Murray Walker obituary
Several generations of fans grew up listening to his voice describing the exploits of the likes of Jackie Stewart, James Hunt, Nigel Mansell, Damon Hill and Jenson Button. To the wider public he was best known for his occasional gaffes and the “trousers on fire” commentary style so famously described by Clive James. In fact at heart he was a hardworking and hugely knowledgeable enthusiast, who was admired and respected by the drivers and team bosses he talked about, and by everyone who knew him in paddocks across different motor sporting disciplines.
His fame extended well beyond the UK, since his commentaries went also to Australia, New Zealand, Canada (and thence much of the USA) and South Africa. More people listened to him in Holland and Belgium than followed their local broadcasters. He came into broadcasting in the slipstream of his famous father. The name Graham Walker figured large in his life, and Murray made no secret of the fact that he always tried to live up to his dad's legacy. “I was born into a motorsport family,” he explained. “My father was a professional racing motorcyclist from round about 1920 to '35. I was born in 1923, and I used to go on the continent with him and my mother, attending races. It struck me as being quite normal, because it's what my father did. But while I was going to Germany, Holland, Belgium and Italy it was quite unusual for people in England to have been to Scotland, or Wales, or Clacton - never mind a foreign country!' He won the TT, and was the equivalent of World Champion before the war. I suppose, and this is probably a masterpiece of over simplification, he was a Graham Hill rather than an Ayrton Senna. But by a combination of natural ability, bloody hard work and application, he got the job done. He had a gigantic personality. He was a wonderful man, he was a decent, honest, likeable person. He was very good with words, and a brilliant after dinner speaker. He would stand up without any notes and genuinely hold the room in thrall for an hour.”
On retiring from the saddle, it was only natural that Walker Sr should turn to broadcasting, and he became the BBC's voice of motorcycling. In those days, the TT was a major national event. “They used to have a team of five commentators around the course,” Murray recalled. “But the main point was back at the grandstand. He masterminded all that lot, and he did it brilliantly well. I've got recordings of him at home which I listen to with admiration and gigantic respect.”
In September 1939 the Walkers were at a trials event in Austria, where Graham was managing the British Army team. Warned by a coded telegram, they escaped hours before war was declared. As soon as he was old enough, Murray was in the thick of the action. It's hard to imagine the Walker of his commentary days issuing orders with his head sticking out of a tank turret, but his war service was serious stuff. “I went through Sandhurst, and I became God's gift to the British army, because I now had a Second Lieutenant's pip on my shoulder! The Royal Scot's Greys was a very much a cavalry regiment – Princess Di's father was one of my officers. To be honest I was a round peg in a square hole because I'm not a horsey person, but they weren't mechanical people, and it suited them very well that I was. I joined them in Normandy from Sandhurst. I fought through Holland and Germany, did the Rhine Crossing, and my regiment did the link-up with the Russians. Then I was promoted and became technical adjutant of the British Army of the Rhine Armoured Fighting Vehicle School at Belsen, the concentration camp which had been turned into an army establishment. I'd gone into the army as a boy, and I came out a man. It's a bit of a cliche, but it's true.”
It was perhaps inevitable that the de-mobbed Captain Walker should try to emulate his dad's two-wheeled achievements. “To be honest at first I wasn't particularly interested in the sport,” he admitted. “It was just something that was part of my life. My real interest didn't begin until after the war. I did get the bug then, and started racing motorcycles, but I wasn't very good. I won a race, had a few places, but I was better at trials riding. It slowly became clear to me that the flame wasn't burning brightly enough. I suppose I realised I would do better at business, and riding became a hobby as opposed to something I had to do better at.” Business meant spells in advertising for Dunlop and Aspro before “I got headhunted to change direction in the advertising business from being a client to being on the agency side. That was really my forte I had at last found something that suited me. By then I'd also started broadcasting.”
The family connection kickstarted Murray's part-time BBC career in 1949, initially with cars rather than bikes. His first radio outing was at the British GP at Silverstone, alongside Wimbledon guru and future Panorama host Max Robertson (“he knew as much about racing as I did about tennis!”), and the same year he made his TV debut at a rather more obscure hillclimb event in Kent. He also joined his dad to form a unique pairing for bikes. “I carried on broadcasting motorcycles with my father from 1949, when I started, to 1962, when he died. We were more like brothers than father and son. We had a great rapport and had a telepathic thing going. There was never any need to do this, 'Over to you Murray' stuff, because I knew when he was going to stop, and vice versa. I was also doing what I call the crumbs from the rich man's table in motor racing, which was the things Raymond Baxter didn't want to do or wasn't able to do.” Baxter was the anchorman of BBC's motor racing coverage, and Murray waited patiently in his shadow for two decades. “He did the big ones and I did the little ones. I did the F3, rallycross when it started, but also the odd Grand Prix. I was doing quite a lot for radio on cars, and I also worked for years for ITV, doing motorcycle scrambles, while working for the BBC. On two occasions I had commentaries going out on both channels simultaneously on a Saturday afternoon!”
Murray wasn’t frustrated that Baxter got priority: “You've got to remember that from Monday to Friday, I used to get in the office at 8am, and work a very long day. Every year I was with the agency was a record year. And that was my life. The broadcasting was my hobby. So it wasn't very frustrating, because I was doing a lot of travelling for the company, and I was very heavily occupied.” Walker was a huge success in advertising, where he looked after clients such as British Rail, the Co-Op, Beechams, Vauxhall, Kitekat, and, most famously, Mars Confectionery. He didn't dream up the slogans, but as account director he got them into the memories of millions.
One consolation was that Baxter wasn't getting much F1 work either. The BBC had never shown more than a handful of Grands Prix each year, and in the mid-seventies, the sport all but disappeared from British screens. It was largely a delayed reaction to the proliferation of cigarette sponsorship, while the arrival of Durex contraceptive backing at Team Surtees in 1976 didn’t help. BBC coverage of James Hunt's classic championship-winning '76 season was restricted to the finale in Japan and even that was shown first by ITV. Then in 1978, there was a massive turnaround. ITV threw its hat into the ring by showing three races live, and the BBC responded by experimenting with highlights on Sunday evenings. Thus Grand Prix was born, and Walker, not Baxter, got the job. The latter's star had waned since a Monaco GP four years earlier, when he was commentating in the London studio and Murray was at the circuit to send information back to the great man. The line failed, the crash-strewn race was chaotic, and an ill-informed Baxter floundered helplessly. Despite that disaster, the studio trickery continued in the early days of Grand Prix. Murray would do his research during practice, travel back to London on Saturday, watch the race arrive via satellite at the BBC, wait as the highlights package was cut together, and then add his commentary as it was broadcast that night knowing exactly what was going to happen next.
Even after Grand Prix gave him regular work, Murray continued with his day job. “I had an absolutely enthralling business life. I helped to build a company that when I joined in 1959 had one office in London, and by '82 was a 54-office business, in 26 countries, with about a $1.5bn turnover. I didn't do all of that, but I did a lot of it. And it was pretty stressful. I reached a point when I was 59 and a half when I thought, ‘Bugger this, I've got to stop something.' So I stopped the job a bit early. They gave me my full pension, bless 'em, and I thought I'd have a few broadcasts to occupy me.”