CHRIS HARRIS

With the passing of F1 commentator Murray Walker, the motorsport world has lost an icon. Sad times

“MURRAY MADE ANYONE HE SPOKE TO FEEL LIKE THEY HAD HIS UNDIVIDED ATTENTION”

The question of whether anyone’s voice will ever be as intrinsically linked to the sport on which they commentated as Murray Walker’s was with motor racing is quite easy to answer – undeniably not. For at least two generations of racing fans, the Formula One weekend didn’t begin until you heard that voice.

And it really was all about the voice. The frantic, nasal blaring sounds were unlike anything we’ve ever heard before or since – and they were so perfectly aligned to the sport he loved because, of course, he sounded like an engine being wrung out in second gear. It was Clive James who observed Murray Walker spoke like a man “whose trousers were on fire”. Now, the very fact that Clive James was talking about the man who commentated on a sport and not the drivers themselves tells us all we need to know about how far Murray’s appeal radiated, but I’m afraid Clive was wrong on this one – Murray sounded like a DFV at full chat. And he knew it too.

I first met him in South Africa for the launch of Grand Prix Masters, that crazy idea to get a load of mostly unfit ex-F1 drivers to duel it out in properly potent single seaters. As an Eighties F1 obsessive it was a dream to be out there at Kyalami among all the big names, and the potential for content was especially juicy for a chap who had a weekly column in Autocar magazine to fill. Looking back, it’s telling that of all the people I could have written about first – Nigel Mansell, René Arnoux, Derek Warwick – it was Murray Walker I wanted to tell people about. He was, by some margin, the most interesting, articulate, friendly person there. Not that the drivers were rude, it’s just that Murray made anyone he spoke to feel like they had his undivided attention – the number of fans saying the same on social media right now would suggest this was his normal behaviour. So, once we’d dispensed with the pleasantries, I asked him about his voice.

He explained in the most modest, self-deprecating terms the fact he knew for all his knowledge and professional skills, the thing that made him unlike anyone else in his trade was something over which he had no control – a gift he was born with. His voice. And he spoke about it for some time, his methods of deploying it, the fact that he always stood up when commentating (the first time I’d heard that) and that he was eternally grateful to have been born that way. His grin was just wonderful when he himself likened one of his high-pitched outbursts to a race engine. A huge, toothy, Murray Walker grin was surely one of the best sights imaginable.

I was genuinely sad to hear of his passing. He represented a time in my life I now miss terribly. Sundays around the telly with my parents, Murray yelling “Lauda!” “Mansell!” and of course his wobble when Damon won the championship. He was a part of our lives, a part of so many lives and it’s telling that when F1 moved to ITV in the mid-Nineties the only consideration more important than the potential interruption of adverts was whether Murray would be making the switch. I’d advise anyone who feels the same about him to find his Desert Island Discs on BBC Sounds and listen to it. He lived a fascinating life and, without knowing it, probably became more famous than most of the drivers he himself admired.