Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad

by Christian O'Connell

  ‘HE WAS JUST BEING KIND,’ I spat out. Grandad drove me mad. Hair-gelled grandad from hell. Stealer of grandkids’ dreams.

  ‘Hey, take it easy, Radio Boy. Don’t get rattled,’ he said.

  ‘I AM NOT,’ I yelled. Proving him right. I calmed myself. Then spoke.

  ‘So how’s Nan, Grandad? Spoken to her lately?’ I said. I wasn’t going down so easily.

  His big smug grin turned upside down at that.

  ‘I … I … erm … not sure. OK, I think,’ he said.

  I suddenly felt a bit bad. Crushing your grandad doesn’t feel very good.

  ‘Well, you’ll see her next weekend as she loves the Spring Fair, doesn’t she?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, she does,’ Grandad Ray mumbled quietly. He’d got to me and I had really got to him. Then Mum came flying in at her usual rate of two hundred miles an hour. Still dressed in her hospital uniform.

  ‘Well, congratulations to you both! How lovely! You’re both in the final,’ she said.

  Lovely? Not really. I headed up to my bedroom, more worried than excited. Was Grandad Ray right, did Howie have a favourite? To him, Grandad Ray was a colourful, cuddly old grandad. The kind talent shows love. The thought of him winning was unbearable.

  A voice came from downstairs.

  ‘Hey, Spike, your dad’s on the teatime news! Come watch, they’re live at his supermarket.’

  Why can’t my family just be normal?

  The few days leading up to Dad’s Search For a Star semi-finals were spent brushing up on my interviewing skills. My training was designed by Coach Holly and her loyal assistant, Artie. One hideously embarrassing training exercise invented by Holly was ‘Operation Park Bench’. I’m sure she came up with it just to see me glow so bright red with embarrassment, you could’ve spotted me from the International Space Station.

  I was under strict Holly orders to sit for two hours on a park bench and interview anyone – I repeat, anyone – who came and sat down on the bench next to me. How do you start chatting to random strangers? From their point of view, they go to the park to eat their cheese-and-pickle sandwich in the fresh outdoors and this random kid who’s sat there starts asking them their life story.

  ‘Hi, I’m Spike.’

  SILENCE. Munch. Munch.

  ‘Yes … um … I’m training for a radio competition by interviewing people – can I interview you?’

  SILENCE. Munch munch (a little faster, like they’re trying to finish up quickly). Then they get out their packet of crisps.

  ‘It won’t take very long.’

  THEY STARE AT ME FOR THIRTY LONG SECONDS.

  CRUNCH.

  I smile pleadingly.

  THEY WALK OFF.

  Not everyone did that, though; a few stayed on the bench and chatted to me. At first I was a mumbling, sweating mess, but after each one Holly would listen back to the recording of the interview, making notes. Assistant interview trainer Artie would always appear from a bush from where he had been recording the chat and offer the tolerant stranger a cake from his dad’s cake shop (Mr Cake) by way of thanks.

  Chief training officer Holly was brutal with her interview feedback. I don’t think anyone had ever explained the concept of gentle constructive criticism to her.

  ‘That was shocking, Spike! What’s this awful strange new laugh you’ve started doing?’ she asked me, handing me her headphones so I could hear the full horror.

  Me to Stranger: ‘You here to feed the ducks? Huh huh huh he he he.’

  She was right, I barely recognised the hideous laugh, but it was mine.

  Holly frowned. ‘Spike, just stop trying so hard, just relax and be you.’

  ‘I know, but I feel so awkward and boring,’ I said.

  ‘You can do better. Let’s go again – quick, Artie, back in the bushes, there’s an old lady about to sit on the bench,’ said Holly as she motioned at the tiny old lady walking slowly towards me.

  The old lady eventually got to my bench and slowly sat down after wiping it with her gloved hand. I gave her my usual unsuccessful interview request, telling her about the Radio Star competition and how I was practising my skills. Only she didn’t walk off like most of the others; she smiled, sat down next to me, and her blue eyes twinkled.

  ‘I’d love to chat to you, young man. I don’t talk to anyone much these days, since my poor husband died,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What was his name?’

  ‘Geoff. He loved this park.’

  ‘When did he … um … pass?’ I asked.

  ‘A few months ago,’ she sighed. I felt really sorry for her.

  ‘How long had you been married?’

  ‘Over sixty years.’

  ‘Amazing. You must really miss him.’

  ‘I do. I talk to him every day still, though,’ she said.

  Oh, poor lady. She was obviously a little bit mad. This happens, I think, to old people. Artie’s grandad is in something called a ‘home’ after his wife died. This seems to be like a prison for old people who haven’t really committed any crime, apart from getting old.

  ‘How nice to be able to have a chat with you,’ I said. I did my best ‘it’s OK, old crazy lady’ smile.

  ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking – you reckon I’m mad,’ she said and winked.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. Lying bare-faced.

  ‘I come here to this bench and chat to my Geoff in my head, and in my heart,’ she said, smiling and looking up at the sun.

  She held her head back and smiled even more. As if she was soaking in the rays. A tiny little tear rolled slowly down her cheek. Then I noticed one was rolling down mine too. I tried quickly to dry my eyes, but she saw me.

  ‘It’s OK to cry, Spike – shows you have a big heart.’ She patted me on the arm.

  ‘You must be … um … lonely,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied simply. ‘I have my son, but he’s busy – well, you young people always are. But I don’t get to speak to people that much.’

  I glanced over to where two dog walkers had just bumped into each other and were chatting, introducing their dogs. That was a thing about having a dog. You always end up talking to other dog owners. The dogs themselves don’t really say much to each other, just sniff each other’s bums and look bored.

  ‘You should get a dog,’ I said. ‘That way you’d meet people every time you walked it in the park.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s not a bad idea, actually. My son is a dog trainer, as it happens.’

  I smiled back, my eyes still a bit teary. ‘Why do you come here, to this bench?’ I said, trying to pull myself together.

  ‘Because Geoff and I have been coming to eat our sandwiches on this bench for over forty years – it’s our bench,’ she said.

  I stifled down more tears. I wondered how many times they’d sat here. I got even sadder when I feared Katherine Hamilton and I may never get to have ‘our’ bench. Then an idea came to me, and this time it was a good one.

  ‘We should really make it your bench,’ I said excitedly.

  ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘With this.’ I showed her my front door key.

  ‘And then what?’ she asked, still not catching on.

  ‘You carve it into the wood,’ I said. ‘Mark it as yours.’

  ‘I’ve never graffitied in my life, young man!’

  ‘Well, you’re never too old to start,’ I said. She gave me a sly grin and her eyes twinkled again. And so I helped an old lady carve her and her husband’s name into a park bench:

  She stood up and looked back at her work.

  ‘He’s laughing,’ she said quietly. I bet he was. ‘Well, I’ll leave you now,’ she added.

  ‘No, I’ll leave you to have a chat with Geoff. It’s your bench, after all. Thanks for talking to me, Violet.’ I stood up.

  ‘My pleasure. Thank you for talking to me, and good luck in your competition,’ she said.

  I thanked her, began walking away, and
saw Holly and Artie coming out from the bushes. As I looked back at my new friend Violet, I made a note to myself. Never again, when I saw someone old, would I just look through them. I would try to think of who they are and wonder what story they might have.

  Just as I had this very important thought, I saw a furious-looking park warden marching towards Violet and the freshly graffitied park bench. But sometimes in life, magic happens. Just as I was fearing Violet might get arrested and be put in a ‘home’, a football came flying over with supernatural force from the nearby pitch.

  With absolute precision, it hit the park warden with just enough power to ensure he stumbled and fell head-first into the duck pond. Allowing my new friend Violet to walk on, hassle-free.

  I looked over to the football pitch to where the ball had come from. Not only could I not see the kicker, the football pitch was completely empty.

  Maybe it was the ghost of old Geoff.

  Three days until the winner of Radio Star is found.

  Me?

  Mr Harris?

  Sensei Terry?

  Or – please no – Grandad Ray.

  Nothing can prepare you in life for the unexpected sight of your mum putting make-up on your own dad’s face to make him look like a pirate. I repeat. A PIRATE.

  Today was the Search For a Star semi-final. As Mum was ‘pirating-up’ my dad, my sister and I set to work on our home-made banner. A supportive gesture for our beloved father. Or more accurately, just doing what Mum had ordered us to do.

  Mum: ‘Why don’t you two make your dad a banner to cheer him on?’

  Us: ‘No thanks.’

  Mum: ‘YOU WILL or no TV for a year.’

  All Mum’s threats were completely OTT and involved this formula:

  something we enjoy x banned for a ridiculous length of time = MumThreat

  i.e.,

  No daylight for one month

  No sleep for three months

  No water for six months

  She ran our home like a maximum-security prison at times.

  Top similarities between a prison and my house:

  Random searches at any time. (‘What’s in your pockets? Empty them RIGHT NOW!’)

  Lights out at 8pm.

  Zero chance of escape.

  Scary cell-mate (Grandad Ray).

  Soon it was time to say goodbye to Dad as he left once more for the TV studios. We would be seeing him later, as we were allowed to be in the audience.

  The horror show started earlier than I thought when Mum told Amber and me to go and get ready. I remained sitting on the couch, because I would be going in what I was wearing. My trademark outfit of T-shirt and jeans. However, I was hugely mistaken, apparently.

  ‘Oh no, young man. No son of mine is appearing on national television dressed like he’s hanging around the shopping precinct. Go and put your school uniform on.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘I’ve washed it.’

  ‘No way, Mum, come on! You can’t be serious?’ I protested.

  ‘You will look cute and a real Mr Smarty Pants.’

  ‘Please, Mum, no, it’s embarrassing,’ I said.

  ‘GET CHANGED NOW OR NO RADIO SHOW FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR,’ said the prison warden.

  Despite the unrealistic threat, it was pointless arguing. I dragged myself upstairs to my bedroom and slammed the door.

  I put my uniform on, and took a look at myself in the mirror. I hated what I saw. I opened my bedroom door and Grandad Ray was standing on the landing.

  ‘Oh wow, you’re going in fancy dress,’ he said as he combed back his glistening nest of hair. He was positively reeking of his signature scent. L’Homme Odour Toilet.

  ‘You’re coming?’ I asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, see my son make a fool of himself again,’ he said, putting his comb in his back pocket. It was in that moment I decided that I would be The Pirates’ biggest fan. Just to show I wasn’t like Grandad Ray.

  I’d never been to a TV studio before. It was like an aircraft hangar, with people walking around very quickly, carrying clipboards and wearing headsets. We skipped the large queue of audience members when a clipboard headset lady came to meet us.

  ‘Hi, I’m Vogue,’ she said. Was that even a name? It sounded like a make of car. The Ford Vogue.

  Vogue led us smartly through a labyrinth of corridors; cables were everywhere. Cables bigger and thicker than I’d ever seen before. As Vogue slowed down, we saw a giant sign: ‘SILENCE, LIVE TRANSMISSION IN PROGRESS’.

  I gulped. On the wall above the sign was written in big red letters, STUDIO 1. Underneath was a white wipeboard that had ‘SFAS’ on it. We were at the actual recording studio. Vogue pushed back the biggest curtain I had ever seen. It went up and up and up, and then Mum, Amber, Grandad Ray and I went inside.

  The first thing that hit me was how cold it was. Then all the lights, hundreds of them. Finally I saw them. The TV cameras. So many of them, at least four and one on a crane. Even Grandad Ray’s eyes were popping out. It was unbelievable.

  The stage was big, but not as big as it seemed on TV. We walked past the judges’ desk – a new one after Dad had broken the last one. I saw the four judges’ chairs. We were shown to our seats, which were marked RESERVED: GUESTS. I was so excited. One day my life would involve all this.

  ‘Have you just come straight from school?’ asked Vogue, looking at me and seeming a bit confused as it was Saturday night.

  ‘Oh no! He just wanted to look smart on TV,’ lied my mum.

  We took our seats and then more guests were ushered in, the families of other finalists. They looked at us and us back at them like the rivals we were. I was the only one in school uniform. I must’ve looked like I’d been allowed out of my posh private boarding school for the weekend.

  The rest of the audience poured in excitedly. The place was now buzzing. At the back of the stage on a screen that was the size of a football pitch, a countdown clock appeared.

  17 : 29 : 13

  Not long now until we were live to the whole country. I was getting butterflies and I wasn’t even performing. Goodness knows how my dad was coping.

  A man in a shiny suit came out and Mum told us this was a ‘warm-up man’. As his job title suggested, his job was to ‘warm’ us all up. Loud music started playing and my mum immediately demonstrated that she didn’t need any warming up, by whooping at the top of her voice. Everyone looked over to see who the crazy woman was; Hey, everyone, meet my mum.

  The warm-up man told us what was going to happen tonight and then introduced the judges. First what appeared to be someone’s nan walked out, called Sheila, I think, who was married to a very old rock star. Then someone else who was a record producer, and then a young woman who’d had one hit that my sister played all the time called ‘Booty Booty’. Then finally the man we were all here to see: Simon Scowl. Out he sauntered in pointy high boots, his shirt as always halfway undone and the worst haircut on TV. He waved at us like the Queen does. Like, ‘Yes yes whatever’. The warm-up man handed Simon the microphone. He was smaller than on TV.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ he said, and the place went crazy. Screaming and foot stamping.

  ‘Thanks for coming, enjoy all the acts, have a great night.’ And he sat down on his purple-cushioned throne. The countdown clock showed 4: 23: 19 until showtime. I was so nervous. Mum leaned into me. ‘He’ll be fine, don’t worry.’

  Grandad Ray muttered, ‘I hope he’s taken those tummy tablets.’

  The clock hit zero as the theme tune started playing.

  The first act was introduced. ‘Juggling is hard – juggling on a unicycle is really hard – JUGGLING CHAINSAWS ON A UNICYCLE IS IMPOSSIBLE, or is it?’ said the very enthusiastic hosts in tight trousers.

  A wide-eyed madman cycled out on to the stage on a unicycle. He hopped off and started up three chainsaws. In case we had any doubt as to whether they were real (who makes fake chainsaws?), the mad unicyclist chopped through some pieces of wood. A
n equally mad-looking assistant came out and as the wide-eyed madman got back on to his unicycle, the assistant handed him the first chainsaw. Then another. Then the juggling started. He juggled the chainsaws as if they were apples. The crowd were gasping and clapping. Everyone was transfixed as the third chainsaw was added. Mum had her hands over her mouth in shock.

  The hosts came back out and then stared down the TV camera, with their serious faces, urging any children watching ‘not to try this at home’. Gee, thanks. First of all, we don’t have a single chainsaw, let alone three of them, and, secondly, it’s not as if I’m getting bored of having arms and fancied a change by losing them juggling chainsaws.

  After the essential chainsaw safety talk, the hosts shouted some more words that were hard to make out over the noise of the audience, but I did pick out all too clearly the words ‘The Pirates’ and ‘Up next’.

  I felt myself sinking deeper into my seat.

  As the rest of the country was putting the kettle on or going to the toilet during the ad break, we saw them getting the stage ready for Dad’s band. The mic stand for Tom the lead singer, Dad’s drums and the band’s amps. Fake rigging was slowly lowered from the ceiling by the stage hands and various props were added to make the stage look like a pirate ship.

  And suddenly we were back live and the excitable hosts did their introduction.

  ‘Now, this band went viral in their audition when their drummer not only knocked out a cameraman, but stage-dived on to Simon’s desk …’ Cue hysterical laughter from the judges. I was now bouncing up and down, Mum was almost out of her seat with excitement, Grandad Ray was asleep. GRANDAD RAY WAS ASLEEP! And snoring very loudly.

  I shook him awake. ‘What? Where am I? Did the tiger eat my hair?’ He had drooled down his chin.

  ‘You fell asleep in here? With all this noise?’ I said.

  ‘I was just resting my eyes.’

  ‘Here they are now,’ I said, pointing as the lights went up on the stage, revealing the band dressed as even silkier pirates than last time, and standing on their own wooden pirate boat.