Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad

by Christian O'Connell

  ‘Well, actually, yes,’ Dad said hesitantly. ‘We are going to use Tom’s garage this weekend to rehearse, check the magic is still there, and then the plan is … next week … we take part in the monthly Battle of the Bands at the Red Lion.’

  THE RED LION!

  The Red Lion was a pub mainly frequented by people with huge amounts of hair but very few teeth. My supermarket-manager dad was thinking about playing in a band there with a load of old people who hadn’t played together for decades. Does he have a death wish? I wondered.

  But Mum was already ahead of our concerns.

  ‘The Red Lion? You’ll be killed. It’s a pub for serial killers and hobos.’

  ‘No, it’s not. They got rid of hobo Carl last month. You are scaring the kids, Carol.’

  My parents only used each other’s names in serious arguments.

  ‘Well, YOU are embarrassing them. Men your age should know better.’

  ‘Thanks for the support, Carol. It’s just a bit of fun.’

  At that moment Grandad Ray wandered in. Combing his quiff. The aftershave pong was at an all-time high. People in China were probably sniffing the air wondering what that horrific smell was.

  ‘Can’t talk for long, hot date with Theresa from my ballroom club.’

  Lucky Theresa. Hope she has a gas mask handy.

  ‘Now, what’s this about a reunion for the Pirates? Is it due to no public demand? That band were bad years ago, let alone now,’ continued Grandad Ray, smirking.

  Dad shot straight back: ‘Well at least we got record label attention, Dad, which I don’t think you ever—’

  ‘I WAS BORN AT THE WRONG TIME,’ Grandad retorted, so quickly his quiff shook. It always moves as one. Like it’s a living, breathing organism. It could have its own nature documentary. ‘When I was in my singing prime, record companies moved away from proper music, to that rap rubbish with kids miming and pretending to sing songs. Just nonsense. Can you auto-tune HEART or SOUL? I don’t think so. That’s why you and Artie play real music, Spike …’ he said, and looked over to me for support. You’re not getting any, I thought, as my mind flashed back to him eating that ice cream. You’re on your own, Grandad.

  He glared at me. Rubbed his newly inked ‘Family’ tattoo. Yeah, I see it, Grandad – how about you practise it and GET MY ICE CREAM!

  ‘Kids, can you just give us a moment, please?’ said Dad as he ushered us out. GET IN! The timeless ‘Kids, can you give us a moment, please?’ is in my Top Three Mum and Dad Classics.

  My Top Three Mum and Dad Classics:

  ‘Can you give us a moment, please?’ Always mid-argument. Translated, this means ‘THINGS ARE ABOUT TO GET REALLY UGLY’ and the very moment you are thrown out of the room you IMMEDIATELY begin listening in – usually with a glass pressed against the wall or simply by sitting in utter silence, holding your breath.

  ‘I’m going to count to three/four/five/ten and then …’ A staple Mum or Dad fall-back. The nuclear countdown sequence. You only ever start to do anything once the countdown has been activated.

  ‘Don’t make me come up there.’ This, I reckon, has been said since people lived in caves. Hard for it to be taken seriously back then though, as stairs hadn’t been invented. I guess cavekids just stood looking confused. Of course it would’ve sounded like ‘Ugg un ug ug bah eck eck eck ohh ohh ug ug’ – which, roughly translated, means, ‘If I find out you’ve been scribbling on the cave walls again, it’s straight to bed for you with no raw mammoth.’

  Amber and I left as instructed, while Dad gently guided us out like a dad bouncer or security guard. We took up our positions on the stairs, after audibly thudding up them, then gently, like ninjas, creeping halfway back down again. Crouched. Spying.

  We heard it all. Dad was talking angrily.

  ‘You never ever supported my dreams, Dad. It was always about you. No wonder Mum has had enough—’

  ‘It was just tough love, son. I couldn’t lie to you, your band sucked.’

  It was hard to understand what happened next. We heard what sounded like a table being moved out of the way really quickly, Mum yelling ‘No, don’t hurt him,’ and then Grandad Ray running out of the kitchen at over 100mph.

  Bad news.

  Dad’s band rehearsal went well. This may sound mean, but just think how you would feel if it was your own dad. Think of him right now. Go on – your dad. The slippers. The terrible dress sense. The unfunny jokes. Now imagine him playing the drums in a band he was in decades ago. On a stage. Where people can see him. Dressed as a PIRATE! Someone there tells someone who tells someone and then word gets around the school. You see my situation now. Horrific. That 17 per cent cooler I told you about earlier, thanks to being Radio Boy? Well, back to zero for me.

  I’m starting to realise my life is like a game of snakes and ladders. Any moment when you think you are winning, back down you go. A scandal like this could ruin my school life forever. Doesn’t matter if you invent a cure for the common cold in your biology class and change life for millions of people, if you have an embarrassing parent you’ll only be known for that. Like poor Miles Baker. Miles is the best choir singer in the school and has won loads of awards. Doesn’t matter. There is a rumour that his dad has three nipples. He’s Miles Baker and is famous not for his beautiful voice, but his three-nippled dad.

  Look, my dad’s band have a song called ‘Pirate Party in My Pants’.

  This is the level of embarrassment we are dealing with.

  So, following their successful rehearsal, tonight at the Red Lion my dad and his old band The Pirates were going to enter the monthly Battle of the Bands.

  After school, me, Artie and Holly cycled past the pub. It looked rough. Broken windows, and hairy bikers hung around outside menacingly, smoking beside their huge polished chrome motorbikes. Some of them looked over at the three of us and I’m pretty sure one licked his lips like we were a snack.

  ‘Please don’t kill my dad tonight,’ I whispered as we speedily pedalled off.

  ‘OK, status update: I’m now officially scared for my dad’s safety,’ I told Artie when we got back to the house.

  ‘Dads are invincible. Mine told me so. They have superpowers,’ said Artie.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, for example, how else can dads tell if you really are sick or just pretending?’ said Artie.

  ‘You’re right. They just know if you’re lying and chucking a sickie. Dad Jedi mind trick.’

  ‘And who else knows which people to trust?’ Artie continued. ‘My dad says I should never trust a man with a beard. I said what about Father Christmas? Dad said even he’s shifty. What else is he doing the rest of the year? Does he pay the Elves the minimum wage?’

  This made sense. My dad was always warning my sister Amber about various men not to trust, for future reference.

  THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF PEOPLE

  YOU MUST NEVER TRUST

  according to my dad:

  Thou shalt not trust any boy who wears low-slung denim jeans that hang round his backside.

  Thou shalt not trust anyone who has eyes too close together. Or no eyes.

  Thou shalt not trust anyone who eats coriander.

  Thou shalt not give the time of day to anyone who owns and uses a selfie stick.

  Thou shalt never trust anyone who wears crocs.

  Thou shalt not trust anyone who has more than three cats.

  Thou shalt not trust anyone who has more than two cats.

  Thou shalt never trust anyone who owns a car with a sign saying ‘Princess on board’.

  Thou shalt not trust anyone who doesn’t like pizza.

  Thou shalt not trust anyone who doesn’t enjoy watching The World’s Strongest Man.

  My dad’s favourite TV show is The World’s Strongest Man. I love watching it with him every Christmas, with my mum providing a running commentary on the medical damage these various man-mountains are doing to themselves.

  ‘That blond Viking-l
ooking man from Iceland could burst a blood vessel straining like that! He looks like a sausage on a barbecue that’s about to burst. Why is he trying to pull a huge truck? If it’s broken down, you just call roadside recovery.’

  My dad was most certainly not the World’s Strongest Man. He often had trouble opening jars. How could he protect himself if the bikers and hobos at the Red Lion didn’t accept the invite to ‘Pirate Party in their Pants’?

  Then it hit me. I knew someone who could protect him. The only person who could protect him. Sensei Terry.

  When Artie had gone, I quickly cycled to Number 19 Crow Crescent and pulled up at Sensei Terry’s house. Outside his front door were two samurai garden gnomes locked in a bitter battle for front-garden supremacy.

  I pressed his doorbell. Ancient chimes rang out followed by a loud gong. The door opened and what greeted me was a vision I will remember for years to come. It was our local postman, the one-man neighbourhood watch and karate instructor, dressed in a red silk Japanese dressing gown. ‘Kimono’ I was later informed is the correct term. He was holding a mug that said ‘World’s #1 Postman’ on it but he had scribbled out ‘Postman’ and written ‘Karate Master’.

  His kimono was a thing of shimmering beauty. It also looked very flimsy and highly flammable. I think this was ‘Japanese’ by way of ‘Dodgy Dave’, the man who sells knock-off clothing at the market. Fake brands that are just spelled slightly differently. Giorgio Armandi, Hugo Moss, Kelvin Klein.

  ‘Spike, everything OK?’ he said, looking concerned.

  ‘My dad’s about to be attacked by serial-killer hairy bikers,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Now?’ hissed Sensei Terry. His muscles tensed as he said the word. Always ready for action.

  ‘No, later tonight after he’s had a party in his pants.’

  ‘You’d better tell me what’s happening,’ Sensei Terry said, and invited me in.

  I got him up to speed. The Pirates. The reunion. The rehearsal. The gig tonight. The Red Lion. The Battle of the Bands. The old men. The party in the pants. The imminent danger of death by angry bikers.

  ‘I can help,’ said Sensei Terry quietly.

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  ‘I can go to the pub and be the band’s head of security.’

  ‘But I don’t want Dad knowing – he’ll get angry with me,’ I reasoned.

  Sensei Terry frowned, thinking about all this for a moment.

  ‘I will be undercover,’ he replied.

  ‘Under … cover?’

  ‘As a hairy biker,’ said Sensei Terry. ‘Now I must go and ready myself.’

  With that, he wandered off. I imagined some ancient meditation ritual he would undergo. Cleansing mind and body; preparing for the battle. Of the bands.

  As I got back on my bike to head off home, I looked back through his kitchen window, hoping to catch a glimpse of these sacred rituals. Instead, I saw Sensei Terry with his hand in the biscuit tin. I guess those ancient samurais frequently readied themselves for battle with a few Chocolate Hobnobs beforehand.

  I’ll never really know what actually happened that night at the Red Lion. All I can be sure of is that no one could have predicted it.

  Let’s look at what I do know about that fateful night.

  I waited up until Dad got back. Partly to see how he got on, and also to check he had survived the hairy bikers and serial killers.

  And, lo and behold, he opened the door and came in, singing to himself, at just past midnight.

  We can tick one box:

  Alive

  I’m guessing it must’ve gone quite well as he came back a little – how shall we say – ‘tired and confused’, and his singing sounded very jolly. I think beer may have been involved. He went into the living room where Mum was watching TV and I couldn’t hear what they said to each other, but when they came out into the hall I heard Mum say, ‘I’m so proud of you, Mr Puppykins’ and then I felt a little bit sick. I guess this is what happens when you eavesdrop. ‘Mr Puppykins’? Urgh. Let’s move on quickly.

  Anyway, that’s another box ticked:

  It obviously went well.

  The next morning, while I was dishing out a tin of stinky tripe chunks to a grateful Sherlock, I quizzed Dad about how it went. Do you find that getting information out of your dad is sometimes like interrogating a spy, caught behind enemy lines? He gives very little away. Even if my dad became world champion at chess and solved global warming in the same day, all he would say when I asked how his day was, would be, ‘not bad’. If Mum had done all that, she’d be wearing a T-shirt saying it and a plane would’ve written it in the sky.

  Dad says it’s like being at a press conference, being questioned by us.

  So, this is our post-Battle of the Bands press conference, conducted over breakfast.

  Dad is on one side of the kitchen table. On the opposite side are Amber and me. He doesn’t have a microphone in front of him, just a cup of tea and toast.

  Me: ‘Dad! How did it go?’

  Dad: ‘Yeah, good, Spike. Amber – at the back, by the cereal – do you have a question?’

  Amber: ‘Hi, yes. How was it? I mean, playing with your old band twenty years later, what was it like?’

  Dad (picking his nose): ‘Good fun.’ (mumbling)

  Me: ‘That’s it? “Good fun”? Nothing else? How were the crowd?’

  Dad: ‘OK.’

  Me: ‘Just OK?’

  Dad (reading his paper): ‘Yeah, all good.’

  Enter Mum, who chucks in a GRENADE!

  ‘Did your dad tell you they WON the Battle of the Bands?!’

  Me, Amber, Sherlock: ‘WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????’

  Dad: ‘Yeah, we won.’1

  Dad and The Pirates beat six other younger bands. Incredible. The fearsome Red Lion crowd got very unruly, apparently, demanding that the band do an encore!

  I was looking at my very own dad, while taking in this information, and seeing him in a totally different light. It was hard, as he was dressed in his light brown supermarket-manager suit and tie. How odd for him to go from crowd adoration last night, to checking the stock levels of satsumas and Coco Pops the next day.

  I could imagine him at his tiny desk in the store room, daydreaming, reliving that gig. Dad at the back behind his drum kit, furiously driving the band’s formidable sound. Looking at Dave the guitarist, now an insurance salesman, then at Tom the lead singer, now a successful owner of several tanning salons, and smiling at each other. All feeling it. My dad lost in a trance, hearing the band’s name announced as winners. Then rudely snapped out of his happy memories with a ‘Sorry, Mr Hughes, we have a spillage on aisle nine’. Livin’ the dream, Dad, livin’ the dream.

  My sister, Mum and I all patted him on the back as he headed out the door. Before he left, he turned to me, leaned in and said, ‘I think I saw Sensei Terry there last night.’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Well, it looked like him, but for some reason he was wearing a long-haired wig and dirty biker jacket,’ Dad said.

  I stammered an explanation. ‘M-maybe he’s a secret biker, with a big Harley-Davidson in his garage?’

  ‘I saw him leave on his postman bike, though.’

  ‘Yeah, er … strange …’ Now it was my turn to mumble and give nothing away.

  After he closed the door Mum said, ‘Well, I think that was a lovely adventure for your dad that ended well.’ She crossed her arms. As if saying, ‘All’s well again in the Hughes house. Harmony has been restored in the family galaxy.’

  But neither Mum nor me had any idea that Dad’s band adventure was far, far, far from over.

  BREAKING NEWS!! Something extraordinary has happened. Something … terrible. Something I don’t even think I can put into words right now, because it’s so unbelievable.

  I’m still trying to process it all. There just aren’t words to describe the events that followed Dad winning the Battle of the Bands last night. To explain, I’ll just give you a timeline
of the last two hours and eighteen minutes. As a military report:

  15:47

  I come home from school. Boring day. Double maths. Physics. Games. Hell.

  16:07

  Older sister Amber comes home from school. Shuts herself in her bedroom and talks non-stop on the phone to someone who may, or may not, be a boy. At least it’s not a pony. My sister’s pony, Mr Toffee, is a money pit. I wanted a new pair of trainers, but was told we couldn’t afford them until next month because Mr Toffee had a vet’s bill. The bill was for a DENTIST! A pony dentist. This pony has better dental care than I do. How do you even get a pony into a dentist’s chair?

  16:47

  Mum gets a phone call downstairs. Normally I’d pay no attention, but what makes me stop and take notice is the fact that she starts speaking in an unusually high-pitched voice and is struggling to find words. Stuttering, awkward silences, then ‘Yes, sorry, I’m still here, it’s just such a big thing.’ It’s clearly a very ‘big thing’ as then several phone calls are made by Mum, excitedly relaying it all back to the League of Extraordinary Mums. Let me introduce them.

  A powerful trinity. Make no mistake.

  17:33

  Dad comes home. Enters kitchen. Mum asks Amber and me, ‘Can we just have a moment, please?’

  We retreat to our observation post on the stairs. Sign language is required to bring Amber up to speed on what I’ve overheard. We shrug our shoulders to each other a few times, indicating we have no idea what on earth is going on. The possibilities are:

  Mum is having another baby. This is good news on one major count: there won’t be enough room for Grandad, so it’d be BYE-BYE, Grandad.

  Grandad Ray has been arrested for crimes against hair-manity. Again, great news.

  Dad is seeing one of the dinner ladies. What will people say? (I can’t believe I’m thinking that. Help! I’m turning into my mum.)

  17:35

  We can hear Mum and Dad speaking in deliberately quiet voices, but the content is clearly too explosive for them to sustain that safe volume level and very quickly they are shouting. Then the door is opened suddenly.