Bernie Ecclestone

by Terry Lovell

  It was in Buenos Aires, incidentally, that Ecclestone enjoyed the rewards of a couple of successful wagers. The first occurred during the 1974 Argentine Grand Prix after a number of drivers, idling away time at their hotel swimming pool, challenged each other to see who could swim the farthest under water. Jochen Mass, a German driver with the Surtees team, managed a superhuman four lengths. Ecclestone, who had been observing the proceedings, ambled over to the side of the pool to announce that he could do better. He could swim five lengths underwater. And if anyone wanted him to prove it, they could each lay $100 in his hand. As Ecclestone was hardly known for his swimming prowess, there were no shortage of takers. ‘Right,’ said Ecclestone, ‘let’s get it straight: five lengths under water, right?’ That’s right, was the chorused reply. ‘OK,’ ordered Ecclestone, ‘somebody get me a snorkel!’ In a similar hotel setting at a Grand Prix several years later, Colin Chapman, spotting the immaculately dressed Ecclestone approaching the swimming pool, wagered Mario Andretti, one of his drivers, that he wouldn’t push Ecclestone into the pool for $1000. Andretti accepted the wager, approached Ecclestone and told him of Chapman’s challenge. Ecclestone replied: ‘OK – for half the money.’ He stood there while Andretti pushed him into the pool.

  Two weeks later, at the Brazilian Grand Prix at São Paulo, Ugueux, von Hanstein and Duffeler were joined by Metternich and Bossom. All were cautiously confident that WCR had achieved its purpose. Ugueux offered Duffeler his congratulations. He added, said Duffeler: ‘Now that this is all done, it is the CSI’s job to finalise the European agreements; this will give us multi-year contracts for all the European clubs. That is what we always wanted. Leave it me.’

  Duffeler, though, returned to Europe with nagging doubts. Still ‘shocked’ by the duplicity of the circuit owners at Zolder in signing an ‘exclusive’ contract with both the F1CA and WCR, he wondered how long the terms agreed with Ecclestone would remain intact. He was also disturbed by ‘numerous petty jealousies inside clubs, between clubs, between organisers. I had lot of respect for the likes of Metternich and von Hanstein and the organisers who had put up the $100,000 bond [but] there was certainly a great deal more professionalism and business-like thinking on the other side.’

  After the teams returned to Europe, Ugueux attempted to conclude what had been considered a formality: getting Ecclestone to put his signature on a contract, based on the terms agreed with WCR, to cover the European organisers. By March, though, serious disagreements had arisen between the CSI and the F1CA. Ecclestone was no longer willing to put its name to the contract. According to Duffeler, Ugueux ‘dropped the ball’. It allowed Ecclestone to ‘re-enter the fray’ and successfully include fresh terms to the three-year contracts which made them more favourable to the F1CA. ‘Ecclestone outmanoeuvred him,’ said Duffeler. Ecclestone did a U-turn knowing that, with the season underway and peace seemingly restored, the last thing his adversaries in Paris would want was another bloody confrontation to threaten the entire calendar. It effectively meant the end of WCR, which was laid quietly to rest alongside Grand Prix International.

  Duffeler, who had hoped that World Championship Racing would become a permanent arrangement to broker future deals between the organisers and the F1CA, said: ‘When I look back, I can see that WCR was doomed from the start. I was not really seeing reality when I accepted the position of bringing together a coalition of organisers that would create the “right balance” for the sport. I actually succeeded briefly but by the time the Argentine Grand Prix had taken place, I already had my nose full of the political intrigues and discord that were pervasive in the background of the CSI, the clubs and the track owners. Bernie, on the other hand, was smarter than the majority of the organisers. He was a very high-pressure salesman and a very good tactician, who out-performed, out-negotiated and out-smarted a great number of the people he dealt with. He was driven by money and power, his two principal motives.’

  Duffeler had come to realise that the great strength of the constructors was their unity. Unlike the organisers, who met most infrequently and didn’t even share the same language, the teams moved as a single force, and were able to plan and decide their tactics with a flexibility and spontaneity that their adversaries were unable to counter. The fragmentation of the organisers, geographically and culturally, also enabled the constructors to exploit a relationship weighted heavily in their favour – if an organiser decided to sacrifice his Grand Prix rather than meet Ecclestone’s demands, another circuit, albeit just about passing muster, could be found. To the teams it was just another race. To an organiser it meant the loss of a major part of his revenue.

  The only real threat to the constructors in these battle-worn days was posed by Enzo Ferrari. If the Duffelers and Treus had been able to persuade him to break ranks with the constructors, the appeal of the Ferrari team would have ensured a breakaway Grand Prix, with, doubtless, others to follow. Fully aware of his advantageous position, he would move camp in the direction of the constructors or the FIA, depending on which best suited his commercial or political interests or mood at any particular time. By inching this way or that way, like the fulcrum of a balance, he was able to wield a power out of all proportion to the fact that he represented but one team.

  So it seemed that peace had been restored to Formula One. But it would prove, as tension increased between the constructors and the FIA establishment, to be a most fragile one.

  While Ecclestone was seen as the thrusting, decision-making leader of the constructors, he needed nevertheless to carry with him their goodwill, which could never be considered a given. It could hardly have been otherwise when endeavouring to represent the common cause of such volatile characters as Frank Williams, Ken (‘when the flag drops, the bullshit stops’) Tyrrell, John Surtees and Colin ‘Chunky’ Chapman, whose team in these early days, when he was said to have considered himself too grand to attend the meetings, was represented by team manager Peter Warr. Another distinguished absentee, for very much the same reason, was Enzo Ferrari, who was represented by team boss Luca di Montezemolo. These were men, principals or team bosses, who were no less aggressive, egotistical and competitive than Ecclestone. They also shared a mutual mistrust of one another, careful to give nothing away at their meetings, particularly if a technical issue was on the agenda. Although a constructor might well have a solution in mind, he would be careful not to give too much away. And whenever Ecclestone rattled off a proposed deal, those round the table would hastily scribble their calculations on paper well screened from curious eyes. Some would do their best, too, to sneakily read Ecclestone’s notes on the yellow stickers in front of him, but always unsuccessfully due to the illegibility of his writing. At the end of the meeting these would join dozens of other similar yellow stickers in his briefcase.

  Even after Ecclestone’s arrival, and with support from Mosley, who soon became established as Ecclestone’s co-negotiator with the FIA establishment, meetings could become so unruly, with a red-faced Tyrrell trying to shout the loudest, that Warr would be appointed chairman in an effort to bring some order out of the chaos. According to Warr, it was Ecclestone’s practice to let discussions rage as points of view coalesced into different cliques, until he announced that he believed he had the solution. ‘The reaction would be: why the hell didn’t we think of that…?’ These meetings of men enjoined by common interest and mutual suspicion were skilfully handled by Ecclestone, added Warr. ‘He had a very, very tough job, trying to keep many balls in the air in the interests of everyone in the business. He was always very, very fair and very, very correct. You wouldn’t get anyone to say in Formula One that Bernie ever did an underhand thing in his life.’

  One of the balls Ecclestone had to keep in the air for the constructors was the support of Ferrari. The wily Enzo Ferrari knew the value of his name to Ecclestone in the constructors’ negotiations with the organisers and used it to obtain certain concessions. When, for instance, Ferrari insisted on flying from Milan, rather than Heathrow a
s part of the collective travel arrangements, and, moreover, that they should be allowed to take more than the agreed number of personnel, Ecclestone had to find a way of covering the considerable additional cost, which he would achieve by either charging the organisers more, or levelling out benefits to the teams. ‘Ferrari were always the odd people out,’ said a senior team member. ‘They were always getting the pants beaten off them by these “garagistes” in England, but they were an essential part of the package. So concessions had to be made to keep them on board.’

  Ecclestone had also, said Warr, acquired a reputation as the man in Formula One who ‘fixed things’, the one person who could bring to bear whatever was necessary to get things done. Warr had personal experience of this ability. While he was running the Wolf team, which was funded by multi-millionaire Canadian businessman Walter Wolf, from 1977 to 1979, he hit a problem in his first season with Jody Scheckter, who was leading the World Championship. Because he was from apartheid South Africa, Scheckter was refused a visa to travel to Japan to compete in the Grand Prix at Mount Fuji. A desperate Warr called Ecclestone to explain his predicament. A short while later Ecclestone had solved the problem, even though it meant Scheckter entering Japan irregularly – on a journalist’s visa. Added Warr: ‘I bet you there is not a team in F1 that at some stage hasn’t phoned Bernie up and said, listen, we’ve got a bit of bother with this and he’s said, leave it with me, I’ll sort it.’

  The political pressure on South Africa at this time, when the death of human rights activist Steve Biko at the hands of security police in September 1977 caused an international furore, was intense. The United Nations was urging a global anti-apartheid embargo on trade and arms. Sporting authorities were also urged to isolate the country, all of whom agreed. But, to Ecclestone, it was business as usual. While the political storm raged, he quietly proceeded to hold negotiations with controversial businessman Louis Luyt, who had fronted a secret government bid to acquire South African Associated Newspapers and subvert its liberal newspapers. He was also involved with the pro-government Citizen newspaper, sponsors of the Grand Prix.

  South Africa’s international political embarrassment strengthened Ecclestone’s negotiating hand. Aware that the government was keen to do all it could to maintain international sporting links, he took full advantage of the situation to extract every penny, to a degree that threatened the 1978 Grand Prix. The total cost came to more than £350,000, a very considerable sum in those days, which included £187,000 prize fund money, £85,000 for the charter of two cargo planes, £40,000 for the teams’ travelling expenses and £10,000 for promotional expenses. Luyt, who had guaranteed £100,000 sponsorship of an event whose ticket sales were not expected to exceed £215,000, was so alarmed by Ecclestone’s demands that, unable to find a cosponsor, he threatened to withdraw. The day was saved when an engineering company agreed a one-off deal to cover the balance. The South African Grand Prix was sponsored through Luyt for at least three years. During this time passport entry stamps were recorded on separate cards and destroyed on departure to avoid any political complications when entering other countries officially opposed to apartheid. ‘There was simply too much money at stake to scratch Kyalami,’ said the race manager of one of the leading teams at the time.

  For the next eight years Ecclestone continued to ignore mounting international pressure on South Africa, until, finally, even he had no choice, although his decision was not due to any political consideration. But he went down fighting. The writing was writ large when Renault decided to pull out of the 1986 Grand Prix, and the metalworkers’ union at Ferrari threatened that its members would not prepare the cars for the following Grands Prix at Brands Hatch and Adelaide if the team didn’t follow suit. Amid fears that terrorists might use the Grand Prix for an anti-apartheid protest, the Brazilian government requested Nélson Piquet and Ayrton Senna not to take part. A similar request was made to Ferrari’s Stefan Johansson by Svenska Bilsportforbundet, Sweden’s national racing authority.

  Until then, Ecclestone appeared to all the world to be unmoved by such threats and concerns. He had already signed a deal with Selwyn Nathan, promotions director of Southern Suns Hotels, by now the race sponsors. Publicly, he was supported by the FIA, although, privately, it was said to be keen to cancel the race. But it was feared that if it did, the constructors and the sponsors could sue the FIA for damages. The South African judicial system inadvertently added to the pressures on the teams by deciding to hang a black activist on a date that coincided with the penultimate South African Grand Prix. It was a ruling that provoked world protest, and, over lunch with senior government figures, Ecclestone and Mosley voiced strong disapproval of the execution as well as its timing. The government, they were told, could not interfere with the judicial process.

  Apparently, ignoring the political pressures and flak that was coming from all sides, Ecclestone continued to insist the South African Grand Prix was on – until, that is, several international television networks, facing internal pressure from unions, announced they would not be broadcasting the race. It was only then, when the race was faced with the loss of all-important television coverage, that Ecclestone announced the Grand Prix would not take place. The power of television, it seemed, had succeeded where all other efforts had failed. But Ecclestone claims today that such public perception did him an injustice. He had been fully in favour of cancelling the race but feared that FOCA would have been sued by the promoters, Southern Suns Hotels. Indeed, he adds, in looking for a reason to cancel it, he went to Renault ‘and, I think, Enzo Ferrari’, which led to the withdrawal of Renault and the union threat at Ferrari. ‘I needed a reason to cancel it. I certainly didn’t want it to go ahead. I said to the promoters that we would make up for it, do something later.’ It turned out, in fact, to be the last South African Grand Prix until 1992, which survived for another year before disappearing from the FIA calendar altogether.

  Notes

  1. Autocar, 7 June 1973.

  2. Autocar, 18 January 1973.

  3. Autocar, 2 August 1975.

  4. Autocar, 8 October 1977.

  5. Daily Telegraph, 24 February 1992.

  6. Autocar, 4 October 1975.

  7. Autocar, 22 November 1975.

  8. Daily Mail, 25 November 1976.

  9. Daily Express, 3 November 1971.

  10. Daily Telegraph, 11 December 1976.

  5

  CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE OR POLITICAL POWER? IT’S BERNIE’S DILEMMA

  While Ecclestone was busy with the affairs of the F1CA and his sundry business ventures, the Brabham racing team was effectively under the control of the newly promoted chief designer, South African Gordon Murray, who had replaced Colin Seeley as a director of Motor Racing Developments, and Herbie Blash, now back as the Brabham team manager. The son of a Durban motor mechanic, and a mechanical engineering graduate who designed and built his own racing car at the age of 19, Murray wrote to Colin Chapman for a design job interview. He arrived in England in 1970 – ‘it seemed to be the centre of the universe if you were interested in racing’ – clutching Chapman’s reply agreeing to see him, only to find that Lotus was going through a lean time. There was no work for Murray’s eager skills. After spending six months looking in vain for a job in general car design, he was advised to try Brabham. From the moment he met Brabham’s technical director, Ron Tauranac – ‘the most practical and logical car designer I have ever met’ – they got on well, and Murray joined the team as a draughtsman.

  Murray, the only survivor of Ecclestone’s cost-cutting purge of the design team soon after his acquisition of Motor Racing Developments, was flattered but puzzled by his appointment as chief designer. ‘I have no idea to this day why he decided to keep me and get rid of everybody else. When somebody asked him about that, he said he made some joke about finding me under a dustsheet.’ But the appointment posed a problem for Murray. With rumours abounding about the company’s future, he had been ready to quit prior to Ecclestone’s arrival. Un
certain of his prospects, he agreed, as a private job, to design a car for Le Mans. When Murray explained the situation to Ecclestone, his new boss agreed that he could moonlight as long as priority was given to the production of a new Formula One car. The Brabham cars, said Ecclestone, were ‘all crap’. Over the next six months Murray had a punishing schedule: working single-handedly on a new Formula One car until 10 o’clock at night, and then until three or four in the morning on the Le Mans car.

  The result was the BT42 for the 1973 season, the first of Murray’s pyramidal monocoques, and, for Le Mans, a car which came fourth. The strain caused Murray to have his first physical collapse. But the experience failed to slow him down. If he and Ecclestone had anything in common, it was their need to be in personal control. For that reason, Murray, then an arrogant, self-confessed control freak, refused to take on any assistance. He drew every Brabham part himself, from the gearbox to the final graphics, for the simple reason that he believed that nobody could draw to his standards. Until the BT42, the ‘crap’ cars which the Brabham drivers – Graham Hill, Carlos Reutemann and Wilson Fittipaldi – had been racing were Tauranac’s BT34 ‘lobster claw’ and the BT37, which was nothing more spectacular than a revised version of the BT34.