‘Home-made tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches for you and the band, some water, plasters if you get cut, bandages for any muscular injuries, a thermometer, tweezers and some special tablets in case you get the runs like you do when you’re nervous,’ said Mum with a knowing look.
‘Oh no, Mum, please, TMI,’ I cried. The thought of my dad losing control of his bodily functions live on TV was too much. I’d have to leave my school and probably the country and/or universe. Maybe start again somewhere like Africa, where no one knew me or about my dad’s Pirate Parade and trouser explosion.
Dad left and we all waved him off into his stretch limousine with blacked-out windows. Except it wasn’t. It was a boring white mini van he and the band had hired to take them and their equipment to the TV studios. Crammed into the back of a hire van with ‘DINGLE VAN HIRE’ plastered down the side wasn’t exactly living the dream in my view. When I became a famous DJ, I’d have a limo to take me to school.
They did, however, have pirate flags plastered over the van windows.
The rest of Saturday dragged slowly by. Dad called later in the afternoon and said the rehearsal had gone well. Then it was 7.57pm and we all gathered in the front room and waited. Mum, my sister Amber, me, Sherlock and even Grandad Ray, who was pretending to be reading a book. Radio for Beginners. Yeah, you really should read that, Grandad.
The theme tune started and then the two hosts were on stage in front of thousands.
‘Welcome! What a show tonight! We have a juggler, some gymnasts, dancing dogs and a rock band of dads! Stay tuned.’ Then the cameras cut to backstage where I saw my dad.
‘THERE’S DAD!’ I yelled. Mum screamed, Amber screamed and even Grandad Ray put the book down he was still pretending to read. It took us all a few seconds to take in the sight on our TV screen. Dad and the rest of the band were in their new-for-TV, matching pirate costumes. All silky white pantaloons and plastic sabres.
‘Oh no …’ I said.
Dad had a patch over one eye. Oh dear. Lead singer Tom had a pretend stuffed parrot on his shoulder. They all just looked like they were on the way to a bad fancy-dress party. Now the front room fell silent, except for Grandad Ray, who started laughing very loudly.
‘I hope he had his sandwiches and took his tummy pills,’ said Mum, concerned.
We watched the dancing dogs, with silky costumes not that different from the band, the triple-jointed Russians who put themselves into a shoebox, and two elderly gentlemen juggling goldfish bowls. They all did their bits and then the judges gave their thoughts. The main judge was called Simon Scowl. He was a millionaire record producer who, despite all that money, had the worst haircut I’ve ever seen on a human being. Maybe millionaires don’t go to Mr Tops the barber, like my dad, and just cut their own hair. He only buttoned his shirt halfway up too – again, maybe this was a millionaire thing. My dad buttoned his shirts all the way up, but he ran a supermarket not a record label.
As Grandad Ray was nodding off, the hosts introduced the next act. We’d just seen yet another dog, which ‘danced’ to disco music. Except it didn’t really, it just barked a few times, got up on its hind legs, then did a little pee on the studio floor. So the bar was set really high.
‘Now, a rock band with a difference. Twenty years ago they almost made it big – now they are a supermarket manager, a tanning salon owner, and an insurance salesman. Please give a big warm welcome to … THE PIRATES.’
The audience cheered as the camera swooped up high above and the band started playing. To be fair they weren’t that bad, until the singing started. Tanning salon owner Tom shouted at the top of his voice. Like the crazy man we have in town who looks through the rubbish bins and shouts at the moon.
My dad was getting a lot of attention from the cameras due to his crazy drumming. He was actually quite good, which was surprising, but he was grimacing like a loon as he smashed the life out of his drums and cymbals. Then he did the special trick he’d mentioned to Mum this morning. He threw his drumsticks up in the air as the song was coming to an end. Years ago, as a younger, sharper man, this must’ve really been a crowd-pleaser, as he then would presumably casually catch the drumsticks as they came down to earth.
However, Dad was not that younger man any more.
The drumsticks went up OK, but Dad caught only one as it came spinning back down. The other hit a cameraman on the back of the head, causing him to drop and smash the camera. All of this watched by millions, as the TV screen and what we were watching dropped suddenly to the stage floor and the screen cracked. They cut after a few seconds to another camera. The audience were pointing at the smashed camera lying in pieces on the floor, and laughing. This was turning into car-crash TV.
My dad was having the time of his life and wasn’t in the least bothered by what he had just done and carried on drumming with just one stick. He looked the happiest I’d seen him in a long time. I wasn’t so happy. But worse was yet to come.
Dad suddenly stood up from his drum stool and kicked over the drums. What was he doing now?
‘What’s he doing? Sit back down,’ yelled Mum, not laughing any more as my dad was mid-rampage. He then ran towards the front of the stage.
Grandad Ray stopped laughing. ‘Oh no, son, don’t do it,’ he said.
‘Do what?’ I asked.
He didn’t have time to reply. Dad ran at full speed to the front of the stage and then launched himself into the air. He stage-dived.
‘NO! You’ll break your neck, you silly fool,’ wailed Mum, holding her hands over her mouth in disbelief.
But he didn’t. When rock stars stage-dive into the audience, the adoring fans catch them and pass them around. Held above them by their worshipping hands.
But in all his crazed excitement Dad had forgotten where he was. No adoring audience clamouring to catch you there, Pirate Dad. He launched himself into the air and from a considerable height landed his pirate body on the judges’ desk. Immediately cracking it right down the middle. Glasses of water went flying and Simon Scowl leaped out of his chair looking terrified and wet. The audience screamed, in either horror or enjoyment.
The hosts could hardly speak due to the noise the crowd were making, as they gave out the number to text if you wanted the Pirates to go into the semi-finals. The band regrouped, arms round each other, while just in the background you could see a first-aider attending to the injured cameraman Dad had wiped out and a girl dabbing the water from Simon Scowl’s face.
The desk collapsed in a heap.
‘What was that?’ said Grandad Ray in shock. Speaking for all of us.
‘He’ll be a laughing stock,’ said Mum quietly.
She reached for the remote and quickly turned the TV off before the judges could trash Dad. I turned my phone off. I couldn’t bear to see any of the messages that were bound to come – laughing at my crazy Pirate fool of a Dad. I plodded up the stairs to my room.
The house was eerily silent, as if in shock.
But the real shock was still to come.
Luckily sleep rescued me and I didn’t even hear Dad come in later.
I felt full of fear and dread when I got up and stumbled down to breakfast. I don’t know what I expected to see, but it didn’t include my dad, grinning from ear to ear, eating his toast. Maybe he would start crying and begging my forgiveness after his buttered toast and Marmite?
‘We made the semi-finals, son!’ he coughed and spluttered.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Yeah! The audience loved it. The judges too, once they recovered from the surprise of the, um, broken desk.’
I stared at him, noticing his ribs and stomach were bandaged up.
‘War wound from my, er, stage-dive,’ he said.
‘Back up. You made the semi-finals?’ I said. Surely he had finally lost his mind? Maybe he’d banged his head on Simon Scowl’s massive ego. This just couldn’t be true.
‘I’m stunned too. We all are,’ said Dad in his matter-of-fact way, as if he was discus
sing the weather or the price of cornflakes in his supermarket.
Finally I plucked up the courage to turn my phone on and read the news about last night’s show. It was unbelievable: the public had loved them. My dad’s failed drumstick trick and desk-smashing routine had stolen the hearts of the people watching, and they’d won the public vote by a landslide. The public liked seeing them having fun, and it meant the Pirates would be going through to the live semi-final.
My phone didn’t stop buzzing with messages sent last night.
Turns out I’d been wrong in so many ways. Dad’s stage-dive went viral around the world. It was being shared on Facebook and Instagram millions of times. The highlight being judge Simon Scowl’s panic-stricken face as my crazed dad dived at him. What is it with my family? Why can’t they just be normal? I thought I was the star. Now I’m competing with my own dad and my grandad. Great.
Our phone didn’t stop ringing all day. Interview offers for Dad from various TV and radio shows. Grandad Ray was irritated. I was too.
‘Enjoy it while it lasts, son. There will be some new interweb thing tomorrow, a laughing cat or something,’ said a clearly jealous Grandad Ray. He was still on page one of his Radio for Beginners book.
But he made an interesting point. I took out the little notebook I carry everywhere for occasions like this, when I see or think of something funny for my radio show. I wrote in it:
Holly called and suggested we get Dad on the radio show this week. My heart sank at the awful memory of what happened the last time a family member of mine was on the show.
‘Your dad is pretty cool and without him we wouldn’t have the show. Don’t forget it was his idea,’ she said.
So I had to go into the kitchen and book my dad as a guest on the Secret Shed Show. Something I never thought I’d have to do.
Artie came round to ask my dad if he had any recordings of the Pirates’ songs as he’d like to play one on our show that week. From the start I’d let Artie be in charge of all the songs, and for the first time I was regretting it. Unfortunately, my dad did have recordings and – hurray – we would get another chance to hear ‘Pirate Parade’.
Next day at school, not a single word from anyone about the Secret Shed Show, not a peep, even though it was nearly time for The Howie to reveal the shortlist for Radio Star.
Instead, it was all about my now-famous dad. Katherine Hamilton even came up to me and asked ME if I could get HIS autograph.
I hate my life.
Today was my day.
I’d been awake since 6am – how could anyone sleep when waiting for news like this?
This very morning, Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright was finally announcing the finalists in his Radio Star competition. Yep, my destiny awaited me. Or did it? I wasn’t the only one in the house up early in expectation. The singing in the shower told me Grandad Ray was awake too, obviously thinking his destiny also awaited him. Dream on, old man!
I turned the radio on in the kitchen.
‘Good morning, 6.07am on the big one, Kool FM. Howie here and, folks, what a show today. Win a brand-new mattress thanks to The Bed Warehouse where all this month it’s 25 per cent off all beds, plus I announce the four lucky finalists in Radio Star and we find out what they will be doing to try and win the big prize. First, here’s Nickelback.’
Putting aside the fact he’d prioritised giving away a bed over my destiny, this was so exciting. So if I made the final four finalists, then a challenge awaited me? Bring it on, Howie. What could it possibly be? As long as it didn’t involve any kind of sport, I would be OK.
Time really drags when you’re looking at your watch every few seconds and counting cornflakes. Finally, Howie said, ‘Coming up next, the final four in Radio Star.’
‘SPIKE! SCHOOL! NOW!’ yelled Mum.
‘In a MINUTE, Mum,’ I replied. ‘Howie is about to announce the results!’
‘No, it’s SCHOOL TIME. You are going to be late, come on,’ said Mum. I grabbed my headphones and opened up Kool FM’s app on my phone. I would have to walk to school and listen.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if you’re in the top four with me,’ smirked Grandad Ray.
I left the house and rammed my earbuds in.
‘Hey, it’s ten past eight and finally it’s time to find out who the top four are in Radio Star. And what a prize there is up for grabs. My amazing show for a whole week while I’m on holiday. Hundreds of you have entered, but I have used my years of experience making fantastic radio to pick four contenders who have made it to the big grand final. Drum roll, please, Neil …’ said Howie. ‘Neil’ was Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright’s producer and often you’d hear Howie asking him for sound effects live on air.
I walked slowly down the street. I could hardly breathe.
‘Thanks, Neil. OK, the top four are … a black-belt postman who serves birthday cards and the community, known simply in his entry as … Sensei Terry,’ announced Howie. Up ahead on the road I saw Sensei Terry almost fall off his post bike. He was obviously listening too. I loved Sensei Terry, but shouldn’t he just stick to letters and karate? There were more surprises to come, though.
‘Also making the final four … a headmaster who wants to be a DJ – Mr Harris from St Brenda’s school.’
YOU ARE KIDDING ME, HOWIE???
Fish Face was in the final four? How? This was devastating. There were only two places left. My heart was pounding. I’d stopped walking now and had to lean against the local pet shop window. A parrot in a cage gave me a death stare.
‘And funnily enough, joining Mr Harris is one of his own pupils – it’s this town’s youngest DJ, Radio Boy, also known as Spike Hughes. The headmaster versus one of his pupils, now that’s going to cause a bit of tension at school, right? Am I right, gang?’
I WAS IN! I fell to the pavement and put my hands to my face; I was shaking and started to cry. Happy tears. The relief. I was in the final four.
My happy tears soon dried up.
‘The last person in the final four … a lovable grandad, it’s the ballroom banter of Grandad Ray. The amazing thing is, radio must be in the family, as this guy is real-life grandad to Radio Boy. So, get this … Spike Hughes is going up against his grandad AND his headmaster! Wow.’
No, Howie, Grandad Ray is going up against me, not the other way round.
‘Oh, please, no,’ I shouted to no one but myself and the universe. I was a good half-mile away from home, but I swear I heard a very loud cheer from the direction of my house. Mr Harris was bad enough, but this was a nightmare of epic proportions.
Grandad Ray had made it into Howie’s final four.
My grandad, my headmaster, my postman, all against me.
‘So there we have our final four and I’ve come up with the perfect test of your broadcasting skills. The grand final is next weekend at our County Spring Fair. Each finalist will face a live on-air challenge, requiring them to interview someone at the Fair. Not as simple as it sounds, folks. How will they cope with the nerves of being live on air? Not in a cosy studio, but in the chaos of an outside broadcast at the Spring Fair. Being watched by people. Heard by millions. So close to the big prize … The stakes are high. The prize is huge. Come join us next week at the Spring Fair as we find out who is THE RADIO STAR …’
Howie’s challenge was clever. Only someone with live radio experience could survive a live link at the fair, and I was that someone. None of my rivals had much, if any, live radio experience like me. Howie had clearly chosen this as he knew it would be tailor-made for me to sail right through to victory.
I carried on my walk to school and couldn’t stop thinking about Radio Star. Dreaming about winning it, on stage at the County Fair. Howie holding my hand aloft, Katherine Hamilton looking at me admiringly. Grandad Ray shaking my hand and patting me on the back.
OK, that last one was a bit far-fetched.
My daydream ended as soon as I passed through the school gates.
‘Well, I suppose c
ongratulations are in order.’
As I came crashing back down to earth, I saw Mr Harris’s big fishy face looming above me. Like a starving great white shark who’d spotted a nice juicy penguin in the shallows.
‘Oh, thanks, Mr Harris,’ I stuttered.
‘Not for you, for ME!’ said Mr Harris, laughing heartily at his own non-joke. Just how had this scaly monster made the final four in my beloved Radio Star competition?
‘I will be the winner, of course. Oh yes, with my years of taking assemblies, a silly interview at the Spring Fair will be no trouble for yours truly,’ said Mr Harris, nodding his head in agreement with his own thoughts.
‘I think you will struggle, sadly, Spike. Away from your … shed and chums, like a fish out of water. Very hard for you. As for that psycho postman …’ Mr Harris touched the side of his face, remembering where Sensei Terry had expertly karate-kicked him. ‘Well, run along now, boy,’ he said, shooing me away, keen to get the memory out of his mind.
I bumped into Holly and Artie in the classroom, who greeted me with pats on the back and a hug.
‘You’ve got a lot of work to do, Spike,’ said Holly. ‘We can hone your interviewing skills. I have a plan. You won’t like it, but it will make you better and get you fit for the big final.’
After school, I headed home, and as I entered my road Sensei Terry found me.
‘Hey, Spike, well done. Amazing news,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Sensei. You too, can’t believe you made it. Good luck,’ I said.
‘I won’t win, Spike. That’s not my journey. That’s your path,’ said Sensei Terry mystically. He then gave me a half-bow and walked off. Humble, kind and gracious as ever. The opposite reaction was waiting for me when I got back home.
‘ITTTTTTT’S THE FINAL COUNTDOOO
OOOOWWWWWWWNNNNNNNNN,’ sang Grandad Ray as soon as he saw me.
‘Well, didn’t I do well, eh, Spike? You tried to stop me, but you cannot deny talent like mine. Ye of little faith, grandson! “Lovable” – not my words, your man Howie this morning. Sounds like he’s got a favourite already,’ said Grandad Ray.
Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad Page 13