city itself. Before I visited Argentina I had many preconceptions of what the life and the culture would be like – all of which proved to be fantastically wrong. Ever since the Falklands War of 1982 I had been under the impression that Argentina was a poor, tatty country, a land inhabited by an oppressed people who had little say in the actions of their government. I had expected the city of Buenos Aires to be similar to São Paulo: sweltering, humid weather, pollution, decaying sky-scrapers, slums, shanty towns, poor roads and terrible conditions. But what I saw of Argentina was a stark contrast to all that. The people seemed substantially salaried, calm and chic: the men dressed in sharp designer suits, while the women – all of whom were a minimum of six feet tall and oozed Latin beauty – slinked through tree-lined avenues carrying Gucci bags and model pouts. And far from stacks of crumbling concrete, the architecture was a subtle combination of Paris, Madrid and Barcelona: lavish neo-classical stonework, broad roads and smart street cafés.

  Surely these weren’t the downtrodden people my country had been at war with? Where had that preconceived image been born? From my own imagination, or was it a more acceptable and greatly encouraged British portrayal of Argentina at the time? I understand that during the Anglo-Argentine conflict they had been under the rule of Galtieri and his junta, but a government – be it good or bad – can’t change the entire infrastructure of a country to such a degree that a city looking like Paris can be transformed into São Paulo and then change back into Paris again just in the space of a few brief years, can it? Certainly not without a Blitz-style bombing campaign, followed by some remarkably nifty renovation work by several million eager stonemasons. Some things may change, for better or worse, but not everything. The rich architecture had obviously been standing for a hundred years or so! I’m making no political comment in these observations, I’m just curious as to why my pre-visit impressions of Argentina and her people were so terribly wrong.

  Just outside the front doors of the Sheraton Hotel is a carefully manicured park: lawns, flower beds, trees, all looking their pristine best. In front of the park is a grand memorial where two ceremonial guards and an eternal flame stand watch over the carved names of every Argentine sailor, soldier and pilot killed in the war with Britain. Soon after we had checked into our hotel I stood and admired the view from my bedroom window. In the growing gloom of early evening I could just make out the shape of the memorial, the yellow flame illuminating some of the façade around it, but from the eighth floor my vantage point was too high for me to make out what it had been built to commemorate.

  The next morning, just before driving to the circuit, I walked over to the park to see exactly who or what the memorial had been dedicated to. Standing there, dressed in my Benetton team clothes, my legs turned to stone and I froze to the spot when I realized the memorial’s significance. My skin prickled with goose-bumps. ‘Oh God,’ I whispered to myself, ‘what am I doing? I shouldn’t be here, I have no right to be here.’ I’d taken no part in the conflict, yet just being English was enough to make me feel a responsibility for what had happened between our two countries. An over-reaction? Well, in a detached, clinical evaluation then perhaps it was; nevertheless, standing there, in the centre of Buenos Aires, surrounded by the inscribed names of their dead countrymen, I most certainly still felt the emotion.

  However, as I looked around I could sense no hostility towards me: the two ceremonial guards continued to stare impassively ahead, looking straight through me as if I simply didn’t exist, while in front of the memorial three women, dressed from head to foot in black, carefully laid bunches of flowers and wept silently. That day in April 1995, before I turned and walked away, I saw the women’s tears fall, and, undoubtedly, the women continue to weep today for the loss of their children, their brothers, their husbands; they will continue to mourn their loss in exactly the same way as we continue to mourn our own. I climbed in the minibus and drove to the circuit, where we would unwrap our toys and play racing cars, in a nursery built for us by a people we had been at war with thirteen years before.

  I was in the reception of Broadcasting House at 8:30, Wednesday morning, just as Celia had requested. Sitting next to me was another of the Midweek guests, Brian Glover, an actor who made his living from just being himself. I remember him most of all from when he played the demonstrative games master in Kes. The scene where he insisted that his class play football in the freezing cold and sludge, with the film’s young star forced to wear those enormous baggy shorts, will always stand out in my mind as being Glover’s finest hour. A few years later I remember him cropping up in Porridge and later he went on to make quite a decent living doing voice-overs for Homepride and Tetley tea adverts. The last thing I saw him in was one of the Alien follow-ups, without doubt an odd twist of setting compared to Kes, but he was still just playing himself, nothing had changed: same bald/shaved hairdo, same Yorkshire accent. And he was no different on that day in Broadcasting House either, just Brian Glover, a normal bloke, earning his living being Brian Glover, a normal bloke. I’m sad to say he’s since died so I’m really pleased to have had the chance to meet him when I did.

  Broadcasting House is a seemingly endless labyrinth of corridors and stairs. When Ingrid Muir, the charming Midweek production assistant, collected us from reception we walked up a steep flight of stairs, then down, then down again, then down again, with several left and right turns on the way. There were studios everywhere, and the surprising thing was how small they were. At the time the Midweek studio was B13, which if you’re a Ned Sherrin fan you’ll know as being the famous Loose Ends studio too. In the middle of the room was a large rectangular table, big enough to sit at least eight people, with a selection of microphones, cables and ancillary wiring disappearing into the small anteroom where the engineers and production staff corrected recording levels and prompted each other through headphones. ‘The secret to consistently good sound quality,’ we were told, ‘is achieved through practising an exercise known as “lucky elbows”. If you keep your elbows on the table it will sub-consciously prevent you from moving your head around, taking it in and out of the mic’s range. Also, we like to try and create an atmosphere of after-dinner conversation, so feel free to comment and butt in with questions for each other during the show.’ Great, I thought, an atmosphere of after-dinner conversation eh? Perhaps the secret of consistently good conversation quality will be achieved through practising an exercise known as ‘lucky cognac-laced coffee, with a nice bit of cheese and a sesame cracker’. Sadly it wasn’t. I thoroughly enjoyed myself throughout the broadcasting of the programme; my only regret was that the show’s usual presenter, Libby Purves, hadn’t been there. I think she may have been on a publicity tour of her own recently published book. Instead, a chap called Pat Kane had been drafted in from Radio Scotland to cover for her. I had a vague recollection of the name and when I asked where I might know him from I was told he was a member of Hue & Cry, a band who achieved a certain notoriety several years ago. I had vague recollections of that name too. After the show, just as we were leaving B13 he turned to me, saying he thought I’d been fairly quiet and reserved after my own particular slot. ‘I can’t remember you asking too many questions of the other guests. Are you feeling tired or something, or are you one of life’s observers, j
ust happy to watch people from the edge of the floor without having any desire to dance yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a keen observer, I enjoy gauging peoples’ reactions to their circumstance, whether they’re being natural or if their poise is just a pretence,’ I told him, ‘but I must admit to being a little tired this morning.’ I apologized.

  ‘You’re tired! What about me, I’ve had to come down from Scotland for this show, where have you had to come from?’

  ‘Argentina.’

  If you recount a story by writing it down on paper, who are you telling it to? When I write I do so by sitting in front of my screen and I watch it slowly fill up with different reminiscences, stories and general complaints, but who is it that I have written them for? Well, for you, of course, the reader. I write my pages which, all being well, provide you with a brief distraction from the rest of the world and in return, my pleasure is knowing that I’ve managed to entertain a few people I’ve never met. However, shortly after the publication of Life in the Fast Lane, a couple of letters arrived for me at the Benetton factory from people telling me they’d read and enjoyed the book, and they just wanted to say so. I was flattered: these are the people I wrote it for. Then more letters arrived, one from a family who said they kept my book in the loo and read it in instalments; another from a chap who wanted to know what the front-wing settings were on David Coulthard’s Williams during the British Grand Prix; several asking for advice in how to become Grand Prix mechanics; another arrived from a girl who claimed to know the exact location of the rat-infested restaurant I’d described and wondered if she should inform the Japanese health inspectors.

  Throughout the summer letters arrived almost daily, eventually trailing off around November only to start again in January after Weidenfeld & Nicolson published the paperback edition in time for Christmas. Could I recommend a hotel in Estoril? Would I pass the enclosed (heavily scented) letter on to Michael (Schumacher, not Dover)? The best letter of all came from someone who had read my book, said he hadn’t really enjoyed it and wondered if the publishers would give him a credit note for something else – I duly passed the letter on to Michael (Dover, not Schumacher). It’s fascinating to know what kind of people read your work. On the whole, 1995 was a remarkably good year for me. And to top off my good fortune, the management awarded me a small pay rise too; in 1995 my salary was increased by £725 per year, which was nice.

  However, despite having a moderately successful book on my hands, a little extra salary in the bank and a reasonable shot at winning the World Championship, the year’s recipe certainly wasn’t missing that unique blend of highs and lows which Fate carefully adds to her ingredients in order to keep our feet planted firmly on the ground (or firmly off the ground in the case of the Spanish Grand Prix).

  In Barcelona, during one of our routine pit-stops, an accident happened which can only be described as being nothing short of bizarre. Johnny Herbert pitted, fresh tyres and fuel were supplied, but then he proceeded to drive off with both me and the rear jack still attached to the back of the car. I was taken completely by surprise by what happened and it took me several minutes to recover from the shock of it. The initial stages of the pit-stop had gone smoothly enough, but as Kenny and I tried to remove the quick-release jacks, mine – the rear one – jammed shut and wouldn’t release from the car’s jacking hooks. I looked underneath to see what had happened to the mechanism and attempted to force the thing to break free but before I could do anything, Mick Cowlishaw, the chief mechanic, had lifted his car-control board clear of the driver, giving Herbert the all-clear to drive off. The driver’s vision is fairly limited through his mirrors and Herbert was obviously unaware of the problem at the back of the car. I didn’t see Mick lifting the board as I was concentrating on unhooking the jack, and despite wearing safety glasses my vision was quickly blurring from the blast of the exhaust gases. The next thing I remember was a terrifically violent lunge from the jack handles as Herbert released the full might of the eight hundred horsepower engine. Within the space of just one second the car was doing over forty miles an hour. Fortunately I managed to get free, but the jack travelled the entire length of the pit-lane before finally disengaging itself from the car. I felt both my arms stretch, snap and pop back again; nothing broken, thank God, but the two sharp spears of pain hurt like nothing I’d ever felt before; it was a relief when they finally went numb.

  Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

  Harry, Schumacher’s physio, rushed to see what had happened and carefully massaged some sense of feeling back into my fingers. It wasn’t until I’d returned home and watched a video of the pit-stop that I finally realized what had happened to cause the driver to bolt off while I was still working on the car. My arms were sore for several days afterwards, but what hurt me far more was that the only person who apologized to me for what happened was Ross Brawn, our technical director, a man who played no direct role in the pit-stop. He was sitting on the pit-wall watching the timing monitors. That Ross took the trouble to quietly discuss with me what had happened and himself apologize for the accident greatly increased my estimation of him (and as a technical director I already rated him very highly). It was the action of a true team leader and I was very impressed; it was just a bit sad that someone else could never bring himself to say a simple sorry. Anyway, that’s all in the past now, done and dusted. The upside of the day was that Benetton went on to score a one-two finish in the Spanish Grand Prix, the first such result for us since Nelson and Roberto did the same in Japan, nearly five years previously. Five years! How time flashes by.

  Within minutes of the race finishing Murray Walker, sporting a huge grin, had left his commentary box and joined me in the Benetton garage.

  ‘Steve, I’m amazed! I’ve never seen such an intriguing and wonderfully executed publicity stunt to launch a new book in my entire life! You authors will do anything to increase sales!’

  ‘Murray,’ I countered, ‘if there was ever one pit-stop I wish you and the cameras had missed, believe me when I tell you it would definitely be that one.’

  ‘I bet the story of that pit-stop makes it into your next book.’

  ‘Well, you never know, Murray, it just might – if I live long enough to write another!’

  In the following week’s edition of Autosport, Jim Bamber, the motor-sport cartoonist who supplies a weekly lampoon of recent events, used that Barcelona pit-stop as the subject of his latest sketch. The cartoon showed Herbert driving along, with me grimly holding the jack handle, feet trailing in the wind behind. The caption read: ‘Give the lads a wave next time round, Steve!’ The week after it appeared in Autosport, Jim signed and posted me the original artwork for his cartoon. ‘I hope you find a quiet spot in your house to hang it,’ he said. ‘From what I gather, most of my work usually finds its way onto the back of a bog door.’ I was flattered that Jim should send me his work; it really cheered me up and I immediately had it framed. I tried to return the compliment by sending him a copy of Life in the Fast Lane. His drawing will always serve as a pleasant souvenir of what was otherwise a painful and somewhat bewildering incident.

  Actually, that episode in Spain had genuinely scared me; it was another reminder of just how vulnerable the mechanics are during the pit-stops. Imola 1994 had been bad, watching the Minardi and its errant wheel ploughing through the Ferrari and Lotus mechanics; then came the Hockenheim fire, in the very same year, where I had to roll on the ground and try to extinguish my burning overalls; and now 1995 and I’m nearly dragged on to the circuit like that poor stunt-man killed during the filming of Ben Hur. I’d never liked the pit-stops, but since the reintroduction of refuelling I had come to loathe them with a passion.

  It was time for me to think about stopping, I’d had enough. I just hoped that damn Championship would come soon. I was living a charmed life in the pit-lane; I’d escaped serious injury three times now, and didn’t want to push my luck much further.
I had a real fight to regain my confidence during the pit-stops after that last accident. I decided that the best policy was simply to blot it out and not allow it to play on my mind; instead I trained myself to relish the pit-stops; I’d long for the radio call from Ross, telling us that Michael or Johnny were due in on the next lap. Time to get stuck in!

  One circuit after another; race after race; stop after stop: let the car come in; lift the jacks; watch the fuel hose and the tyres go on; watch the hose come off; a quick glance at Kenny on the front jack to check he’s okay; drop the car – and pray there’s no fuel leak and that the jack releases; watch for the car-control board to move away. Monaco: thirteen points; Canada: two more; France: ten more.

  Silverstone saw another ten points added to the pot, these scored by car number two, Paul Howard’s car, driven by Johnny Herbert; the result was Paul and Johnny’s first trip to the top step of the podium. Hill and Schumacher had collided while fighting for the lead; each blamed the other for the accident but the net result of their altercation was that both Benetton and Williams had lost their primary cars. The race lead was passed to David Coulthard in the second Williams, but he fell victim to a stop/go penalty in the very closing stages of the race. It was a fraught last few laps for everyone at Benetton, with Herbert’s engineer talking his driver through every corner. When Herbert and Coulthard began fighting for position his engineer was constantly shouting down the radio: ‘Yield to Coulthard, Johnny! Yield to Coulthard! You do not need to fight for position! Coulthard has to serve a stop/go penalty!’ but Herbert was so excited by his good fortune he wasn’t concentrating on listening and continued to duck and dive with the Williams. I could hardly bare to watch the monitors for fear of seeing Herbert gracefully sliding into the gravel. In the end I think Ross took control of the radio and finally the message sank in, the Benetton pulling wide to let Coulthard sprint through.