Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me

by Donal Macintyre

  Florentine has been pushing me hard, trying to get me to relish the limelight and tonight we performed our routine to the Blues Brothers track, ‘Everybody Needs Somebody’. It was pretty tricky, and disaster struck when I fell trying to do three jumps in a row. This was a little over-ambitious as I was clearly struggling to do a single jump. I picked myself up and got going again immediately but I knew it was going to cost us.

  Incredibly, we got a score of 16 – our best to date. One judge gave us an impressive 4.5 out of 6, although Jason awarded us just 2.5.

  As he delivered his caustic comments, the audience drowned him out with boos – the first time this has happened. I did catch the word ‘pathetic’, however.

  As usual, the only team below us was Todd and his partner, Susie. Once again Florentine and I were protected by the public vote. The thought does cross my mind that, if it’s mostly women who phone in, the cricket box might be something of a vote-winner.

  Monday, 2 February 2009

  Ironically, several contestants struggled to make the training sessions because of the ice and snow blanketing the country!

  My waist measurement is now down from 41" to just 33". ‘Chubby hubby’ has disappeared. No more elasticated waistbands! In fact I’m now frenziedly eating as much as possible to keep my weight up.

  Tuesday, 3 February 2009

  While attempting a high lift during practice today, I dropped Florentine onto the ice from six feet in the air. Thankfully, she is absolutely fine. The only thing I bruised was my ego – and my shins, knees, thighs, stomach, chest, back, arms, shoulders and neck.

  I have played rugby, skied, shot rapids in a canoe; I have climbed the Matterhorn and parachuted out of a plane in the Arctic, but I have never before had as many bruises as I do now.

  If anyone ever again suggests to me that ice dancing is a little bit girlie, I will strangle them with one of my spangled shirts.

  Friday, 6 February 2009

  I have been having physio since the accident but I feel OK. I know I’ve done well to stay in the contest this long, given that I’m two parts testosterone and one part shambles. If I can limp on for another couple of weeks, I will have got much further than I ever dared to hope.

  I’m just thrilled it’s taken me so far outside my comfort zone – the world of drugs and murder – and given me a chance to show my girls what I can do.

  Sunday, 8 February 2009

  The required element tonight was the Change of Edge: shifting the weight from one side of the blade to the other. Skating to Sam Sparro’s ‘Black and Gold’, wearing a black shirt, I managed to raise Florentine into a shoulder lift and we scored 17. ‘Better musicality,’ Jason said. ‘Very solid partnering.’

  We were all shocked when Todd Carty was kicked out. We thought the public would be happy to hang on to his hilarious coat tails for a couple of weeks longer. There are now just eight of us left.

  Saturday, 14 February 2009

  I like to include a really difficult move every week. This can, of course, result in over-ambition. This week I was trying to perfect a sort of American baseball slide that ended up with me flat on the ice, spinning round and then stepping out of it. It looks terrific when it’s done by a professional. But I still hadn’t mastered it by Saturday evening and I said to Florentine: ‘I don’t think this is working. It looks as if I’m just falling over.’

  She tried to reassure me but I wasn’t convinced. The 10-year-old son of one of the production staff was watching us rehearse.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked him.

  ‘Looks like you’re falling over, mate,’ he said.

  We took it out.

  Sunday, 15 February 2009

  Tonight we skated to ‘Addicted to Love’, with me in a pink shirt and white suit; it was very Miami Vice. The judges award us 18, commending our ‘intensity’. We’re the only couple who have improved their score every week. Every time Coleen and I get through, we exchange a wink, but I noticed Florentine shoot a look at Stewart, Coleen’s partner, that said: ‘How on earth have we managed to propel these buffoons through to another round?’

  Ray Quinn, who was runner-up to Leona Lewis in the X Factor, achieved the first perfect score of the series tonight, but my buddy, rugby star Ellery Hanley (I can honestly say he is all the human being I would want to be but am not) was sent packing. I am the last ‘real’ man standing. Let’s face it, Ray Quinn is a dance god and cannot be considered mortal.

  Monday, 16 February 2009

  After choreography class with Chris and Jayne (now known to the celebrities as ‘The Icons’), I was straight off to a disused RAF base in Lincolnshire to blow up a car for my gangsters show. Having blown any ambitions of being a dancer in the morning session, it was my mission to blow a car to smithereens in the afternoon. We were demonstrating the use of pipe bombs made from plastic explosives. From spandex to Semtex in one day! With help from Tony Lewis, a military expert, we took a steel tube and packed it with homemade explosives. We capped both ends but placed a detonator in one of them. In an instant, we had a deadly pipe bomb that we could use to devastating effect from 300 metres away. I have to admit that blowing up cars on old military bases was much more exhilerating than skating badly – no matter how wonderful Torvill and Dean are.

  Wednesday, 18 February 2009

  During rehearsals there are people who sit in for the real judges and give scores after we run through our routines. Today Florentine and I achieved all sixes – a perfect score, the holy grail of the ice skating universe. Unlike the real judges, these stand-ins are open to bribery and susceptible to pleading.

  My progress is now wearing thin with my daughters, who weren’t banking on me staying in the show this long. They want me around in the morning and to pick them up from school. I’m trying to skate earlier in the mornings so I can spend time with them in the evening, but work on my other shows is piling up.

  Sunday, 22 February 2009

  Tonight our music was REM’s ‘Everybody Hurts’ or ‘Everything Hurts’ as we appropriatly renamed it. I wore a royal-blue V-neck top. I stumbled and clipped Florentine’s ankle with my skate and she yelped in pain. We scored just 17. Thankfully, we still got through. Melinda Messenger was booted off by the judges. We’re down to the last six.

  Wednesday, 25 February 2009

  This week is ‘prop week’. All the contestants have to include some sort of object in their routine. My prop is a broom and I’ve been carrying it around with me everywhere. Ameera says this is the closest to housework I’ve come in years.

  A cab driver studied me carefully in his rear-view mirror today. The show is regularly topping nine million viewers and clearly he is one of them. Finally, the penny dropped with him: ‘Here, you’re that bloke off Dancing On Ice,’ he said. I considered telling him that I’m an investigative journalist, war correspondent and documentary-maker. Instead, I nodded in quiet resignation and just thanked God he didn’t ask about the broom.

  Sunday, 1 March 2009

  On the show tonight, I revealed the shocking black bruise the size of a doormat that extends from my hip, right across my buttock and down my leg. It is the result of repeatedly falling over and landing on the same side. Whenever I drop Florentine or trip her up, she picks herself straight up and gets back to work without a word of complaint. So I feel I have to do the same, however much I’d rather hobble to the side of the rink and weep.

  We scored 23 – our best so far – for the routine we performed to ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues’. Roxanne Pallett was voted off. As she skated off the rink, she threw her bouquet to Allegra to thank her for her support. Allegra has now switched her allegiance to Ray Quinn rather than her Dad.

  Monday, 2 March 2009

  Many people have stopped me in the street to comment on my bruise, including a squaddie, who said: ‘Jesus, Donal! My mate got bitten on the arse by a camel and it didn’t look half as bad as that.’

  Friday, 6 March 2009

  Thi
s morning I was on GMTV talking about the show. I noticed that in the script it said: ‘Donal drops his trousers and shows us his bruise.’ However, in order to allow the nation to enjoy its breakfast, the MacIntyre apparel stayed firmly in place.

  More fan letters arrived and Ameera sorted through them. She handed me one with an enclosed photograph showing a jolly-looking lady of middling years. This lady claimed to be a member of the Women’s Institute and suggested we meet to engage in a number of exotic activities one does not readily associate with the WI.

  ‘So that’s what they do with all the extra jam,’ said Ameera.

  Sunday, 8 March 2009

  Skating to Roxy Music’s ‘Let’s Stick Together’, I manage this week’s required element, an unassisted jump, without mishap. Of course, ‘jump’ is defined simply as both feet leaving the ice at once. I think I might have managed the dizzy heights of about 2½". Nevertheless, our score of 22 was enough to see us through.

  Zoe Salmon was kicked out, so that leaves just four of us: Coleen, Ray, Jessica Taylor and me. If anyone had told me six months ago that I’d be in the semi-final, I would have laughed out loud, and so would everyone else.

  Friday, 13 March 2009

  This week I’ve been wearing a large, flattened silicone patch to protect my bruise. ‘What do you call this thing?’ I asked one of the medics.

  ‘An incompetence pad,’ he said.

  Coleen Nolan, however, really has been in the wars. Despite sustaining a rib and back injury this week, and nursing a broken bone in her wrist, she is determined to skate in the semi-final. It would be a brave man who’d bet against her doing it.

  The music Christopher Dean has selected for Flo and me is the Bond theme, ‘Live and Let Die’. ‘It was the closest thing I could think of to your proper job,’ he said. To be honest, I’m beginning to think this is more dangerous than my proper job.

  Sunday, 15 March 2009

  This was a strange night. The producers have always said that the audience knows when it’s time to go. I was praying it was not my time. My 007 performance reminded me of what Justice Patwell had said to me in Tipperary County Court 16 years previously: ‘I am sure Mr MacIntyre will admit that he is no James Bond.’ After my performance with Flo tonight, I expected to be arrested for crimes against choreography – if not the style police, for my sleeveless top. A man over 40 should know better.

  In the event we scored really good marks, but were left in a skate-off with Colleen. Stewart, Colleen’s partner, is also Flo’s professional partner and we were about to challenge each other for the final. We both knew we had come further than we thought possible. When the judges gave their final decision, I had survived the first and last skate-off in the show. That is simply ridiculous. In the end I did it for the girls, my sweet princesses and my wife. Daddy was no longer just dad but a daddy in touch with sequins and shiny things. And for a daddy, it doesn’t get better than that.

  Sunday, 22 March 2009

  I was strangely relaxed for the final today. Happy to be there, I had no expectations and I wasn’t going to be disappointed whatever happened. The male professionals tried to rattle me by stitching together the legs of my trousers and, moments before I was to go on, they hid my boots. I tried to stay calm and just before panic set in, they were found. Never was a man happier to come second. My joy tonight was the opportunity to wire-fly to Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’.

  My baby daughter, Tiger, is eager to tell her pals that her daddy can fly. If there was ever a reason for doing a reality show, that was it. Ray Quinn was crowned the Ice King, but I was surprised and delighted to be his very decrepid understudy. It was a long way from Little Haiti, but skating on thin ice has always been my stock and trade.

  * * * * *

  My daughter’s drama teacher, who doesn’t watch television, came up to me recently. She looked me up and down and stared at me strangely as if something didn’t quite fit.

  ‘Allegra tells me you are a professional dancer,’ she said, doubtfully.

  ‘Not quite,’ I said.

  Well, I don’t want to ruin the fantasy for Allegra just yet.

  18

  AND FINALLY...

  That early evening of 6 April 2010, the London Eye undoubtedly gave us the best view of politics that the capital had to offer. The sun glistened on the River Thames and the Palace of Westminster looked impressive from the top of the wheel. Earlier that day, Gordon Brown had met with the Queen to request the dissolution of Parliament. Eight hours later, as Big Ben struck six o’clock, I was about to make the transition from feral journalist to prime-time anchorman as I joined Katie Derham live on the Eye to present London Tonight for ITN.

  I had no stubble, no leather jacket, no secret cameras or wires strapped to my body. There were no stealth vehicles and there was no hiding in bushes. Yet still I didn’t have a pot to piss in – literally! In fairness, Katie and I had been warned that there would be no toilet breaks, outside or otherwise, because the wheel wouldn’t stop for us, no matter how desperate our needs became. We would simply have to hold it in.

  I was wearing a crisp new white shirt and a new suit. Before today, suits only made it onto my back for funerals and weddings, so wearing one to work felt decidedly uncomfortable. The pantomime cougars of Loose Women had chosen my tie, and had threatened to hunt me down if I didn’t wear it as promised in my virgin broadcast as an anchorman. My shoes were cheap and shiny – and off camera.

  I had been thrown in at the deep end. There had been no rehearsals and I hadn’t even done a screen test. These had been diligently planned, but somehow fell off the radar as external events consumed everyone’s time. If I messed up on screen, my days as an anchorman would be over before they had even begun. So no pressure! Oh, and thanks for starting me on a big news day with a live outside broadcast! Some practice would have been nice, but I suppose the chaos and my utter lack of preparation at least provided some degree of continuity between this and my previous career.

  The God of television news, Alastair Stewart, had wished me well as I left the ITN building on Gray’s Inn Road to fill the vacancy that he had created when he went to read the national news. ‘Don’t worry if you make a mistake: the public will love you for it,’ he assured me. I wasn’t so sure.

  It was five minutes to air when one of the cameramen turned to me and said:

  ‘It’s very brave of you to kick-start with an outside broadcast, and at the start of the election, too.’ Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea.

  ‘How does it feel to be Ron Jeremy, anchorman?’ the soundman asked.

  ‘I think he’s the porn star,’ I said.

  I was going more for Ron Burgundy, but if I blew this gig, porn might be the only television work left for me.

  Katie Derham smiled at me and said, ‘Enjoy! You’ll do great.’ I could get it wrong on other days, but not today. The last time I had been on the London Eye was with the Insect Tribe of Papua New Guinea. If they could get over their fear of the wheel, I figured I could swallow my nerves and present the news from it.

  It seemed like an age since I had been at the Irish Press in Dublin in 1990, being shouted at by sub-editors over my appalling spelling and even worse grammar.

  I had defended myself robustly: ‘That’s not bad spelling – It’s fucking job creation.’ You had to be tough to survive in there. It was an old-style newsroom, where the air was coloured blue by the choice language and the thick cigarette smoke.

  Opinions were shouted rather than discussed and occasionally a typewriter would be thrown across the office to emphasise a point. It was gritty and loud and real. Computers lay idle on our desks because the union had not agreed to allow us to use them, and we had to get permission from the management to use the photocopier.

  It was eccentric and sometimes very fraught, but you knew you were alive. I was part of a group of young journalists who had joined the paper at the same time and were christened the ‘Zodo Club’ after the children’s cartoon strip that ran e
very day.

  It was a put-down from the old guard of the paper and we probably deserved it. On my first day, Eamon De Valera, the owner of the paper and the grandson of the founder, came to welcome us aboard. There were some words in Irish that I didn’t quite catch and then I spilled coffee all over him.

  Twenty years later, I avoided coffee as we counted down to the broadcast from the London Eye. The bongs of Big Ben announced the start of my new career, and, with a lot of help from Katie, I managed a clean broadcast. I breathed a sigh of relief as I ran for the toilet after we came off air and off the Eye. The next day, Boy George was on the sofa in the studio welcoming me to my new job. ‘I only remember you from Dancing on Ice,’ he told me.

  For all my covert journalism and warzone reporting, from Burma to Beirut, the only thing I am remembered for is sequins and skating. ‘How random life is,’ I thought.

  There were fluffs and stumbles and the occasional howler. The best was when I read ‘crack in the ice’ as ‘crap on the ice’. ‘Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty more where that came from,’ Katie consoled me.

  My first ever reporting job in London was to cover the annual Bloody Sunday commemoration march in the centre of London for the Sunday Tribune. That day 400 right-wing activists from Combat 18 and the National Front attacked the marchers. I reported that it was the worst attack on the march in recent memory.

  Seven years later, I attended the same march as a BBC journalist, this time undercover and in the middle of a group of far-right hooligans and racists who were attacking the parade in the most aggressive assault since I had first reported on it.

  As I surveyed the city skyline that day of 6 April 2010, at the start of another London adventure, I couldn’t help marvelling at the serendipity of life. Where in God’s name would I be seven years from now?