No wonder F1 presenter Tamara Ecclestone is careful who she goes out with – they could be after her money (dad Bernie’s worth a mere £1.5 billion…)
Tamara Ecclestone is the daughter of Formula 1 supremo Bernie (who has a personal fortune of £1.5 billion) and his ex-wife, the 6ft 2in Croatian model Slavica. Now 25, she survived her teens armed only with her father’s credit card and an allowance reputed to be in the region of £100,000 a year. But now she works for a living – she presents a Formula 1 show for Sky Sports Italia and is also the face of Moussaieff jewellery and Royston Blythe, a new hairdressing salon at The Dorchester.
My dad doesn’t mind people taking the mickey out of him.
He has a very British, dry sense of humour. If you get it it’s great, but a lot of people don’t and they end up with the wrong impression of him. He doesn’t take himself too seriously and personally I think he’s a pussycat. He also never goes out, because he hates parties and small talk. At home he hardly speaks and thankfully doesn’t ask too many questions.
Although my parents divorced last year, they’re still friends.
We were a very close family before they separated, and because we all live really near each other in Kensington nothing much has really changed – they just live in different houses. It was my birthday a few weeks ago and they both came for lunch. I know it sounds really bad, but the older you are the less traumatic divorce is for the children. You’ve done all the family holidays and got all these nice memories.
My dad never gives me a straight answer.
I’ve interviewed him a few times for the show and he always finds a way of getting round what I’m actually asking him, which I think is quite an art. It’s funny but it’s also very frustrating.
Prince William looks like a horse.
At least, that’s what I’m supposed to have said in an interview I gave to a German journalist. I’m sure she translated things wrongly. It made a bit of a stink, so both my sister and I wrote letters to the prince apologising for causing any offence.
It would be wrong for me to go out with a racing driver.
To me they’re all friends. I’ve known most of them my whole life and they’ve seen me growing up from a small child, so it would be wrong on a number of levels. I have to be careful about the men I do go out with – because they could be after my money. You have to be switched on to that, but thinking too much about it messes with my head. Unless I go out with a 60-year-old man it’s hard to find someone who has money.
My boyfriends have to pass the Mum test.
If she doesn’t like someone she’ll be honest and say to me, ‘Darling, he’s an idiot!’ I like the sort of man who opens doors for you. I’m very fussy and I’ve had my fingers burnt so I’m very careful. I don’t like pretty boys like David Beckham or Robbie Williams. And rock stars like Pete Doherty look too grubby for my taste.
Felipe Massa should have been world champion in 2008.
He’s my favourite driver – the sweetest, most down-to-earth, humble person – but also the unluckiest one on the circuit. He should have won last year, but he missed out by a single point. If anyone deserves a break, he does. It’s a great shame that he got hit in the head by a spring at the Hungarian Grand Prix. As well as being ruled out for the rest of the season, there’s a question mark as to whether he’ll ever race again. I can’t imagine what he is going through at the moment.
My dad’s always one step ahead of the game.
He knew before everyone else that Michael Schumacher wouldn’t drive again for Ferrari. He told us over dinner that he had a hunch – and then it came out in the papers. Dad’s a pretty shrewd character.
You won’t find any pictures of me stumbling out of a nightclub without any knickers on.
As a teenager I used to get drunk on vodka jelly shots, but nowadays I feel like I can go out and have a great time without booze. It’s fantastic because at the end of the evening everyone around me is talking total rubbish but I can remember everything they tell me, which is handy.
I can’t handle being in a loo cubicle on my own.
I’m very claustrophobic, so I have to have a friend come in with me unless there’s a gap at both the top and the bottom of the door. My sister used to live in a flat with a lift and I had panic attacks because I’m so freaked out by small spaces. I’d really like to cure myself. Maybe I just need to be locked in a small room for a while.
London is getting worse and worse as a city.
A girlfriend of mine was recently mugged outside her house for her watch. I wear a gold Rolex which I bought with my Sky pay cheque after working a season for them in F1. It’s something I’m very proud of and I don’t think it’s right that I shouldn’t wear it for fear of someone stealing it off me.
I’m the only one in my family with a tattoo.
I’ve got my sister’s initials and a shooting star on one wrist and on the other I’ve got a tiara with my initials in it, which I had done on my 22nd birthday. I’ve also got one that says Mum, a key on my foot and a butterfly on my shoulder. I’ve got eight tattoos in total I don’t regret any of them.
