Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother. Claudia Carroll
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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,