Giving something back

It was mid-afternoon on a delightfully sunny day as we sat on a balcony overlooking the Essex golf course. Eddie Shah ordered a drink, then took his watch off his wrist and laid it on the table, face towards us. This was going to be fairly brief, I thought: better get the important questions in quickly.

More than two hours later, we were still talking. With warmth and humour he had taken me through an utterly fascinating career, which progressed from television to a bitter confrontation with the newspaper print unions. And from there, he had come to this place, one of three elaborate golf facilities he owns.

After a 90-mile drive from Heathrow Airport, I arrived early for our appointment and had time to look around. There, in the parking lot, was the classic symbol of success - a battleship-grey Rolls-Royce with the number plate 455 SHA.

"That's not mine, that's Jennifer's," he corrected me, referring to his wife, whom I met on my arrival. "Mine is a 15-yearold Aston Martin. When I had acquired money, I once bought her 2 JN for Christmas. The Rolls was bought when we didn't have money and the plate just cost about four or five hundred quid.

"But when I put the other plate on the car she took one look at it and said `Oh I'm not driving that thing'. She likes the other plate, her 455 SHA. It has a great sentimental attachment."

He didn't mind talking about his wealth. In fact I got the impression he quite enjoyed it, though there was never even a hint of boastfulness. He suggested that it was only on acquiring money that he realised how much of it there was in the world.

"There are people who surprise me with the sheer weight of their wealth," he said. "To the average person, £40 million would be a lot of money, but I look at guys who are worth more than £1 billion and I can't comprehend that wealth. It's mind-blowing, because I could never see me achieving that scale."

I suggested that he remained something of a legendary figure in the newspaper industry - a maverick whose name was to become synonymous with revolutionary moves in newspaper production.

"Let me tell you about newspapers," he said. Suddenly, his bright eyes seemed to acquire an extra sparkle and his entire demeanour became animated. "I'd better put my serious face on for this," he grinned.

Perhaps we might start with the Messenger Group . . . Before I could finish the question he was in full flow. "Let me tell you, let me tell you," he blurts. "We sold out 10 or 11 years ago. We lost £13 million on Today and we got our money back from Lonro. They lost up to £48 million. And Rupert (Murdoch) lost about £90 million. So we got the best end of that particular deal." He laughed heartily.

A waiter arrived. "No ginger beer. OK, I'll have a ginger ale. What's the difference between the two?" I explained that ginger ale was sweeter - a mixer. "No, I'll have a pint of Diet Coke with lots of ice. Do you want a sandwich or a cake or . . ." I declined.

Looking out at the peaceful, pastoral scene, where a few sweet-swinging youngsters were hitting off the first tee, I reminded him of a story I had heard regarding a certain professional and Wentworth Golf Club, where Shah is a director. "About Colin, you mean," he said. "It's a true story. And it had to do with the money we spent on refurbishing this magnificent clubhouse and on how well it looked when the job was finished.

"We had opened it during the World Matchplay about five years ago. And I remember Montgomerie coming in the door with spikes on. There was this beautiful parquet floor which cost God knows how much. And the managing director nicely asked him to take his shoes off, but he declined, making a decidedly rude reply.

"And the guy walked right across the floor, which made me mad as hell. And it triggered within me that, somewhere, the spirit of a game that I had learned to love and respect had somehow lost its way. I thought of how much the modern day professionals were earning.

"Then I thought of the great joy the game had given me and how I might put something back into it. That was the spark which led me to buy this place and the Norfolk and Suffolk, where we are establishing our own foundations.

"This was called Earls-Colne when I bought it in 1994. There were 250 acres and the local farmer had built a nice little course and another nine, making it 27 in all. But he and his associates weren't golfers and it was flat and uninteresting, compared to what it is now.

"I saw it as an opportunity to bring kids into the game while providing affordable golf for their parents: green fees are £20 on weekdays and £25 at weekends. We plan to introduce four scholarships for juniors this year. This will be for youngsters who are still at school.

"An old shed over there has been turned into the junior clubhouse. And because of what I had seen at Wentworth, we make a point of trying to have these kids appreciate the ethos of a great game. This has been done mainly by our head pro and his three assistants.

"Since then, I have started to look around at other projects and things have progressed from there. I call them family centres, which are quality products offering an affordable lifestyle. We have 2,500 memberships here and a total of 5,000 between the three clubs (the other two are in Bury St Edmonds and Norwich, which, unlike the Essex, don't have a hotel on site).

"They are all luxury developments that failed to survive for one reason or another. And we turned them around. They were built by people who got their fingers burned while attempting to make a quick buck. They didn't understand the business.

"Coming out of newspapers, where I employed 1,500 to 2,000 people, there are two things I'm used to. One is deadlines and the other is that the quality has to be right. I never put my name on any of my newspapers; I even declined a request to write a leader for Today. I wanted it to appear as if the readers owned it. And the same applies here. You don't see any photographs of myself or my family hanging on the walls here." Nor were there.

"Basically, I see myself as a creative person. I started in the theatre - the Golder's Green Hippodrome - as a stage-hand and from there I got into TV where I became a floor manager and a production manager with the BBC in London and then Granada." He was now talking rapidly, as if to dispense with this particular segment of his career as quickly as possible.

"I'm now 54, so I was about 24 when I got to Granada," he had slowed down again. "I was basically a call boy, but because women were also involved in the business they didn't want to call them call girls. So they changed the job description to floor assistant."

Did he come from a modest background? "Not really," he replied. "I suppose you could say middle-class. Dad suffered for us in that he spent money he could ill-afford." He continued with an ironic laugh: "Of course we wasted it. He paid through the nose for an education that I totally wasted. I see that now in my own children but I don't dare say anything.

`I started to play golf at Nairn. I went to Gordonstoune and Nairn was just down the road. Prince Charles joined as I was leaving - sorry, that should be as I was suspended. After I was suspended for a second time, my father decided it wasn't worth sending me back. I was 16 and I hated it.

"Anyway, I got down to two-handicap at one stage: I now play off seven. Oh yes, I went to other schools and crammed for O-levels. That was my education. Then from the age of 18 to 28 I was in television. That's a pretty long time. And I spent from the age of 30 to 44 in newspapers. That's also a long time.

"Just because you do one thing well, you shouldn't do it for the rest of your life. But to come back to newspapers. I went working for the Manchester Evening News, selling advertising, and they later made me redundant. I was writing books and plays at the time but I found myself drawn to free newspapers.

"The link was television. Independent Television was free, paid for by adverts. And because of my experience in TV, I could understand that. So I felt the same approach could be applied to newspapers. At that stage there was only one person in the Midlands producing what could be described as ad sheets. But I said bugger that, I want to produce news. Decent papers that people will want to read.

"I started with a 12-pager that became a 16-pager. I used to lay this thing out myself, and, on our fourth issue, I remember saying to a freelance journalist who gave us stories, `What is it about my paper that's different? It doesn't look right.' And his reply was that I needed a lead story on the front page.

"Then I asked him, `What's a lead story?' That's true (laughing). Anyway he said that a lead story is the main story on the paper. And I remember looking at him and saying, `God that's a good idea.' So, overnight, my papers went from looking like news in brief, to proper newspapers.

"We opened during the three-day week in 1974. And with three papers going, I began taking circulation away from the established papers. And having come into the industry without any baggage, I began to challenge established practices. I wanted to know why things were done a certain way.

"When the NGA (National Graphical Association) came to us and wanted us to recognise them, I said, `Sure, we recognise you.' And they all went away wondering what the problem was with this guy. But then they explained what recognition really meant and I said, `Forget that, I'm not having that because it's not fair'.

"Then they said we had to get rid of four of our staff who didn't want to go into the union and replace them with people we weren't permitted to interview. I said bugger that. And that's really where the whole thing started."

As it happened, his confrontation with the NGA coincided with a traumatic family situation. "In 1982, Jennifer was diagnosed with cervical cancer and given three months to live," he said. "But she beat it off with chemotherapy and radiotherapy - the whole lot.

"Just after that, the dispute started. Which was one of the reasons the unions weren't going to be beat me. She's Scots, as tough as nails. And having seen her fight, there was no way I was going to be beaten. The NGA had just closed down the Widnes Daily News over union recognition, so I just decided sod that for a game of soldiers, they're not going to close me down. Basically it happened because I didn't know any better.

"And I won, because I had a good staff, good managers, good people who were prepared to trust me."

He went on: "Some people try to rewrite history and make us part of the Wapping situation," said Shah. "But that came three years after us."

He continued: "By this time I had become quite a newspaper man. I understood the market we were after. Then one day, about 11 years ago, I suddenly felt I had nowhere else to go. I'd done it all. Me and a terrific staff had brought down the cost of newspapers, changed production methods, changed the unionisation of the industry and brought in new training methods for the NUJ.

"So I walked into the office one day in 1988 and I rang Reed International and told them, `OK, I want to sell.' And they said fine and we agreed a price. Then we did the deal and seven days later I walked out.

"Today had gone to Lonro by that stage so the final break was the sale of the Messenger Group. Out of the money, I gave most of my staff a year's salary because it had been as much their success as mine. And I walked away with about £25 million and the assets, which were worth a further £15 million.

"Then I concentrated on my writing. I've written four books, one of them was a bestseller and the other three have done all right. I'm now on my fifth book. And I spent money. And one of the things I spent money on was a percentage of Wentworth. I had loved golf since I was a kid and here I was with the chance of buying into a British institution."

He regrets nothing. As he explained: "If you suddenly get the urge to do something else and you can change things by being creative, why not? I think I've been lucky enough to be able to do many things with my life. Now my interest happens to be in the golf industry."

Looking out over the 250 acres of Essex countryside, he turned to me and observed sagely: "You know there is no such thing as a bad golf course." But he couldn't resist adding with a characteristic grin: "Unless it's your own - and it's not been cut."