by Tom Rubython
Walker may have been seething underneath, but even he had to acknowledge Hunt had made a devastating debut at Monaco. When he looked at tapes of his broadcasts both before and after partnering with Hunt, he conceded how much better they had become. He says: “You had my practical race-reading ability alongside his personal acumen, political clout, inquisitive mind and provocative attitude, and suddenly you got a partnership which people tell me worked brilliantly well.”
Martin agrees: “What he brought to the microphone was a complete honesty. The best thing about him as a commentator was that his opinions were based on good judgment. Occasionally, he and I had discussions about what he’d said because I wanted him to justify it, and he always could very easily. He wasn’t controversial just to be controversial.” Martin adds: “He enjoyed it. It gave him enormous satisfaction, I think.”
Martin has a good way of describing the Walker-Hunt broadcasting relationship: “Murray’s job was to read the race and describe the action, and James’ job was to navigate the race.”
After a while, when Walker realised that Jonathan Martin’s intentions were honourable and that he was not going to be sacked, he started to warm to Hunt and to see his good side.
It was also essential that they worked together as a team as it was not easy being Formula One commentators in those days. Both men were peering into tiny monitors, with Mike Doodson sitting behind them supporting them with information. Doodson, who was in the commentary box for all 13 years of the Hunt-Walker partnership became an integral part of it.
The thawing in the relationship between Walker and Hunt proved a slow process as, just as it began to warm up, Hunt would do something that upset Walker and a period of coolness would follow.
Hunt never ceased to amaze Walker, and he remembers in particular the day he found him in the studio intently reading some books: “He had these sex manuals that he used to carry around with him and he would sit diligently reading them. It was instructive stuff, and it was very difficult not to read them over his shoulder, I can tell you.” Hunt, as Walker recalls, was not in the least bit embarrassed and asked him if he would like to borrow one. Walker shuddered and walked away shaking his head.
Walker prided himself in being a team player, and he travelled to the races with the BBC crew and stayed at the same hotels. But Hunt’s whereabouts were always a mystery, and there were often races when he was not in contact all weekend and no one even knew if he was in the country. As Walker remembers: “In fact, it became something of a joke: ‘Has anybody seen James?’”
It was funny but it irked Walker, who was meticulous about his homework before races. When Hunt eventually did turn up, he always famously greeted Walker with the same line: “Right then, Murray, who’s on pole?” In the early days, Hunt usually didn’t know who was on pole and had done no research before a race. So he tried to crib from Walker’s own meticulously researched notes. But Walker invariably snatched them away, much to Hunt’s chagrin. As Walker told Gerald Donaldson: “My attitude was that I had sweated blood to produce these itemised details which I can refer to at a moment’s notice and I’m damned if I’m going to let this lazy interloper benefit from all my hard work.” Walker added: “I deeply resented the fact that this chap was not putting his all into it.” But Jonathan Martin disagrees, saying: “James did a bit more research than he ever let on, and liked Murray to think that.”
But Walker, who received a lot of criticism from the Hunt family for his candid views after his autobiography was published, adds: “I don’t want to give the impression that we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. James always had enormous charm. There was no animosity. We always got on. But what I didn’t do in the beginning was respect him.”
Martin thinks Hunt did it deliberately. “He was a guy that lived on adrenaline and I think he loved the tightrope nature of live broadcasting, slipping into the commentary box just before the start of a race, when the mouth goes dry and the palms start to get wet and it’s pressure time.”
For all that, in 13 years, only once did Hunt not turn up for a race. It was at the Belgian Grand Prix in 1989 at Spa-Francorchamps, and Walker was forced to do the race on his own.
Roger Moody, Martin’s successor as producer, was frantically phoning round to find him. Hunt later apologised and phoned Moody 20 minutes before the end of the race, saying he was ill in bed with food poisoning from eating Belgian pâté, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond.
But Moody later found out that wasn’t true; at least the bit about being ill. Hunt had enjoyed a particularly wild night out with two girls, believed to be Belgian nurses, and had carried on drinking into Sunday afternoon. Jonathan Martin, who by then had been promoted to head of sport at the BBC was apoplectic when he found out. But he let it go after he found that Hunt himself was mortified at what had happened and decided the remorse he felt was in fact punishment enough.
It was a wise decision and Hunt never let him down again.
In fact, from that moment on, the situation improved immeasurably and Walker really warmed to Hunt. As Walker got older, he had increasing difficulty coping with the demanding conditions commentators had to put up with on the circuits, and mistakes began to creep into his commentary.
Hunt often stood up for Walker and defended him when he was criticised for making mistakes. Later, the mistakes became part of the Murray Walker legend. Hunt understood how difficult it was. The truth was that the viewer at home often had a better view of the race than the commentators, who were working in cramped conditions alongside other broadcasters from around the world, staring into small monitors.
When he heard the criticisms, Hunt said: “Look, it’s bloody difficult to get it right. I certainly get confused from time to time. It’s not easy. Why people insist on criticising him I don’t know. The trouble is all Murray ever hears in this country is criticism. He’s a tremendous enthusiast and he does a hell of a lot for the image of the sport.”
Walker was delighted when Hunt stood up for him.
But one problem endured, and that was Hunt’s relentless and unending criticism of Formula One drivers. Hunt was uncompromising in his opinions throughout the 13 years he was broadcasting, and successive BBC producers – Jonathan Martin, Roger Moody, Charles Balchin and Mark Wilkin – were loathe to rein him in for fear of ruining the magic and chemistry of the Hunt-Walker partnership. They all recognised that the conflict between the two men was part of the charm.
Hunt genuinely thought it was his role to be the outspoken expert, and he had a list of drivers he didn’t rate and whom he subjected to endless criticism. At the top of the list was undoubtedly Italian driver Ricardo Patrese. Patrese was Hunt’s nemesis from 1978 to almost the end of his life. Hunt had an on-air vendetta against Patrese, and it all stemmed from the death of Ronnie Peterson in September 1978.
Hunt held Patrese fully responsible for Peterson’s accident and subsequent death. It later turned out that Hunt was wrong in his assessment and that he was just as much to blame for Peterson’s death as the Italian – not that blame needed to be attributed because it was clearly shown to be a ‘racing incident’ that unfortunately resulted in the death of a driver.
It was one of the biggest errors of Hunt’s life, but it was real and it continually annoyed Murray Walker, who was a personal friend of Patrese’s. Walker remembers: “I only had to say something complimentary about Ricardo Patrese for James to fiercely gesture for the microphone. I would give the mike to James who would then spew vitriol and bile over Patrese.”
Walker admits that, after a while, he deliberately began to annoy Hunt on air: “I would say: ‘Well meanwhile, on lap 54, Ricardo Patrese, who has won six Grands Prix, scored eight pole positions and finished second and third in the world championship, has moved up to fourth place.’”
With only one microphone between them, an infuriated Hunt was unable to retaliate.
The criticism of Patrese ceased in 1992 but had endured for 12 years before that, causi
ng the likeable and popular Italian immense distress. And it was another of those incidents where no measure of accountability could be forced from Hunt. Mark Wilkin, his last producer, says merely: “James was emphatically right or he was emphatically wrong, there was nothing in between.”
Hunt would go to elaborate lengths to prove he was right about Patrese and he spent hours poring over race reports and lap times, performing mathematical calculations which showed that Patrese was 0.94 seconds slower than his teammate in one season, then 1.14 seconds slower the next year.
John Hogan admits that Hunt passed “total misjudgement against Patrese” as he says: “It was weird. And it went back to the Peterson thing, and that was a bit stupid and very extraordinary because his judgement of drivers was usually so sound.”
John Richardson believes Hunt’s outspoken commentating stemmed from his childhood and his strong sense of self-sufficiency. Acknowledging that no one was ever able to penetrate it, Richardson says: “He was always very intransigent and he had his own ideas, and he wouldn’t be afraid to tell somebody that they were a complete idiot if he felt that they were.”
John Watson, who otherwise holds Hunt’s memory in great affection, says: “I had my reasons to think it’s James putting the boot in – whether it was directly because of 1978 or just James being James. I think he went on to the point where he had to make a public apology. It was perceived as personal and, certainly, at one Grand Prix, he did have to make a grovelling apology. He wasn’t criticising from a balanced point of view. I think the BBC received many complaints about James’ unyielding negativity towards Ricardo Patrese who, from the public’s point of view, was not perceived in the way that James was portraying him.”
To Hunt’s credit, as he gave up alcohol and mellowed in his last few years, he recognised this, and the criticism of Patrese ended. But it still frustrated Murray Walker: “My attitude was that I’m not here to argue with James Hunt on the merits or demerits of Ricardo Patrese, I’m here to tell people what’s actually happening in this race.”
There was one comical moment amongst it all, as Mark Wilkin recalls. At the German Grand Prix in 1992, Hunt discovered that the media centre at races had staff that produced detailed statistical information. Hunt had never visited a modern day media centre and barely knew it existed. He had been used to the table-clothed, trestle tabled rooms of the past, where journalists tapped on their portable typewriters. The advent of the computer and ISDN lines had turned them into high-tech communications rooms. Wilkin remembers: “He came up to me in Germany and said: ‘I’ve found this marvellous place called the media centre, they’ve got all sorts of things in there you know.’ ‘Yeah, I know.’ ‘They’ve got charts of everybody’s lap times for every session.’ I said: ‘Yeah, I know.’ ‘It’s marvellous,’ he said. ‘Do you know, this is absolutely fantastic because I can now prove that Patrese is a cunt rather than just telling everybody.’”
But although Patrese consumed most of Hunt’s attention, Murray Walker had only to mention a name on Hunt’s so-called ‘hate list’ and he would immediately launch into a searing attack.
Of the Brazilian driver Nelson Piquet, he said: “The problem with Piquet is that he’s never grown up. He’s only racing for the money to keep his 45-metre yacht afloat. What I can’t understand is why he doesn’t drive faster just out of self-respect.” Of Alessandro Nannini, he said he “lacked brainpower behind the wheel”; Mauricio Gugelmin was “slow in all the lesser formulae, even slower in Formula One and had no reason to be there”; and Rene Arnoux was a “menace to other drivers.” Moreover, Andrea de Cesaris was an “embarrassment to himself, his team and the sport” and a driver who “never looked in his mirrors”; Alain Prost’s motivation was “suspect”; and Jean Pierre Jarier was a “French wally – always has been and always will be.” He also called Jarier “pig ignorant” live on air.
Nigel Mansell took exception to Hunt’s coverage of his world championship in 1992 and subsequent move to the United States. Hunt regarded Mansell as a “whinger” and someone who was “undeserving of respect.” Mansell even threatened the BBC with legal action if Hunt didn’t moderate his views.
It was not only drivers who came under Hunt’s attack. He also had a go at the team principals, some of whom he considered to be “clowns” and wasn’t afraid to say so. Ken Tyrrell was furious with Hunt when he proffered advice on how to run his team more effectively. Hunt had taken against Tyrrell after a long-forgotten incident with his friend Jody Scheckter in Holland in 1976. Hunt made Tyrrell pay for this many times over with his barbed comments on air. But Walker was furious and said: “I cannot imagine anyone less likely to have done such a thing than the experienced and honourable Ken Tyrrell.”
Hunt was also scathing about Frank Williams and, although respectful on air, privately told friends that Williams was a “wanker.”
Walker didn’t agree with any of the aspersions made by Hunt. To him, Grand Prix drivers were heroes and were to be revered. But to Hunt, they were something different altogether – because he was one of them. Walker visibly winced when Hunt delivered his harshest criticisms, but was scared of interjecting on air as he knew Hunt could respond vigorously, potentially initiating an on-air argument.
Hunt was unrepentant: “I simply describe things as I see them. If someone makes a cock-up, then I say it’s a cock-up, rather than watering it down. It’s as if I’m sitting at home with my mates, watching the Grand Prix on the telly. All I’m doing is colouring it in for them because I can see things they might not pick up.”
But Walker just did not feel it was right: “I did not regard it as my right to criticise the drivers; James was fiercely condemnatory whenever he got the chance. With his knowledge and experience of what it was actually like to race a Formula One car, he had every right to do so, although he was often vindictively unfair in my opinion.”
Walker simply glossed over his more controversial statements.
Wilkin recalls an almost comical moment in the partnership when both Hunt and Walker each decided that the other was getting too much ‘microphone time.’ It was at the Belgian Grand Prix in 1991, and a brief power struggle took place, as Wilkin recalls: They had both obviously been thinking about it for a while and had decided to confront the producer and have it out. James said to me: ‘It’s not fair, Murray is doing too much, we need to redress this balance and it’s your job to sort that out.’ So I said: ‘Yes, it is absolutely. I will sort that out.’ At the same race, Murray came to me and said: ‘I’ve been thinking, it’s not fair. James is doing too much and you really need to sort that out,’ and I said: ‘I’ve noticed that, Murray. I’m going to have a word with him.’ “Afterwards, of course, I said nothing to either of them. But after the race they both came up to me and said: ‘I don’t know what it is you said but it worked a treat, absolutely perfect this time round’ – both of them convinced.”
Wilkin could barely contain himself but had to take the complaints seriously, as he didn’t want to upset the on-air talent. Wilkin says: “I said I understood and agreed with them both, and I did absolutely.”
Wilkin hopes he dealt with the disagreements diplomatically, but says: “James used to sometimes bang his fists on the table like a child and say: ‘Tell Murray I do the replays’, and occasionally Murray would venture into giving opinions and I’d say: ‘Not yours; you don’t get opinions. You tell us what’s happening.’”
There was also a huge conflict of interest for the BBC to deal with. Throughout his commentating career, Hunt was retained as a consultant by John Hogan of Philip Morris on US$50,000 a year. He was therefore very attached to McLaren and spent all his time in the Marlboro motor home. And there was therefore a natural bias towards McLaren in his commentary. It was not deliberate, but just the way it was.
As Christopher Hilton noted in his biography of Hunt, which includes an excellent chapter about his time at the BBC: “James was wedded to McLaren and wedded to Marlboro in every way possible. That wa
s his virtual sole source of information.”
But John Hogan never saw it as a conflict: “He kept in touch with us, he became part of the family because of his BBC commitments and so he was always in and out of the hospitality suite because he knew the girls and that was part of the attraction. And we always used to talk about young drivers, always, always, always: who was a wanker, who wasn’t; who was good, who wasn’t. And the existing drivers: who was good, who was bad.”
Hogan says the retainer was paid for his work with young drivers, not for him to say good things about Marlboro or McLaren on air. “It was the way Marlboro used to work, we were always bringing in new drivers and I just felt that we needed a bit of serious expertise in that area. So we’d say to him: ‘We’ve got a young Dutch driver that our Dutch office is really keen on, can you go and look?’ ‘Oh yes, I’ll go to Holland. Don’t worry.’ And that’s how we used him.”
Life quietened down a little when Mark Wilkin took over as Grand Prix’s producer in mid-1989. Wilkin and Hunt were much more compatible, as both were old boys of Wellington College and therefore had some shared values. Wilkin managed to do as Bubbles Horsley had 16 years earlier: to maintain a friendship with Hunt but still keep his distance as his boss and maintain discipline.
Wilkin joined the BBC in 1978 as an engineer, but admits he wasn’t very good at engineering. He says: “I discovered that making programmes was far more interesting than engineering.”
He joined BBC Sport in 1985 and it was his dream come true. He loved sport and lived for it. Four years later he was producing ‘Ski Sunday’ and ‘Grand Prix’ about two of his favourite sports. He says: “I have travelled all over the world and I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy my job, every day of my job, every day since then.”
Wilkin got the ‘Grand Prix’ assignment as a direct result of the exodus from the BBC to SkyTV in the late eighties. As all his more senior colleagues left to take Sky’s shilling, he was left in prime position for promotion, and the BBC had perceived that skiing and motor racing were similar sports – presumably both being fast and participated in by people wearing helmets. He remembers: “I took over Ski Sunday and Formula One all in the same year because other people left, and you know that’s the nature of all these things, isn’t it?”
