Personally, I Blame my Fairy Godmother. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ Jessie Would goes out live on Saturday at 7 p.m. for thirty minutes with one commercial break; classic family-friendly, tea-time TV. The format is simple. Emma is in studio in front of a live audience, and does a lot of interacting with them, getting them to bet on whether I’ll actually manage to do the dare or whether I’ll fall flat on my face, then giving out sponsored prizes if they guess right. It can be pretty tricky to predict; my success rate would be about fifty-fifty. But then in the sage words of Liz Walsh, Head of Television and, I think, a fan of the show, seeing as how she’s the one who keeps on recommissioning it, it’s not about my succeeding or failing on each weekly dare, it’s about making a complete tit of myself every week, live to the nation. She reckons the secret of lowest common denominator TV is that it should always appeal to a kid of about twelve and then you’re laughing.

      There’s not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for Liz Walsh. She’s an incredible woman and has been almost like a Simon Cowell-esque figure in my life. Tough as an old boot but with solid gold instincts that can’t be bought or sold. In fact, when I graduated from doing the late-night weather report, then spent the next few years doing random reporting from places where no one else could be arsed going, she was the one who first spotted me and decided I was ripe to groom for bigger and better things. Like so much else in my life though, this was as a result of pure chance and not being afraid to make an eejit of myself on a regular basis. Example: one time I was sent to cover the winter solstice at Newgrange and a giant granite crater, which had happily held up for thousands of years, chose that exact moment to fall on top of me, knocking me to the ground to much hilarity and sniggering from the background crew. I was fine, just a bit concussed, but did what I always do: got back on my feet, brushed myself down and laughed it off. Course, three days later, the clip had nearly eight thousand hits on YouTube and when I saw it back I had to admit, it was one of those laugh-in-spite-of-your-self, slapstick Buster Keaton-type moments. It even made it onto the annual Channel Six blooper show.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ