Jackie was poles apart from the F1 fast set

Published on Sunday 21 August 2005 00:29

SIR Jackie Stewart's views on Jenson Button have taken almost as many twists and turns as the old Tyrrell-Ford that carried the Scot to greatness.

If Stewart had left it at that then nobody could have disagreed with him. But when he started evoking the past and recasting his contemporaries as altar boys then Stewart's argument wore a little thin. "In my day we were committed, dedicated and professional," he said. "We didn't have the distractions you have these days with parties and girls." That's undoubtedly true of Stewart himself, who combined a stunning racing career with a happy married life with Helen, his wife of 43 years. Obviously his focus was so absolute that Stewart never noticed the lotharios around him. Truth be known, motor racing has always had them, right from the beginning of the sport in the first decade of the last century.

The greatest one - and the subject of an excellent new biography by the writer Shawn Levy - was Porfirio Rubirosa, the playboy from the Dominican Republic, who counted among his conquests Marilyn Monroe, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Ava Gardner, Jayne Mansfield and Eva Peron. He died aged 56 when crashing his Ferrari into a tree in Paris while on his way home to his fifth wife after a night of wantonness following a polo match.

Rubirosa may never have crossed Stewart's radar but others almost certainly did. Mike Hawthorn, Britain's first world driving champion, was dead before Stewart got his break in Formula One but his legend as a party animal lived long after his Jaguar skidded disastrously off a country road near his home in Farnham in Surrey. Hawthorn was no stranger to decadence and was treated as such by the tabloids who celebrated and hounded him in equal measure.

How Graham Hill's shenanigans escaped Stewart's attention is hard to know since they raced each other for years, Stewart being at the beginning of his career and Hill coming towards the end of his. Hill's profile in the Formula One Hall of Fame reads: "He greatly enjoyed his notoriety. He became famous for such antics as dancing on table tops, enlivening parties by performing bump and grind striptease acts and, once, streaking naked around a swimming pool. He flirted outrageously with women, to the chagrin of his long-suffering wife Bette, mother of their two daughters and a son named Damon who one day would also become a champion. As if the dangers of racing weren't enough Hill bought a plane and became the carefree, sometimes careless, pilot of 'Hillarious Airways'."

Towards the end of his time in racing Stewart also saw the first stirrings of one of the great playboys, James Hunt, who made Button look like a hermit. Nowadays, of course, every second cock-pit has a champagne racer but of all them Eddie Irvine is my personal favourite. The Irishman is the subject of a story that just about encapsulates the world that so eluded Stewart all those years. Irvine was lending his name to a column for an Irish tabloid and was phoned by his ghost-writer one morning. Their interview was soon interrupted by some giggles in the background.

"You've got company, haven't you?" said the excited hack.

"Aye," the driver replied, serenely.

"Go on then, put her on."

"Okay," said Irvine. "I've got three. Which one would you like to speak to first?"

The feelgood factor surrounds Mickelson

ON MONDAY morning, as Phil Mickelson left the tee-box of the 18th hole at Baltusrol, a voice in the crowd implored him to get a birdie - "coz I gotta getta work." Despite the pressure bearing down on him, Mickelson looked over at the man in question, smiled broadly, gave him the thumbs-up and proceeded to make four on the par five to claim his long overdue second major by a single shot.

Mickelson is like no other golfer on tour. He's a white collar boy as popular in blue collar New Jersey last week as he is in his home town of Scottsdale, Arizona. He engages with the galleries in a way that no player, possibly in history, has done and in the hour of his victory last Monday he outdid himself. It was entirely fitting that Mickelson has become USPGA champion because it is a tournament very much in his own image - laid-back and welcoming.

To return to the stuffiness of the Masters in April for a second. Tiger Woods had just sunk the winning putt and a group of journalists were huddled together in a bullpen at the back of the 18th green where Mark Steinberg, Woods' manager, watched over, like St Peter at the Pearly Gates. "Not gonna happen," he repeated over and over in reply to requests for 30 seconds of the champion's time. What Steinberg says, goes. Woods did not stop for anybody.

Contrast that to the easiness of Baltusrol on Monday where Mickelson and his wife Amy, and the parents on both sides chatted to reporters and supporters alike. Mickelson posed with volunteers and had the presence of mind to sense the unease of those behind him in the shot. "Hang on, I'm blocking you guys. I'll bend down," he said. Later, he ventured over to a group of fans and shared a moment with them as well. Autographs, photographs, memories of all kinds. It all seemed pretty natural, a stark contrast to Vijay Singh's assertions. If Mickelson is a phoney then he's not just a great champion, he's a great actor, too.

Scots trailblazing through blazerdom

NEIL Francis tells a story about the blazers in Irish rugby. It goes back to a night before a Five Nations championship match in the early 1990s when the lock forward was woken at 4am by "Osama and his mates releasing the hounds of hell outside in the corridor" of the team hotel. Franno hauled himself out of bed and opened the door and witnessed a scene that will live with him forever.

"There you had two of the most senior men in the IRFU playing Cowboys and Indians, hiding behind sofas and pretending to shoot each other. I said: 'Will you arseholes get yourselves to bed?' 'Who are you?' they asked. I tried to get it into their gin-sodden brains that I was playing an international in a few hours and that I would appreciate a bit of quiet. Their reply was direct, in fairness: '**** off!'"

In my part of the world, the men of the IRFU are considered to be the champion blazers in all of rugby but the truth is that their Scottish equivalents are streets ahead of them. The SRU is known the world over for elevating the art of blazerdom to new levels. They are the trailblazers in this area. It was with shock and awe, therefore, that we read of Allan Munro's vow to stamp out this life of privilege. The new chairman has said he is greatly disturbed by the antics of the made men at Murrayfield and intends to end the freebie culture once and for all.

We salute him and wish him well as he attempts to find his way through the maze.