Edmund Patrick ‘Eddie’ Jordan
Born 30 March 1948
Died 20 March 2025
A tribute by David Tremayne
The phone rang. Always a mixed blessing on a Monday at Motoring News when we were flat out putting the paper to bed.
I recognised the voice, though Eddie Jordan sounded like he was whispering, which was unusual unless he was about to impart some information you ought not to be in possession of concerning somebody else’s business. Anticipating the usual ribald declamations about being the “effing editor of an effing scurrilous tabloid rag,” and other kind jollities, I got mine in first.
But there was no rejoinder. Suddenly, I realised that Eejay was crying.
That was the awful weekend when Eddie Jordan Racing had just won the Austrian GP-supporting F3 race courtesy of Martin Brundle, but the team truck had crashed into a ravine on the way home, killing ace mechanic Rob Bowden and wrecking the cars.
Sad to say it, but it’s often the really bad times which forge the longest friendships. I’m proud how long ours became.
We’d first met in 1981, my first of seven years covering British F3, and as a member of the steering committee of Racing for Britain, I naturally had plenty of dealings with him. Steve Sydenham’s brave little enterprise had raised some funds to help rising Brits, and of course since we would determine where those funds were spent Eejay was your best mate. From those conversations the lasting friendship developed.
I liked him straight away. His back story was impressive: After watching a kart race on Jersey’s famed Bouley Bay hillclimb, he had acquired a kart of his own on his return to Dublin and won the 1974 Irish Championship with it. Car racing followed: Formula Ford in 1975, F3 in 1976. But he sat out much of that latter year after breaking his legs in a nasty shunt at Mallory Park. Later he returned to race and win the Irish Championship in Formula Atlantic, and even made a one-off appearance in F2 in the European Championship finale at Donington in 1979. He did Le Mans twice, and tested a McLaren M26, but by 1980 he’d decided that he was better off managing a team, and partnered under the Team Ireland aegis with rising Swede Stefan Johansson.
Our friendship had its ups and downs, perhaps none more so than in Phoenix 1991. EJR had finally won the British F3 Championship in 1987 courtesy of a Reynard with Spiess Volkswagen engine and the peerless talents of Johnny Herbert and graduated to F3000, with Johnny and Reynard winning the opening race of 1988. The title beckoned until Gregor Foitek had Johnny off at Brands Hatch in August, compromising what would have been a stellar career. EJR won the title with Jean Alesi in 1989, and then the F1 dream had been born. For a while, I’d been a little part of it. The idea was that I’d handle the media stuff at races, but soon it became clear that had been compromised by a third party who claimed to have a computer company in tow. Eejay would always go where the money was but was often shy about fessing up. I gave him until the first day in Phoenix to tell me to my face that the plan had changed, and of course nothing was forthcoming. Later I told him that I was stoked that he was in F1, but that our friendship was done.
But, of course, it wasn’t. As much as he was effervescent and persuasive when things were going well, there was also something endearing about him when he tried to blag his way out of corners. Dammit! He was simply far too strong a character, far too amusing, far too much good company, ever to stay mad with him for long.
Gary Anderson’s 191 was a beautiful car, and it ripped into the midfield that year, smashing the horrible early morning pre-qualifying sessions from which the top four emerged to join pukka quali, escaping it by mid-season, and soon scoring decent points regularly. Secretly, I was hugely proud of Jordan Grand Prix.
But the big jump came at Spa, when the then relatively unknown Mercedes sports car racer Michael Schumacher stepped in when Bertrand Gachot had been jailed for a road rage incident with London cabbie Eric Court. They’d had to slow Schuey down in a pre-event test at Silverstone. And then at Spa he was instantly faster than Andrea de Cesaris, thrilling the team as he qualified seventh and showed the world that the 191 was even better than anyone knew. Sadly, he burned the clutch out at the start, then decamped for Benetton after intervention from Flavio Briatore. As Ron Dennis said to Eejay, “Welcome to the Piranha Club.”
The ensuing years were hard: the switch to works Yamaha motors saved money but was a disaster in 1992, but he regrouped with Hart engines and young Brazilian rookie Rubens Barrichello in 1993 and it was like starting over. With Peugeot engines the team was a regular midfield runner in 1996, and then in 1998 at Spa, with Mugen-Honda power, Damon Hill led Ralf Schumacher home in a great one-two in the rain. Making it a super-happy occasion, Jean Alesi joined them on the podium. The following year, with wins in France and Italy, Heinz-Harald Frentzen was for a while a genuine title contender, against McLaren and Ferrari. But the good times didn’t continue to roll. Eejay got distracted, money and works engine deals became hard to come by, and after the final victory came in the rain in Brazil in 2003, it was a downhill run. In the end Bernie Ecclestone, who loved Eejay’s chutzpah, helped effect a sale to Russian-Canadian businessman Alex Shnaider early in 2005. It became known as Midland, then later Spyker, Force India and Racing Point as ownerships changed. Today it’s Aston Martin (where he was highly amused last year to manage Adrian Newey’s latest spectacular deal).
Eejay became a TV pundit, a job at which he was highly adept since he often got the scoops because of his former position as a team owner and had a controversial and amusing manner as foil to David Coulthard. At the same time, he engaged himself in myriad business dealings and his passion for music. Singer Chris Rea had been a regular Jordan guest at races in the Nineties, and Eejay played the drums in his own band, which had rather appropriately been named Eddie and The Robbers at Bernie’s suggestion.
Looking back it’s laughable that he had initially toyed with joining the priesthood. Could you image the kind of sermons he’d have given, while the pulpit vibrated around him and thunderbolts were thrown from on high? Then his family wanted him to become a dentist. Instead he did an accountancy course, joined the Bank of Ireland in 1967, and learned fast during a spell in Jersey how to look after other people’s money; then he learned how to separate them from it…
He was so much more than a team boss, and some of us appreciate just how damn hard he worked behind the scenes. Whether in F3, F3000 or F1, he had always fulfilled the sort of talent-spotting role once the preserve of Uncle Ken Tyrrell. He loved giving young drivers their chance, and was as adept at driver management as he was running a team. God knows, there were so many who owed their careers to him.
Of course, we knew that he had been ill for some time with prostate cancer, which had spread to other areas, prompting him bravely to use his various communication platforms to exhort men of all ages to swallow their pride and have regular check-ups of their PSA levels. He lost his battle on March 20th, surrounded by his family – wife Marie, and children Miki, Zoe, Kyle and Zack – and only days before his 77th birthday.
There were plenty of tears in Tremayne Towers, and so many taxing words to be written honouring the memory of somebody we had called a family friend since that first F3 season together back in 1981. Forty-three years… So many adventures, so many stories. Don’t let anyone tell you obits are easy. They are the most crucial stories you’ll write to eulogise the departed, and I think the best make those who did not know them wish that they had. But beware: if you make mistakes, you don’t get another chance to correct them, and there will often come moments when you have to look their families in the eye. I’ve written far too many, far too often about people I admired, liked and respected, sometimes even loved.
Now Eejay joins David Leslie and Alan Henry on the list of those which hurt the most. It’s a trite thing to say sometimes, but in his case, it really is true that racing will never see his like again. He operated at a time when it was still possible for one man with sufficient moxie, determination and sheer balls to go out into the world, grab it by the throat, and put together a credible racing team. He did that many times and, boy, was it fun when you got caught up in the maelstrom. Life was never dull when he was on a mission, and in so many ways it will never be quite the same without him out there somewhere in the world, spreading the gospel according to Eejay. We didn’t realise just how blessed we were to hear it.
