Bernie Ecclestone, the cushion plumper. Now there’s a thought. The most powerful figure in motorsport, the 24th richest man in Britain, wealth estimated conservatively at £2.4 billion, is a fanatical tidier, wandering around the palazzo “picking up” after himself, according to Delta Tamara.
Maybe there should be a dustpan and brush named in his honour. The Ecclestone. It is a comfort to know that the ordinary and mundane find us all despite the discrepancies elsewhere. It is a theme close to the heart of his eldest daughter. Search for the name online and up pops Tamara on a list of global daddies’ girls alongside Paris et al.
Take it away, Tamara. “I want a career. A proper one. I want to show people that I actually do something and that I’m good at it. I don’t want to be a version of anyone else. People are already keen to draw comparisons with me and Paris Hilton, for example. That’s not me. I want there to be more to my life than being famous for getting out of a car with no knickers on.”
Who is she kidding? Go on, admit it. That’s what you’re thinking. The idea of the ultra-Sloane getting her hands dirty is easy to lampoon. As a paid-up Marxist in my youth, it is a reflex with which I am familiar. Tamara is ready for it, an old hand at spotting the provincial with a chip on his shoulder. She doesn’t complain.
“I don’t recognise some of the portrayals of me in the media. But I’ve played the game to a degree, which is why you can’t moan about it too much. You have to take it with a pinch of salt. Just get on with it.”
“Ultimately, I’m going to be judged on the work I produce. It’s tough to begin with, when people are critical and judgemental because of who I am rather than what I do. Once the door is open, people won’t keep me just because I’m Bernie Ecclestone’s daughter.”
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