Bernie Ecclestone

by Terry Lovell

  Some contemporary commentators considered the proposed changes to be very much in accord with Ecclestone’s aim to introduce a greater discipline. They also seem to give credibility to Ugueux’s assertion that Ecclestone encouraged him not to stand for re-election as president of the CSI in favour of Balestre. But it is inconceivable that there had been any horse-trading between the two – Ecclestone’s support in return for rule changes favourable to the FOCA. Ecclestone at that time was so unpopular within the FIA that his endorsement of Balestre’s ambitions would have done nothing to have advanced them.

  Nevertheless, Balestre’s proposals did give hope of a more concordant relationship between the constructors and the establishment. Outside of French motor sport he was something of an unknown quantity. As one constructor put it: ‘Nobody was quite sure [what to expect of him]’. In one of his early speeches he even displayed signs of modesty, admitting that he had not been ‘a distinguished driver’, that he could not ‘build a Formula One car’ and had ‘never won a Grand Prix’. He had been no more, as he put it, than ‘a passionate follower of motor racing for 30 years’. But any hopes of a new beginning were soon dashed.

  Balestre had hardly settled into office before he seized the opportunity to demonstrate that his was the voice to be feared and respected. It took place at the opening race of the new season, the 1979 Argentine Grand Prix, his first as president of the FISA. Following a first-lap accident between John Watson, who had left Ecclestone’s Brabham team for McLaren, and Ferrari’s Jody Scheckter, Balestre, sartorially resplendent in white suit and matching shoes, took it upon himself to personally intervene. He summoned a meeting of stewards to arbitrarily declare that Watson had been at fault. The result of a stewards’ inquiry, considered to be something of a foregone conclusion in the circumstances, imposed a punitive fine of £3000 on Watson, which was more than the team earned for coming third.

  But Balestre was not done. He made it publicly known that he had actually considered disqualifying Watson from the race and even suspending him for a fixed period. Some observers, while critical of his style, nevertheless believed that his decision was correct. There had been five first-lap accidents in the six previous Grands Prix and the drivers, it was claimed, needed to be more disciplined, particularly at the first corner, the most dangerous stage of a Grand Prix. But, as would prove much the case throughout his turbulent presidency, and which would needlessly increase the ranks of his detractors, it was not so much what he did but the way he set about achieving it.

  His autocratic performance had been like a red rag to a bull to Ecclestone and the constructors, who were further incensed by Watson being denied, despite repeated requests, the opportunity of a personal hearing to defend himself. Twenty-two years later, Balestre, invited to comment on the incident, declined to do so in any detail, other than to imply that he had, in fact, played no part in the proceedings. His only comment was: ‘Please note that sanctions were taken by the race’s stewards against Watson in Argentina because he cut the trajectory on the track.’ Yet, despite this incomplete account of his involvement, he was back in the thick of the controversy two weeks later, at the Brazilian Grand Prix, when he declared that Watson would not be allowed to compete unless his fine was paid.

  He also took the opportunity to publicly admonish Ecclestone for allegedly prohibiting drivers from giving evidence to the stewards’ inquiry into the Watson incident. He further claimed that Ecclestone had approved the course of action agreed to be taken by the stewards and the FISA, but, fearing a backlash from drivers at Brazil and the potential threat to his commercial interests in the race, reversed his support. Ecclestone vehemently denied both claims. Balestre, intent on portraying the constructors’ leader as a man the FIA had always claimed he was – a tyrant determined to squeeze every penny out of Formula One – continued his assault on Ecclestone’s integrity by claiming that he had not only sold passes to the pit lanes while blocking officials from issuing free of charge International Press Racing Association (IPRA) badges recognised by the FISA, but had also imposed a mandatory £600 ‘tax’ on foreign radio stations. They were charges to which Ecclestone declined to respond, at least publicly. However, a founder member of the International Press Racing Association, an organisation set up in the late sixties, gave credence to the charge by confirming that at one stage Ecclestone had attempted to charge IPRA members an annual fee of £5000 in return for a press pass, a move he was unsuccessful, for once, in enforcing.

  Ecclestone was doubtless surprised by the ferocity of Balestre’s high-profile intervention and accusations, courses of action that the more self-restrained and cautious Ugueux would never have dared to have expressed, at least not in public. Balestre clearly wanted the constructors to be in no doubt: it was no longer the FOCA that set the rules of the house but the FISA, which, under the leadership of Balestre, would not hesitate to act quickly and firmly in putting down any threat to its authority. But what went on behind the scenes was another matter. Privately, Balestre was about to face his first political challenge – and lose. In the basement of an office at Brazil’s Interlagos circuit, Ecclestone and Mosley arranged a meeting with Balestre at which he was told that Watson would be competing without the fine being paid, a decision for which they had secured the support of the organisers, Ecclestone’s financial stake in its promotion proving an influential factor. Unless Balestre wanted them to make the decision public, he would write and sign a statement that not only had Watson’s fine been paid but that in future he would not act unilaterally. Balestre found himself alone, facing the very real prospect of having his newly acquired authority severely undermined. It was a risk he preferred not to run. Rather than lose face, he agreed.

  Balestre composed the statement, written in green fountain pen ink, several times before the final version was accepted by Ecclestone. It read: ‘The fine inflicted on Watson was paid by the FOCA within the delay prescribed by the sporting code. As a result, Watson, having satisfied the penalty, is disengaged from all obligations as far as the Automobile Club of Argentina is concerned. In the future all problems concerning the events counting for the Formula One championship will be looked at by the working group of Formula One and the sporting commission of the FIA.’ Apart from the pleasing evidence it offered of the first blood going to the constructors, the statement was to prove of historical significance in that the working group, a body that Balestre had promised to set up shortly after his election to discuss and recommend proposed changes to rules and regulations, would pave the way for the formation of the powerful Formula One Commission of the future, which would be responsible for all matters other than the selection of stewards, circuit safety and discipline. It also, incidentally, contained a slight error of fact. Watson’s fine was paid not by FOCA by the Automóvil Club Argentino, the organisers of the Argentine Grand Prix.

  A few weeks later, at a meeting of the teams at Ferrari’s headquarters in Maranello, Ecclestone went on the attack. He swept aside Balestre’s proposed working group by declaring that the FISA would play no further part in the governance of the Formula One World Championship series. He proclaimed that all matters relating to Formula One – car specifications, safety, race regulations and matters of discipline – would be overseen by a committee appointed by the FOCA. It was an ambitious political move that had the support of probably the most powerful voice in Formula One after Ecclestone and Balestre, that of Enzo Ferrari. When asked if he believed in the necessity of the FOCA, he replied: ‘By hook or by crook, I must believe in it.’

  He also made a veiled criticism of Balestre for breaching the spirit and the letter of established conduct. ‘The new president of the CSI [sic] … must, with severe impartiality, impose on the organisers, on the competitors, on the drivers, on everyone, respect of the sporting code in force or else the FOCA will be compelled to acquire itself an autonomy that will bind its members still more to that self-discipline already provided in the association articles, which is the only serious guara
ntee of correct technical and sporting results.’ It was, he confirmed, an ultimatum to the FISA. ‘It is the last chance for the automobilistic sport of Formula 1.’3

  Balestre’s response to the FOCA’s threat to usurp the FISA was equally unyielding, but demonstrated a degree of chutzpah which must surely have provoked a smile from Ecclestone himself. A statement was issued ostensibly on behalf of the FIA’s executive committee, which, in noting the FOCA’s beating of war drums, took the opportunity to ‘renew its confidence in the President’ and the members of the FISA, adding that it ‘re-affirms its approval of the reforms taking place within’ the FISA. It appeared to be a resounding pat on the back for Balestre from the FIA President, Prince Paul Metternich, and his committee colleagues. Well, not quite. The statement was authorised and signed by Balestre himself, and issued through his office.

  A month later, in April 1979, Balestre flew to London in an attempt to regain the initiative. He was there, said the FISA’s publicity machine, to offer the British media ‘a world-wide exclusive’, which turned out to be a public roasting of the FOCA in general and Ecclestone in particular. He countered Ecclestone’s declaration that the FOCA would take control of Formula One by reasserting the authority of the FISA as the governing power. He was, he said, prepared to allow the constructors ‘a certain latitude’ in making arrangements with the organisers, but he insisted they should have no further involvement, including matters of discipline and, most controversially, the negotiation of financial terms with the organisers or promoters. He claimed that the FISA had been forced to involve itself in the financial negotiations between the FOCA and the organisers because Ecclestone had allegedly failed to honour the financial terms of the three-year contracts agreed and signed in 1977, which had resulted from the ultimately unsuccessful efforts of World Championship Racing. He accused Ecclestone of going back to the Argentine Grand Prix organisers 18 months later to demand a 27 per cent increase in the teams’ fees – to $900,000, plus television rights and hire cars – for the 1979 Grand Prix.

  The financial details, which until then had been covered by a standard confidentiality clause in the FOCA’s contracts, had come out at a meeting of organisers called by Balestre in Paris a couple of weeks earlier to discover how much each had been paying Ecclestone. Balestre also made covetous noises about the money the constructors were receiving through the sale to the European Broadcasting Union of television rights automatically acquired by Ecclestone from organisers and promoters as a condition of a race contract. As the FIA’s modest income came principally from homologation fees, the thought that television rights revenue, generated by a sport that the FISA was supposed to be governing, was going into the constructors’ pockets must have caused Balestre chronic dyspepsia. He implied that, in fact, the FIA was considered by the European Broadcasting Union, not to mention three American networks, who, he said, had made approaches earlier that year, as the rightful owner of the television rights. For good measure, he also claimed that a poll of sponsors had revealed a unanimous preference for the government of ‘sporting power’ rather than by ‘the circus’.

  It was becoming clear that Balestre, in his power battle with Ecclestone, was looking for ways to publicly challenge the FOCA leader at all and every opportunity. No sooner had the dust settled on the Argentine and Brazilian Grands Prix debacles than he attempted to bring him to heel over the Swedish Grand Prix, which was in danger of being cancelled due to the withdrawal of its cash-strapped sponsors. However, at the eleventh hour a Swedish oil company came to the rescue to cover the costs, including the FOCA’s £25,000 advance payment. The race, Ecclestone announced, was back on. But then Balestre stepped in to insist that, as the race had been cancelled, it couldn’t be immediately reinstated as a Grand Prix carrying World Championship points without the FISA’s approval, which, unfortunately, was not possible due to lack of time. Despite protests by the organisers and the FOCA, the 1979 Swedish Grand Prix remained cancelled. Balestre had succeeded in making his point: once again, it was the authority of his word that counted, not Ecclestone’s. The cancellation of the race at Anderstorp marked the end of the Swedish Grand Prix, which had begun in 1973 with Ecclestone the principal force, a factor that would have made Balestre’s role in its demise all the sweeter.

  Balestre attended the last Swedish Grand Prix, in 1978, but in accommodation that offence to his sense of dignity and importance of office. On his arrival in Sweden he was chauffeur-driven to a rather ordinary-looking house, arranged by the organisers, near the circuit. At the time the legality of Gordon Murray’s ‘fan’ car was in hot dispute and Balestre arrived at Ecclestone’s plush and spacious hotel room to clarify the FISA’s position. He was in a foul mood, complaining, among other things, of the standard of his accommodation. The next day, while being driven to the circuit, he demanded of an accompanying Swedish motor club official to know why he had not been booked into the same hotel. Well, it was explained, Mr Ecclestone had booked all the rooms.

  Such inferior treatment was guaranteed to be given his glowering disapproval, as were organisers or promoters who were known to be personal friends or allies of Ecclestone and the constructors. There was, for example, the experience of British-born businessman Chris Pook, who established the USA West Grand Prix at Long Beach, California, in 1976 with Ecclestone’s encouragement, and who had sided with the FOCA in the dispute with Patrick Duffeler’s World Championship Racing. Pook was forced to put back the April date of the 1979 Grand Prix by one week to meet television demands, which prompted a telexed reprimand from Balestre pointing out that the new date clashed with a Formula Two race at Hockenheim. He warned Pook that if Hockenheim incurred any losses as a result of the television coverage, he would be held liable by the FISA for the first $20,000.

  More seriously, the Long Beach race itself came under threat shortly after Pook signed a new three-year contract with Ecclestone at the Monaco Grand Prix. A team of FISA safety inspectors was sent to report on the road circuit. Their report was critical of the use of concrete blocks rather than Armco barriers, although the drivers at that time preferred the blocks to Armco, considering them safer. Pook flew to Holland the following month to protest to Balestre, who was attending the Dutch Grand Prix at Zandvoort, which, ironically, was considered to be one of the most dangerous circuits on the calendar as car speeds had become too fast for the track design, and which was blamed for a horrific first-lap crash between the Arrows team’s Riccardo Patrese and Tyrrell’s Didier Pironi at the 1978 Grand Prix.

  Pook was not the only one who went to the Dutch Grand Prix with a grievance. Mal Currie, representing the organisers of the USA Grand Prix (East), wanted to find out from Balestre why the FISA was demanding safety changes at Watkins Glen that would cost £150,000 – with the race just one month away. The answer, it was widely believed, lay in the fact that, like Pook, Currie and his colleagues had sided with Ecclestone in the earlier battles against the FISA.

  The threat issued by the FOCA to set up a breakaway Formula One World Championship series – not the first nor the last – was not put into action. The opinion within the ranks of the constructors, for the time being at least, was that the loss of the FIA’s administration and endorsement might achieve more harm than good, especially with sponsors made more nervous by every hostile stalemate. In the meantime, Balestre, with baton in hand, was insisting that the FISA was now playing to ‘new music and a new conductor’.

  Part of the ‘new music’ was his proposed Formula One Working Group, which did little to impress Ecclestone. At a meeting in Paris he claimed that its proposed structure was unfairly balanced in favour of the FISA, and, suspecting that it was a devious ploy to straitjacket the constructors, counter-proposed that the two sides should come together to form a new body to replace the FISA. Balestre’s reply was to produce a dossier of Ecclestone’s alleged infringements of the FISA’s authority. Ecclestone’s reply was to refuse to attend any further meetings unless the constructors were more equally represen
ted.

  His suspicions about Balestre’s motive may have been well grounded. The very next day Balestre let loose a devastating broadside intended to seriously destabilise the constructors: the FISA’s Technical Commission issued a report proposing radical changes to the regulations of Formula One. The commission, under the chairmanship of Curt Schild, of the Automobile Club de Suisse, proposed reducing the length, height and width of Formula One cars, sustaining the 3-litre engine limit and increasing the minimum weight from 575 to 625 kilograms. It was, in effect, proposing a new Formula One, which would mean massive costs to the constructors, but to the considerable advantage of the French manufacturer Renault, which, over a four-year period, had invested more than £1 million in developing the heavier RS01, a turbocharged 1.5-litre V6 engine producing 510bhp, and whose power countered the cornering speeds of the lighter, nippier ‘ground effect’ car. The proposed new specifications fitted it perfectly. The RS01 first competed at the 1977 British Grand Prix but failed to finish. It competed in only three Grands Prix during the rest of the season and, again, through suspension and engine problems, failed to finish. It wasn’t until the French Grand Prix in 1979 that Renault began to see a return on its money, when Jean-Pierre Jabouille and René Arnoux took first and third place.

  But in that same year the constructors’ adaptation of Chapman’s Lotus 78 was proving highly encouraging. The first ‘ground effect’ or ‘skirts’ car of Ecclestone’s Brabham team, the BT48 Alfa, driven by Niki Lauda in a test session, went round Silverstone in 1 minute 15.3 seconds, to record an astonishing average lap speed of 140.17mph, the first car to lap the 4710-metre circuit at over 140mph. To the constructors, switching to turbo made little sense. Keith Duckworth’s Ford Cosworth DFV V8 had proved so successful since it first appeared in Colin Chapman’s Lotus 49, with Jim Clark at the wheel, to win the 1967 Dutch Grand Prix in its maiden race that it made the opposition obsolete at a stroke. At a cost of £7500, it became the engine which the constructors built their cars around. But now the cost was £20,000 and to build and supply the constructors with a Cosworth turbo would have at least doubled that figure. The cost of repairs and a standard strip-down and service would also have escalated. The Cosworth DFV had brought a stability to Formula One which, the constructors argued, was being threatened by the turbocharged engine’s superior horsepower, which would make Formula One less competitive and, therefore, less appealing to the public. Why, they chorused, change a successful show, which had been competitive, popular and relatively inexpensive to run?