Bernie Ecclestone
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Vogt remained with Ecclestone for five years. The split was principally caused, of course, by money – or, as Vogt diplomatically put it, ‘different interpretations of our contract’. Nevertheless, Vogt, who later became involved with Milan-based Media Partners International to launch a breakaway European football Super League, enjoyed his time with Ecclestone. ‘It was very enriching. It was a very busy time. It was like a war.’ He also learned to close his ears to much of his employer’s dealings, which he declined to discuss. ‘Even if you listen, you forget about it. You don’t ask too many questions of yourself inside, either.’
Ecclestone’s appointment as the FIA’s vice-president of promotional affairs was received with some trepidation by the organisers of non-Formula One events. To give him their commercial rights, they complained, was effectively to surrender their roles as organisers. Ecclestone was characteristically contemptuous of their criticism, brushing it aside as coming from ‘lots of people… frightened that they will lose power they think they have but probably don’t have, anyway’.
His comment was, in particular, a pointed reference to the Automobile Club de l’Ouest (ACO), the organisers of the Le Mans 24-Hour race, who since 1982 had owned the trademark of the high-profile race, and had enjoyed considerable financial benefits gained from sponsorship and television rights, as well as the not insignificant track signage and off-track trade, all of which, by courtesy of Balestre’s authority, had now been assigned to the control of Ecclestone. When the news of his appointment was announced, the ACO issued a statement in which it refused to surrender its television rights to the FISA’s ‘chosen one’. It added: ‘To accept such a situation would be tantamount to the ACO resigning its role as organiser.’3
Over the next three years an acrimonious battle ensued between the FISA and the ACO, with the Le Mans race under almost constant threat. French politicians came to the defence of the ACO’s stand but to no avail. The club finally capitulated and rescinded its claims to television rights in 1990, but, as part of a bitterly fought agreement, was guaranteed the World Championship status of Le Mans for the following five years. Two years later, however, in October 1992, the ACO was back in court, claiming breach of contract. The FISA, it claimed, had failed to field a minimum of 50 cars – it had fallen as low as 28 – and had not provided, as their contract stipulated, TV coverage at least equal to that which had been achieved by the organisers. From being covered by 41 channels in 26 countries, which had generated an income of £600,000, coverage had dropped to four countries, with no fixed contracts, and no live coverage at all in France, claimed the organisers.
A court in Paris agreed that the FISA had not met its contractual obligations in respect of television coverage and awarded the ACO a payment of damages and interest totalling 1.65 million francs for loss of television rights revenue. Both the ACO and the FIA appealed against the judgement, the former arguing that the damages weren’t enough and the latter against the judgement itself. In November 1993 a court in Paris ruled in favour of the ACO, almost doubling the earlier award to three million francs. In February 1996 the FIA lodged a final, and unsuccessful, appeal. It brought to an end, at least locally, a conflict that confirmed in many people’s minds the view that Ecclestone was using his new authority to ensure that air-time scheduled for motor sport by television programme planners was reduced to the benefit of Formula One. It was a charge, of course, that Ecclestone vehemently denied. So did Vogt, adding that his best efforts failed to attract the interests of television to these championships due to a lack of public interest.
All the same, Ecclestone’s efforts in promoting other formulae seemed to enjoy a singular lack of success. It was with Formula One in mind that experienced Bernie-watchers believed that, shortly after his appointment as vice-president of promotional affairs, he attempted to launch a new series, the Production Car World Championship. It had, of course, the support of the accommodating Balestre, who, at an FISA plenary conference in October 1987, promised the series would be as spectacular as NASCAR-style stockcar racing. It was supported with equal enthusiasm by Ecclestone’s other principal ally, Max Mosley, a gesture which now had particular significance.
Eleven months earlier Mosley had been elected in rather undemocratic circumstances to the presidency of the FIA’s influential Manufacturers’ Commission, which transparently demonstrates the autocracy of Balestre and his alliance with Ecclestone, to succeed Frenchman Philippe Schmitz. Mosley, in fact, had been out of motor sport since the end of 1982 to try his hand at politics. During 1983–4 he had worked assiduously for the Conservative Party, particularly in the Westminster North constituency, with the aim of being adopted as a Conservative candidate. He abandoned his political aspirations after claiming to be totally unimpressed by the calibre of senior party officials. He also became convinced that the legacy of his father’s name would be seen by selection committees as too great a handicap, despite an opinion to the contrary of former Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, given during a late-night conversation at Chatsworth, the Derbyshire country home of Mosley’s uncle and aunt, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, a few years before his death in 1986.
All the while, Mosley had maintained contact with Ecclestone and, by 1986, decided to return to the Formula One fold. As Ecclestone appreciated, Mosley’s skills were in the politics of persuasion, and that it was within the FIA that they could be most effectively exercised. He approached Balestre, who agreed that the Manufacturers’ Commission, with Schmitz’s three-year term about to come to an end, provided as good an opening as any. The votes of the Commission members were cast overwhelmingly in favour of Schmitz being re-elected, with Mosley coming last out of the nominations. Totally ignoring the wishes of the manufacturers, Balestre proposed at a meeting of the World Motor Sport Council, responsible for approving the Commission’s vote, that it should be rejected in favour of Mosley. The council’s compliant delegates obligingly concurred. But the manufacturers had yet to swallow a further humiliation.
In agreeing to stand for the position, Mosley made it clear that he would require a ‘very substantial salary’. That, replied Balestre, would not be a problem. He would simply get each of the manufacturers to pay a fee. It was something, he said, he was willing to do as long as the money went into the FIA, which would retain half of it. It was a move that was met with some resistance by the manufacturers, until Mosley managed to persuade them that, with him at the helm, the Commission would be much more effective. As the official link between the FISA and the manufacturers, Mosley was now in a perfect position to enlist their goodwill, which was vital if Ecclestone’s plan was to succeed.
Ecclestone claimed that Procar, as it came to be known, a series for unsponsored silhouette saloons scheduled to start in 1989, was just what the manufacturers needed to test new technology. It would, he said, be structured around strong manufacturer involvement featuring top drivers in 50-minute race slots in between Grand Prix weekends. It would be blitzed by television and newspaper coverage. But manufacturers’ suspicions were raised by the proposed rules. Cars had to be based on Group A shapes, weigh 750 kilograms and be powered by 3.5-litre Formula One engines or 2.8-litre turbo engines. The regulations would generally follow Formula One with a similar governing protocol. Tailor-made, in fact, for Formula One racing at a time when the manufacturers’ engines were much needed. Renault had withdrawn from Formula One at the end of 1986, albeit temporarily, followed a year later by the more long-term exit of BMW, which had supplied Ecclestone’s Brabham team.
At a press conference poorly attended by the media, Mosley claimed that 12 manufacturers had agreed to take part, although, when asked to name them, he declined, claiming they wanted to make their own announcements.4 The announcements never came. In fact, according to Ecclestone, six out of seven manufacturers had given verbal support at a meeting in the Hôtel Crillon in Paris. In the event, only Alfa Romeo, for whom the Brabham team at that time was building the Alfa 164 Procar, and who in the same year –
1988 – had bought Ecclestone’s Motor Racing Developments factory at Chessington, seemed to share the enthusiasm of the FIA’s vice-president for promotional affairs for a new series.
The manufacturers overwhelmingly rejected it, claiming that the cost of building the cars would be too expensive. Ecclestone put the snub down to the rationale of a manufacturer like Mercedes facing the prospect of being beaten by a car produced by Alfa or Peugeot. ‘That’s the one thing they can’t stand.’ He also believed that some of the manufacturers thought they did not have the ‘right model in the range that [could] follow the regulations correctly and be competitive. It’s all about being competitive.’5 Others believed the manufacturers’ reluctance had more to do with concerns over Ecclestone’s motive. Said a senior FIA delegate: ‘They suspected that Ecclestone’s hidden agenda was to use Procar to shepherd them into Formula One.’
Ecclestone and Mosley continue to believe it was a great opportunity missed. The Alfa 164 proved ‘spectacular’ on a demonstration run at Monza. ‘When it came down the main straight, the entire grandstand stood up,’ said Mosley. Ecclestone recalled that its lap time was faster than a Formula One car. He said: ‘Since then they have spent fortunes to achieve two per cent [of television coverage] compared to what they would have got [with Procar].’
With a Procar series yesterday’s business, Ecclestone now turned his attention to a motor sport that was indeed keenly supported by the manufacturers – the Sports-Prototype World Championship, which had existed under different names since 1953. The FIA’s newly formed World Motor Sport Council, which had now replaced the FISA’s executive committee, announced in October 1988 that it would be relaunched as the Sportscar World Championship. To oversee the series Balestre announced the formation of a Permanent Bureau, of which he, Ecclestone and Mosley would prove its most influential members, and a Sportscar Commission representing the FISA, the manufacturers and four participating countries. Three months later the Permanent Bureau abolished the position of championship co-ordinator, who, among other duties, was responsible for negotiating with the manufacturers and promoters, a role that Ecclestone and Mosley would now assume.
With the kind of ballyhoo that had accompanied the launch announcement of Procar, Balestre confidently declared that the Sportscar World Championship would come to equal the worldwide status of Formula One. A two-year transitional period would allow a new class of Formula One 3.5-litre car which, although less powerful than the manufacturers’ turbocharged cars, would have a 150-kilogram weight advantage – 900 kilograms compared with 750 kilograms – and no fuel restriction. From 1991 the 3.5-litre engines would be compulsory, with ten years’ stability of the engine rules. It once again raised suspicions over the motive behind the new series: was this yet another attempt to lure the manufacturers into Formula One? Over the next 18 months a number of changes to the rules, regulations and calendar by the FISA, proposed and supported by either Balestre, Ecclestone and Mosley, or all three, left the manufacturers – Daimler-Benz, Nissan, Alfa Romeo, Peugeot, Mercedes, Jaguar and Toyota – in a state of nervousness, uncertain of the series’ stability, or the return on the tens of millions of dollars they were investing in the series.
Their anxiety was reflected in the number of cars registered to take part in the 1991 launch: just 17, compared with more than 30 predicted by Balestre. The all-important media coverage was poor, spectator figures down and further confusion caused by tinkering with the calendar and the last-minute cancellation of the event in Jerez, Spain. All in all, it proved a disastrous repackaging of the successful Sports-Prototype World Championship. Rather than its rebirth, it turned out to be its burial. By November 1991 a sport that had rivalled Formula One during the sixties and had enthralled the crowds for nearly 40 years, was in its death throes through lack of entries for the following season.
Mercedes and Jaguar, disappointed by the size of the field, declined to commit themselves, and were later followed by Nissan. Peugeot and Toyota, plus a number of privateers who, after investing heavily in 3.5-litre technology, were left stranded. The decision to recommend cancellation of the series was taken at a meeting of the Sportscar Commission in a hotel at Heathrow Airport following a vote on its future. Only Peugeot, BRM, Toyota and privateer Euro Racing were prepared to make a firm commitment. A request by Mosley for a show of hands had three, including Ecclestone and himself, voting in favour of its cancellation, Toyota and Peugeot voting against, and four, including Mercedes, Jaguar and Nissan, abstaining.
Over the next 12 months Peugeot, Toyota and Mazda tried to revive the series with a shortened eight-race calendar. But there was no improvement in media coverage – the lifeblood of any sport and essential to the manufacturers – and, subsequently, spectator figures. Twenty-six cars were committed to compete, but many of the private teams who had pledged to support the series failed to do so, and some of those who did faded away after the early races, leaving a field of fewer than a dozen cars. The series was finally laid to rest in October 1992.
Ecclestone refuted criticism that, through International Sportsworld Communicators, he had failed to ensure that the series had received the same degree of commitment to media exposure that he gave to Formula One. Their frustration was shared by the private teams. Privateer Tom Walkinshaw, the boss of Tom Walkinshaw Racing (TWR), commented: ‘People have spent millions of dollars and it’s been flushed away. The manufacturers have supported it [but] the other side of the package never came – the media side.’6 He also believed that it had been a mistake for Balestre and others to claim that the series would equal the status of Formula One. It raised expectations that couldn’t be achieved.
Even before the launch of the series, teams were unhappy at the lack of promotion, for which, as the FIA’s vice-president of promotional affairs, Ecclestone was responsible. He passed the ball back to the teams and manufacturers. ‘We’ve done a lot more than what they’ve been doing. It’s their championship, and they’ve done nothing, and we’ve done a helluva lot to try and promote it. A promoter doesn’t want to put a race on when only 3–4000 go to the race. In the end, the promoter says, “What do I need this race for?” And the minute there’s no people sitting there, the television companies look at it and say, “If there’s no interest for the public to go and sit down, there can’t be any more interest for us to put it on TV.” So we, as I said, have to make sure that people go to the races. And the only way that will happen is if the promoter gets enough support to promote the racing.’ Ecclestone claimed that he had been supporting the promoters – with a limited amount of money available to him. Yet he had rejected the idea of a promotional fund to which the manufacturers would contribute. That was not, he insisted, the ‘way to go’.7
At the same time, he blamed the manufacturers for not doing enough. ‘They should be asking us what we would like them to do.’ Which was? ‘Generally assist. They’ve got vast networks everywhere, and they could be running all sorts of competitions. If they just got on with their own thing properly, it would be good. The only people getting anything out of the sports car championship are, in fact, the manufacturers. Nobody else. The promoters are losing money, the FIA are having a lot of work and expense … but the people that really, really need the championship, wanted the championship, are doing nothing to support it.’
Ecclestone, supported by Max Mosley, claims today that, far from discouraging manufacturers from contributing to a promotional fund, that was precisely what he had tried to establish. Said Mosley: ‘The thing about the sports cars was that we wanted the manufacturers to all chip in so we could get the thing going, but they wouldn’t. We said to them, for example, if your programme costs $10 million, spend another $500,000 each and we can have sensible television.’
However, it seems it was not the lack of media coverage or promotion alone that threatened the series. Ecclestone’s financial demands were proving so crippling that a round scheduled for the Nurburgring in August 1991 was in grave danger until, at the eleventh hou
r, it was rescued by the personal intervention of Otto Flimm, the FIA’s deputy president of touring and automobile, and president of Germany’s biggest motoring organisation, the Allgemeiner Deutscher Automobil-Club. Flimm, a friend of Ecclestone, was able to work out an agreement to ensure it was staged at the circuit, even if it was for the last time.
The manufacturers were now left with nowhere to go – except, of course, into Formula One, which, some respected commentators believed, as with the aborted Procar series, had been Ecclestone’s intention all along. And that was where Mercedes and Peugeot ended up in 1994 and 1995 respectively, supplying engines for Jordan and Sauber. As for Ecclestone’s motive, Balestre confirmed, in a telling comment, the suspicions of those who believed that it had been twofold: to kill off the potential television threat of the Sportscar World Championship to Formula One and, at the same time, entice manufacturers into Formula One. Responding to criticism of the problems that had befallen the series and of its future, Balestre said at a press conference: ‘Mr Ecclestone has his own ideas – he prefers Formula One, which is his God-given right. He ran into difficulties setting up the new championship.’8 The enigmatic Balestre had made a similarly puzzling statement in March 1988, when, at the end of a Manufacturers’ Commission press briefing on the launch of the illfated proposed Procar series, he said: ‘Please remember that this is an FISA idea that has now been ratified democratically by executive committee. You mustn’t blame it all on Bernie Ecclestone and try to say that he wants to compete against other championships and kill them off.’9
Ecclestone was also able to exercise his ‘God-given right’ in his marketing support of the World Rally Championship series, the fortunes of which, in his hands, fared little better. His control of the promotion of the World Rally Championship series had been in effect since 1993, when ISC was appointed by Mosley to market its commercial interests. Until then the four main teams – Ford, Mitsubishi, Subaru (Prodrive) and Toyota – had been happy with the way media coverage had been handled, with the host national broadcasters being allowed to film and screen the 14-series event free of charge. The film was also distributed overseas to maximise coverage. It was a relationship that worked to everyone’s advantage. But with the arrival of ISC, as with other series, things quickly changed for the worse.