The loveable character traits that made Jordan perfect for F1

You never knew what he was going to say next. This, depending on the circumstances, could be either the worry or the joy of dealing with Eddie Jordan. It was usually the latter, given his love of being a renegade with a fast tongue; a chancer with an eye for the main opportunity – and ones you’d never dream of.

EJ was a loveable rascal who proudly played the Irish card to the limit. Conversations would nearly always end with a grin, either because of his twinkling humour, or through your sense of disbelief at the outrageous nature of machine-gun comments made with that lilting brogue. The only time to worry was when he spoke quietly through the side of his mouth. That usually meant he was up to no good. And yet you would wonder at the audacity of the latest plan, admire the chutzpah. It’s not an exaggeration to say there was never a dull moment when Edmund Patrick Jordan was in your presence.

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Friday breakfasts for the British Formula 1 media outside the Benson & Hedges Jordan motorhome would be a perfect example. EJ usually arrived not long after the bacon and eggs had been served. The canvas awning would be whipped back. Quickly sizing up his captive audience, Eddie would begin hurling insults at the nearest table while jabbing a finger at the next as his voice rose in company with the bawdy invective. Ribald responses from his guests would be grist to the Jordan mill. For a quick thinker such as EJ, this was pure theatre. For regular members of the media circus, giving as good as you got – or trying to – became a fortnightly ritual.

Such a rowdy assembly was unique, certainly in F1 if not in the wider world of sport. Proof came one morning when a journalist new to F1 was invited along. Not having been warned about the impending verbal tsunami, the poor man at first went pale and then looked aghast as his host’s insults rose in crescendo and indecency. It had to be explained that this was how Jordan used slagging as a term of endearment and raised it to an art form.

Underlying the blarney would be a profound sense of decency. On the weekend of the 1998 Hungarian Grand Prix, I happened to be with EJ in the Jordan motorhome when news came through of the Omagh bombing, the worst atrocity in the so-called Troubles. Appalled and shocked, we watched in silence. The fact that we were from opposite sides of the Irish border may have induced perpetual insults in the past. On this occasion, it added to a deep sense of sadness for the island of Ireland. At least eight members and associates of the Jordan team were of Irish extraction.

Eddie was moved to tears when he later received a letter from a surgeon, telling the story of a young patient, Alister Hall, who had lost a leg in the explosion at Omagh. When Alister came round, the first thing he wanted to know was how Jordan had got on during qualifying in Hungary. A couple of weekends later, Damon Hill and Eddie were playing in a charity golf match in the south of Ireland. Jordan arranged for the pair to fly north in a friend’s helicopter and land at Altnagelvin Hospital, a major facility dealing with many of the Omagh casualties, including Hall. It was a low-key visit but the effect was huge.

“We found Alister and also visited other kids who had lost limbs,” said EJ. “They were overjoyed. Typical of children, these brave patients did not think they were as ill as they obviously were. It made us realise that there are much harder battles being fought than anything we might endure in our sport.”

There was never a dull moment with Jordan around

Photo by: Motorsport Images

Jordan raised millions for CLIC Sargent, a charity focusing on cancer in children and young people. He did it by cajoling the good and the great from motor racing and the world of music to take part and donate to charity events. It was no coincidence that these occasions were filled with ‘great craic’ – as EJ would say when describing the good time had by all when parting with money.

Jordan would use the same modus operandi when dealing with sponsors, his search for finance breath-taking in its effrontery and dexterity, a potent mix of self-assurance and sleight of hand. His love of the deal was matched by a passion for the sport and everything associated with it.

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F1 in the 1990s and Eddie Jordan were made for each other. I saw that at close hand when writing a fly-on-the-wall account of his season in 1993. It was a difficult year, Jordan failing to score a single point until the penultimate round in Japan. But at no stage did Eddie exercise the power of veto even though, at times, there were anxious looks across the garage as I noted a self-inflicted setback. Being party to this intimate record of his team’s struggle was intriguing in itself, but the best bit came at a book signing in Dublin.

The Eddie Jordan effect: You never knew what was coming next but you understood it would be extraordinary

The queue went round the block – much to the consternation of the shop owner who ran out of books and had to dispatch staff to inveigle copies from other bookshops in town. The banter from Jordan was non-stop, regardless of the customer’s age or gender. An attractive lady, while proffering her copy for signing, made the mistake of saying she had known Eddie back in his teenage years. Eddie looked up. “Ah, sure!” he grinned. “I remember you. In the back of a Cortina, wasn’t it? Down on Dollymount Strand?” The woman rolled her eyes at the reference to a local beach well-known for activities other than swimming. “Y’a haven’t bloody changed!” she replied, before roaring with laughter.

Five years later, at another book launch in Dublin, he had indeed remained the same – apart from appearing in a purple suit with matching suede boots. This was a better managed affair in the function room of a smart hotel. Eddie made a speech – try stopping him – in which, ever the opportunist, he managed to slide in a mention of a deal just signed with a new Irish sponsor.

Apart from the interminable flow of Guinness, I remember the evening for another reason. Earlier, during a difficult year, Jordan had taken its first GP win at Spa. Vincent Logan of the The Irish Independent had been covering an All-Ireland semi-final at Dublin’s Croke Park on that day. He said you could sense a gradual buzz as word began to spread that the Jordan team – the home team; EJ’s team – was actually doing well. People were listening on their radios and, by the end of the race, the frisson of excitement had become an electric charge surging through the entire ground. Logan said he had never experienced anything like it.

That was the Eddie Jordan effect. You never knew what was coming next. But you understood it would be extraordinary, one way or the other. It was a privilege to have been part of such a brilliant, vibrant journey.