Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother

‘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?’

‘Emm…as a matter of fact, no, I wasn’t. But…’

‘I’m afraid I can’t accept your ignorance of the basics as any kind of excuse, Jessie,’ she barks, snapping open a bottle of water and knocking back a gulp. ‘After all your years of working here, you’re honestly telling me you didn’t realise you can’t just shamelessly use your profile to go around accepting free commercial handouts? Have you the slightest idea how it looks? How compromising it is for you and for the show? And, by extension, for me?’

‘But Liz, that guy just sprang it on me!’ I almost yell at her, my chest about to burst with anxiety. ‘I found myself saying yes before I barely knew what I was doing…’

‘In the last fifteen minutes, the phone lines have not stopped hopping, with a lot of people understandably furious about a national TV personality accepting such an extravagant gift while the rest of the country is in the throes of recession. The press department is in meltdown and the director general has just been on to read me the riot act about your stupid, thoughtless, selfish behaviour.’

‘But I didn’t know!’

Now, there’s a horrible pause and suddenly I feel like I’m locked into a death dance.

‘I’ve championed this show,’ Liz eventually says, more sorrowfully now which is actually far, far worse than if she yelled at me. ‘And God knows, I’ve championed you. Because no matter what we throw at you, you do it and come up trumps. You’re a looker, you’re virtually unembarrassable which is a huge asset in this game and you’re completely at ease in front of a camera. Most of all though, you’ve got something that can’t be bought or sold; the likeability factor. In spite of crap reviews saying that this programme has all the tension of an ancient piece of knicker elastic. In spite of my bosses saying Jessie Would was a carnival of frivolities that had had its day. That’s the exact phrase they used, you know. I fought like hell for this show and this is how you repay me.’

‘But…but…Come on, Liz, surely to God we can fix this! Can’t I just put out a press release saying it was a horrible, stupid mistake and that I’m really mortified and then…just give them their car back?’ I’m feeling a tiny bud of hope now. Because there’s no problem that’s unfixable, is there? And it’s not like I’ve ever messed up before. Never. Not once.

‘Jessie, you don’t realise. They’re lusting for blood like barbarians out there. I can’t be seen not to take immediate and decisive action over this.’

‘Come on, Liz…Everyone’s allowed to slip up once, aren’t they?’

‘Not on live TV they’re not.’

And like that, hope is guillotined. Now it’s like despair is circulating instead of air.

‘But I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong! Please Liz, please. Let’s just consider my wrists slapped…’ I’m actually begging her now, my voice faint and croaky with tension.

‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’

‘So I took a risk on this one and it blew up in my face. But you’re always encouraging me to take risks. I mean, that’s what makes me good!’

‘No, Jessie. That’s what makes you fired.’

Chapter Four

This feels like a bereavement. And believe me, if there’s one thing I know all about, it’s bereavement. In fact, if it wasn’t for Sam, I don’t know what I’d do. It took me ten years to build up my career and ten minutes to bring the whole thing crashing down in flames.

It’s sometime on Sunday afternoon, couldn’t tell you when exactly, and I’m still in bed. Can’t move. Don’t want to either. At least here, in the safety of my own home, I’m not a national laughing stock. I’m doing my best to block out most of last night, but horrible fragments keep coming back to me in painful, disconnected shards. Word spread like a raging forest fire and before I barely had time to digest the news myself everyone, absolutely everyone, seemed to know. But then that’s typical of Channel Six; there’s times when it’s more like a colander than a TV station.

I remember bumping into a few of the audience streaming out after the broadcast and a middle-aged couple being very kind and concerned and saying they were relieved to see me alive and well. They thought something terrible must have happened to me and that’s why I never came back to finish the end of the show. I wish. Right now I’d kill to be lying on a hospital trolley with a few cracked ribs, but with my job and reputation still intact. Physical pain would be a doddle compared with this.

I can remember standing in the freezing cold outside the studio, frantically trying to call Sam on his mobile and not being able to get him. Then, just as I was howling hysterically into his voicemail, some of the studio crew came up to me and commiserated. Nice of them. Said it was an honest mistake which could have happened to anyone. Cheryl, the lovely make-up girl, even said sure, it’s only a storm in a tea cup, which would all blow over, Liz’s bark being famously worse than her bite. Which was kindly. Untrue, but still well-meant.

But a lot of the crew blanked me. A scary amount of them. The director just walked past me like I was yesterday’s news. Which I know I am, but still, it was bloody hurtful. Then, when I finally did get hold of Sam and was begging him to come and pick me up, one of the sound engineers who I’m really pally with, I’ve even got his family tickets for the show on more than one occasion, brushed right past me. Not only that, but then he flung a scorching look back over his shoulder that might as well have said, ‘Selfish, greedy, stupid, idiotic moron.’

I was probably only waiting about half an hour for Sam, but I can honestly say it was the longest thirty minutes of my entire life. Then of course Katie nearly danced over, beside herself with excitement, shoving her microphone into my face and asking me if I’d any comment to make about this ‘shocking new development’. I don’t even blame her; one minute she’s doing a run of the mill job trailing round after me, next thing a hot, juicy story just unexpectedly plops right into her lap.

Can’t tell you what the hell I said to her, but I do know it involved a lot of bawling, snivelling and gratefully accepting bunches of Kleenex from the cameraman hovering at her shoulder. Then, thank Jaysus, Sam zoomed up like my knight in a shining Bentley and I collapsed into the seat beside him, completely falling apart and heaving with sobs for all I was worth.

And now it’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m still in bed, surrounded by snotty tissues and with a thumping headache from crying all night long. I can’t sleep; every time I try, all I can hear is the whooshing sound of my career flushing down the toilet. I physically can’t move either. Like a butterfly that’s pinned down to a card. It just keeps playing in a loop inside my head, over and over again. I’m fired, I’m fired, I messed up and got fired and have no money and no job and what the hell am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?

The only person who’s keeping me remotely sane is Sam, who’s just being incredible. Sainted. He’d seen last night’s show of course, and instantly realised something was majorly wrong when I didn’t come back on for the second part. So the minute he got my hysterical messages, he didn’t even think; just jumped into his car and drove straight into the studio. He’s been brilliant ever since too. Normally after a broadcast we’d go into Bentleys, a posh restaurant and boutique hotel in town, which Sam is never out of, then we’d hook up with Nathaniel and Eva. Usually we’d all unwind with a few drinks (ridiculously expensive champagne, what else?) followed by a late dinner and then at stupid o’clock everyone would pile back here for yet more ridiculously expensive champagne, etc. But I was in no condition to show my face anywhere last night, not even with good friends in tow to support me. Sam took one look at the state I was in, called to make our excuses, then brought me straight back here, where he’s been minding me like an invalid with consumption ever since.

Then, this morning, after yet another bout of me howling into his chest, ‘But my job! My lovely, lovely job!’ he gave me one of his motivational speeches, which I was no more in the mood for, but I suppose he meant well. His pep talk fell into three distinct categories; first the inspirational (‘In the words of Barack Obama, yes you can get over this’) followed by a classic (‘When God opens a door…’), all rounded off with the good old-fashioned (‘plenty more jobs out there, etc.’).

You see, to Sam, the world is clearly delineated into winners and losers and, as he’s never done saying, winners are winners long before they win. One of the qualities he says he likes best about me is the fact that I was born into an underprivileged background with a highly dysfunctional family set-up and yet still went on to become a winner. His theory is that everyone gets their fair and equal share of knocks in life, but what sets the winners apart is that they pick themselves up, dust themselves off and start over. Whereas losers just concentrate on the coulda, woulda, shouldas, blaming everyone except themselves, before ultimately sinking under. Which is exactly what I want to do. Now and forever.

Anyway, on his way out to get the Sunday papers, he bounds up to me in the bedroom, all full of positive energy. ‘Get up, get dressed and come with me. Do you good to get out of the house for a bit.’

‘Let’s stick to attainable goals,’ I moan. ‘Maybe, just maybe, in a few hours, with a bit of luck, I might just be able to crawl as far as the bathroom.’

‘Is there anything I can do to get you out of that bed?’ he says, starting to sound a bit exasperated with me now, unsurprisingly.

‘You could tie Prozac to the end of some string.’

Sam doesn’t react, just runs his hands through his thick, bouffey hair, the way he does whenever he’s deeply frustrated, and orders me not to even think about turning on the TV when he goes out.

Shit. I never thought of that. There couldn’t be anything on telly about what happened, could there? Hardly a news story, is it?

‘Now you promise you won’t go anywhere near that remote control?’ he calls up from the bottom of the stairs, on his way out. ‘Remember it’s for your own good!’

‘Promise,’ I mutter feebly.

But the minute he’s out the door I switch it on. Just to be sure. No, at first glance it looks like I’m OK. Everything’s fine, I’m worrying over nothing. Just your typical, normal Sunday afternoon TV, Antiques Roadshow, soap opera omnibuses that start today and don’t finish until next Tuesday morning, that kind of thing. I keep flicking and flicking but there’s nothing strange. Then I get to Channel Six, where it’s just coming up to the afternoon news bulletin.

Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, I do not believe this. I’m the second news item. The second. I sit up bolt upright in the bed, like someone who’s just been electrocuted. But no, there it is, in full Blu-ray high definition. There’s even a photo of me on the screen right behind the newsreader; a still shot from last night’s show of me kissing the guy from Mercedes who offered me the shagging car and looking like a total gobshite. A wave of nausea sweeps over me and I can feel myself breaking out in a clammy cold sweat. I want to switch if off but somehow can’t find the strength to.

‘In a surprise move last night, Channel Six has ended the contract of TV presenter Jessie Woods, after an on-air incident involving what was seen as a major breach of broadcasting ethics. In a statement released last night, the station announced that Jessie Woods’ position at the centre of their schedule was now untenable, in light of her accepting free use of a luxury sports car during the live broadcast of her top-rated show, Jessie Would. Sources close to Liz Walsh, Head of Television, have said the station had no choice but to take swift and immediate action in response to an unprecedented volume of complaints during the broadcast of last night’s show. And now over to our entertainment correspondent who reports live…’

I switch it off and fling the remote control as far from the bed as I can. I think I might be sick. That’s it; I’ve just been given the kiss of death. Because in TV land, when you hear your name used in the same sentence as ‘unprecedented volume of complaints’, it basically means hell will freeze over before you cross the threshold of said station ever again.