Personally, I Blame My Fairy Godmother (5 page)

Funny thing was, the audience seemed to get a big kick out of the hapless, accident-prone side of me, so from those humble origins, Liz moved me to a ‘dare’ slot on Emma’s talk show and it all snowballed from there. But no matter what challenge
Jessie Would
throws up at me week after week, her wise words are forever ringing in my ears. ‘Fall on your face and get covered in as much shite as you possibly
can, then haul yourself up and laugh it all off. Remember, that’s all they really want to see.’

And so we pull into the Mondello Park race track and, as it’s only a few hours to transmission time, hit the ground running. The Channel Six location crew are all here to set up for the live show while Katie and the
A Day in the Life
crew are still trailing me, so we’ve the surreal situation of one film unit filming another. Anyway, I get busy with the training instructor who fills me in on what’s ahead.

The gist of it is as follows: their resident Jeremy Clarkson will do four laps of the circuit in one of those Formula Sheane cars where you sit uncomfortably in a single-seat racer with your bum approximately three inches away from the ground, then I have to try and beat his time. All with not one, but two cameras pointing at me. It’s all very Monaco Grand Prix looking, chequered flags, the whole works and everyone here keeps referring to it as a ‘time attack’. Anyway, that’s the doddley part. The high blood pressure bit right after any dare is when I’m biked back into Channel Six at speed, clinging on to the driver for dear life, then race into studio while the commercial break is being aired, still panting and dripping with sweat. Whereupon a graceful, elegant Emma will interview me about the whole experience, the highs, the lows etc. Then we show footage of me doing the dare, looking petrified and to keep Liz happy, hopefully all caked in mud and crap. Then the ta-daa moment when Emma reveals how many of the audience thought I’d actually make it versus how many thought I’d end up in the A&E. Cue everyone going home with a prize, roll credits and administer Valium to myself and Emma. All done and dusted just in time for the Lotto draw.
Before we go through the safety instructions, I slip off into a locker room to change into the scarlet red jumpsuit and safety helmet they’ve kitted me out with, but just as I’m standing semi-naked in my bra and knickers, the door behind me opens.

‘Jessie?’

I look up to see Katie, microphone in hand, camera at her shoulder, peering around the door.

‘Oooh, don’t you look fabulous! Just wondered if you could tell us what’s going through your head right now?’

I think it’s at this point of the day, that she officially starts to grate on my nerves.

Mercedes is sponsoring the whole stunt, so there’s a couple of be-suited bigwigs grouped formally on the track behind me, looking tense and nervous and I wouldn’t blame them either. The stake for them is high; according to the instructor, there’s a fifty per cent chance that I’ll crash, in which case they’re looking at writing off two hundred and fifty grand worth of car as it literally goes up in smoke in front of their eyes. There’s also the slightly lesser concern that I could end up hospitalised, paralysed or worse, but to be honest, judging by the tense, fraught looks on their faces, I’m guessing the car is worth far, far more to them than I am.

Seven p.m. Show time. A hand signal from the floor manager and we’re off. The professional driver, who I think has done stunts on movies and everything, takes to the track first and, in a nano second, is off and away, four frenzied laps at a breakneck, dizzying speed. I nearly get whiplash on my neck just following him. His time recorded, he’s out of the race car in a single leap and then it’s over to me.

Much waving and thumbs up from the crew as I lock the helmet on then clamber in through the window, giving the crew a delightful shot of my big, scarlet arse. Then, I’m not joking, Katie’s over, microphone in hand, ‘So tell us, Jessie, how are you feeling right now?’

Like smacking you across the head, is what I want to say, but lucky for her, I can’t talk properly with the crash helmet on. A second later, a chequered flag is waved in front of the dashboard, a few people start cheering and I’m away.

Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been doing this lark for almost three years now and my survival mechanism is this: when doing anything extreme or life-threatening, the trick is to completely focus your thoughts elsewhere and just let your body take over on auto-pilot. Never fails me. Because there’s something about extreme situations which provides solace and absolutely concentrates the mind.

Lap one whooshes by but my thoughts are miles away. In fact, all I’m thinking about is the shagging Visa bill, still lying unopened on the fireplace at home, like an undeton-ated time bomb. And so I make a firm decision right here and right now…I will reform my spendthrift ways and go on an economy drive…no more ridiculously expensive nights out, Sam will just have to get used to sitting on the sofa watching DVDs with me at home…Lap two comes round and now I’m thinking I’ll ban all trips to fancy hair salons as well, I’ll just do a Nice and Easy home colour instead. Lap three rockets past…hmmmmmm…brainwave…I could just buy a bike and cycle everywhere and hide my shame by telling everyone I’m being eco friendly…and by the final lap I’m wondering if I could be really cheeky and maybe talk to my agent about getting some kind
of endorsement or sponsorship deal that might supplement my income a bit…hmmmm…worth a try…

In what feels like the blink of an eye, it’s all over. Suddenly, I’m being helped out of the car, dizzy and disorientated, with legs like jelly.

‘Amazing, bloody fantastic, good girl, Jessie!’ says the floor manager, steadying me on my feet and guiding me towards the camera, so all of this can be relayed back to studio, live. I’m not joking, I’m so woozy and light-headed from the whole thing, he actually has to prop me up.

The next few seconds are a blur; I’m desperately trying to catch my breath while Katie’s shoving a microphone under my nose to ask, ‘What was going through your mind on the course?’ and in the background, the mafia guys from Mercedes are rushing over, shaking my hand and congratulating me. Apparently I was doing 140 miles per hour at one stage. What’s weird is that I never even felt a thing.

And that’s when it happens. Out from the ranks of people swarming around me, a chunky-looking, balding guy steps out, aged about sixty-plus and built like a rugby player with a neck about the same width as his head. In a honeyed northern accent, he introduces himself as the head of Mercedes Ireland then grabs me by the shoulders to steady me.

‘Jessie, we’re all very proud of you…’

I nod and manage a watery smile but I’m actually praying the floor manager will cut him off and let me outta here. We’re under massive time pressure here, so whatever he wants to say, he has approximately four seconds to say it in. It’s not unusual for the sponsors to step in after a dare to plug their wares, but what they never think about is that
there’s a motorbike driver standing by waiting to whisk me into studio for the rest of the show.

‘And to congratulate you on completing the course successfully and in such a fantastic time, we have a wee surprise for you,’ says baldie man. ‘Bring her round here, boys.’

Camera rolling, everyone looking at him, suddenly the roaring in my ears has stopped.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Being driven around the edge of the track is the most stunning, most amazing sports car I have ever seen. A two-seater hard-top Mercedes convertible, brand new, showroom condition, in a sleek black metallic colour with the softest-looking cream leather seats. So, so sexy and gorgeous and fab that I want to fall down on my knees, to howl and weep at its beauty.

That’s when my eye falls in disbelief down to the registration plate: Jessie 1.

‘Yes, Jessie, it’s your lucky day!’says baldie man. ‘We would like to invite you to be a brand ambassador for Mercedes and are offering you full use of this car, free, gratis, for one year! Absolutely no strings attached. Tax and insurance included; sure we’ll even throw in free petrol for you! Now whaddya say to that, you jammy wee girl?’

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.
All at once, I’m gobsmacked, stunned and…interested. Well, it’s a nobrainer really, isn’t it? This is incredible. This is the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. OK, so it mightn’t solve all my financial woes, but it’s a bloody good start. I mean, come on, a free car for a whole year?

I think it must have been all the adrenaline pumping through my body after the stunt, but before I know what
I’m doing, I’ve thrown my arms around baldie man, squealing, ‘Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

I think I may have even kissed him but I can’t be too sure.

First sign that something’s amiss:
Are the looks the crew semaphore to each other as I’m helped up onto the motorbike and get ready to leave. Normally there’s cheering and messing from the camera and sound guys as I’m biked back to the industrial estate where the Channel Six studio is, especially when a dare has gone well. But this time, there’s total silence from them, to a man. Which is, to say the least, a bit weird.

I clamber up onto the back of the bike, clinging to the driver so tightly I might crack one of his ribs, and we’re off. As we zoom back to studio, which takes all of about three minutes at the speed we’re going at, I do my best to put it out of my head. Come on, I just got offered the use of a free Merc for a year. Chances are the lads are just a bit jealous, that’s all. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t be? So why are they acting like I just ran over a small child? I can’t quite put my finger on how to describe their expressions. Disbelief? Shock? No. It was actually disgust.

Second sign that something’s amiss:
Normally, when we get back into studio, the stage manager already has the doors open for me so I can race through, leg it into studio, then plonk down on the sofa beside Emma for the postmortem chat and to get the official ‘result’ of the dare. All in the space of time it takes for the commercial break to go out. But this time, something’s wrong. I sense it immediately. Instead of the usual high-octane panic, the stage manager meets me at the studio door, and in a low, flustered
voice, says into her walkie-talkie, ‘Yes, she’s just arrived. OK, I understand. I’ll tell her now.’

‘Tell me what?’ I manage to pant, breathlessly.

‘You’re not going back into the studio. Emma will handle the rest of the show. You’re to go straight up to Liz Walsh’s office. Now. She’s says it’s urgent.’

‘But that’s ridiculous, I have a show to finish…’

‘Come on, Jessie, don’t make this hard on yourself…’ She looks red-faced, mortified and is actually blushing to her hairline. As though I’m some kind of embarrassment that it’s fallen to her lot to deal with.

‘For God’s sake, will you let me past? There’s no time for this; I have to get to the studio, they’re all waiting in there…’

‘I’m afraid it’s a no,’ she insists a bit more firmly this time. ‘I’m sorry but my instructions are very clear; I’m not to let you in, under any circumstances. Now will you please just go? Liz is already in her office waiting for you.’ As if to ram the point home, she even stands legs astride, blocking the studio door. Like a bouncer in a nightclub.

Third sign that something’s amiss: I’m completely winded and now my head’s reeling. As I stagger down the deserted corridor to Liz’s office I can see a TV monitor on in the background, with the show just coming out from the ad break. Emma’s looking a bit frazzled, which is most unusual for her, and she announces in a wobbly voice that there’s been a slight technical hitch and that I won’t be coming back into studio after all.

A slight technical hitch? But there’s no technical hitch! ‘No! No, I’m here, just outside the door, ready to finish the gig! Why the fuck won’t they let me in?!’ I scream at the
TV monitor with sheer frustration, can’t help myself. I’d kick the shagging thing only it’s hanging about three feet from the ceiling. Right now, I’m starting to feel like I’m stuck in a horror movie, where I’m screeching away and no one can hear. What the hell is happening? Why won’t they let me finish the gig?

I can hear Emma telling the audience that I did actually manage to beat the professional driver’s time and the good news is that everyone in the audience who bet on me to win is going home tonight with a voucher for two people to the Multiplex cinema in Dundrum, valid for three whole months of free movies. Her voice is reverberating loud and clear the whole way down the empty corridor and it’s beyond weird to be hearing it from outside of the studio. Then I hear the audience cheering and stomping their feet, deafening and thunderous, all while I continue to stumble on, head pounding, sweat sticking to me, still in my racing gear with a helmet tucked under my arm.

This is turning into a nightmare. The door to Liz’s office is open and she’s already standing there, waiting for me, hands on hips, like in a western. Unheard of. Normally, on the rare occasions when you’re summoned to this office, you’re left outside making small talk with her assistant for at least a good twenty minutes.

So in I reel, nauseous with tension, almost ready to pass out. Liz is tiny, smart, sassy and I’d ordinarily describe her as the coolest, calmest woman I know. But right now, the look on her face would stop a clock.

‘Close the door and sit down,’ she all but barks at me.

‘Liz, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is…’ Bloody hell, I’m actually stammering. Heart pounding, mouth dry as a bone. Doing 140 miles an hour around a
race track was a breeze compared to this. My heart is twisting with the worry and I swear to God, I’ve lost the feeling in my legs.

Mercifully, there’s never a preamble with Liz. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you or didn’t you just accept the use of a free sports car? Live on air? In front of six hundred and fifty thousand viewers?’

‘Well…yes, but…’

‘You are presumably aware that it’s an unwritten rule and an absolute no-no for a presenter to accept a freebie of any kind whatsoever?’