Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad

by Christian O'Connell

  Holly isn’t like that to me. She’s too smart for that. I’m more like her butler.

  ‘You’re a real star, Ray, and I love Ballroom Banter,’ said Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright. My blood turned icy cold as I saw that Grandad Ray was clearly The Howie’s favourite.

  ‘Radio Boy, Spike. Great to see you again. You remind me of what I was like at your age,’ he turned to me and said, lifting my spirits sky high. He must mean my undeniable raw exciting talent.

  ‘My mum dressed me as well,’ he joked, referring to the leaping dolphin jumper I was wearing. Mum had made me, saying it was cute. At least it wasn’t a leather waistcoat.

  ‘OK, all of you. Good luck. Neil will explain what’s going to happen; I’ll see you on the other side,’ said Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright.

  Neil the producer told us the rules. Each one of us would have to interview someone here at the Spring Fair – someone chosen by them. In each case it would be a person who had won a prize here. Mr Harris was told he would be first and interviewing the person who had won Best County Fair Baker.

  ‘I love cake!’ said Mr Harris.

  ‘Great news, that should help you – come with me,’ said Neil the producer.

  Grandad Ray, Sensei Terry and I stayed backstage on the hay bales. We could hear everything from the speakers. Holly and Artie turned up to keep me company and wish me luck.

  ‘You look petrified, Spike,’ Holly said, concerned.

  ‘Yeah, I think The Howie, my radio hero, wants Grandad Ray to win,’ I said.

  ‘Look, Spike, you are great at listening to people and talking to them on the radio. That’s your superpower. It’s just a silly talent competition anyway,’ Holly said.

  It didn’t seem silly to me. It was my ticket out of the garden shed and on to radio stardom.

  ‘Now on Kool FM, it’s the first of the four Radio Star finalists, the headmaster from St Brenda’s, Mr Harris, who is live at the cake tent …’ said the backstage speaker.

  Howie introduced Mr Harris and we all stopped talking.

  ‘… Hello, am I live? Is this thing on …’ was all we heard from Mr Harris. A reassuringly rubbish start.

  ‘Right, hello, County Fair. This is Mr Harris from Merit Radio, the school radio station of St Brenda’s, the best education establishment around! I am here with …’ What a surprise – Fish Face had forgotten the name of the person he was supposed to be interviewing.

  ‘Glenn Tims!’ said Fish Face loudly into the microphone. I’m guessing Neil the producer had already told him five times. ‘Yes, Glenn Tims, who has just won best baker – well done, Glenn.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m very happy.’ But Glenn Tims didn’t sound like it.

  ‘Tell us about this amazing-looking cake,’ said Fish Face.

  ‘Well, it’s three levels. The first is a salted chocolate caramel base,’ said Glenn Tims in a croaky voice. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘A stunning cake. Have you been baking long?’ asked Fish Face.

  ‘Since I was a child. Don’t you remember me, Mr Harris?’ asked Glenn Tims aggressively.

  If the rest of the County Fair was anything like the backstage hay-bales area, all ears were suddenly on what was going out on Kool FM right now. No one was talking and our eyes were suddenly glued to the little TV monitor recording the interviews for Kool FM’s website.

  ‘Do I … know you?’ Fish Face asked, slowly and nervously. One thing was for sure, this was unmissable radio.

  ‘I went to St Brenda’s, Mr Harris,’ said Glenn Tims.

  ‘Really? Was I there back then?’ asked Fish Face tentatively.

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Harris, and you made my life hell,’ said Glenn Tims. Right now I imagined even the rare-breed sheep had stopped munching the grass to hear this out.

  ‘Oh … I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. School can be tough for some, but here you are now with this amazing cake—’

  ‘You made MY LIFE HELL! Told me only girls bake cakes, in front of the whole class,’ said Glenn Tims, who was starting to weep into the checked tea towel over his shoulder.

  Silence. Silence from the cake tent. All that was barely audible was the heavy breathing of Mr Harris. I think I heard him gulp.

  ‘I never would’ve said that. You must have me confused with another teacher, perhaps Mrs Warble, the home economics teacher? Dragon of a lady, very precious about Bakewell tarts, I recall. It was years ago, memories get distorted.’

  ‘Mrs Warble taught me all I know about a good rise on a Victoria sponge. How dare you speak ill of her! It was you – how could anyone forget your stinking coffee breath,’ said Glenn Tims. The weeping had stopped and it now seemed as if Glenn was a bubbling volcano about to erupt.

  ‘How insulting! Well, maybe I saw something in you back then that I’m seeing now – your rudeness!’

  And that was all it took for Glenn Tims’s volcano of school misery to explode.

  Years of nightmares about a cruel headmaster, and the crushing of a young boy’s dreams of becoming a pastry chef, all came boiling to the surface. Suddenly Mr Glenn Tims was presented with a chance to gain his revenge, and the only weapon at his immediate disposal was a giant salted-caramel cake of prize-winning standard. With barely a moment’s hesitation, Glenn lifted his precious cake into the air and rocket-propelled it into Mr Harris’s very surprised and fishy face.

  After Glenn Tims had unleashed years of anger at his old tormentor, Mr Harris, with a salted-caramel cake bomb, he was dragged away kicking and screaming to the show security tent.

  No one had any sympathy for Mr Harris, though – everyone just felt sorry for poor Glenn Tims. Safe to say, Fish Face’s bid to win Radio Star was not looking good.

  Backstage, Sensei Terry shared some ancient wisdom. ‘Anger is like holding on to a hot coal, expecting the other person to get burned. You are the person who gets burned.’

  ‘Holding on to hot coal? What are you talking about, Kung Fu Terry?’ sneered Grandad Ray.

  ‘Not my words. Ancient Buddhist saying,’ said Sensei Terry.

  ‘But I bet Glenn Tims feels better now he’s finally had his revenge on that bully Fish Face,’ I said.

  ‘Cake karma,’ Sensei Terry replied.

  ‘OK, Mr Terry, you’re up next,’ said a rather stressed-looking Producer Neil.

  ‘SENSEI TERRY,’ said the karate-loving postman, so forcibly the power of his words almost knocked Producer Neil right off his feet.

  ‘S-s-s-s-sorry, Sensei Terry,’ Neil said, and correctly. ‘You are interviewing the winner of the biggest cucumber competition,’ he continued. ‘If it’s all right with you, that is, Sensei, sir.’

  ‘Please, lead on,’ encouraged Sensei Terry. I followed him out as I was keen to see how he got on.

  We made our way through the crowds of people dragging fat dogs and grizzling children, slowly looking at the various stalls of goods they would later regret buying. Who really needs a sheepskin rug you make yourself at home with glue and a bag of wool, or a wood carving of a badger reading a book?

  We came to a large tent with a sign boasting that it contained ‘Amazing Vegetables’. That was a bit much. Who is ever ‘amazed’ at a vegetable? No one has ever picked up a carrot and gone, ‘That carrot is truly amazing,’ unless, of course, the carrot is singing the national anthem.

  Straight away I was struck by the serious lack of amazing vegetables. Then I saw it. The winning cucumber. This one looked like it had been pumped full of air and was about to explode. It actually was amazing.

  Producer Neil moved closer to Sensei Terry. ‘Sensei Terry, this is who you will be interviewing. Margaret Babble, Winner of Most Amazing County Fair Vegetable.’

  Margaret was a twinkly-eyed lady who looked like a friendly grandmother. She had big hair in a giant bun on the top of her head and could have also won an amazing hair-bun competition. She had a glass of wine in her hand. A large one, and there were a few empty glasses on her table.

  Sensei Terry bowed and Margaret mad
e ‘ohhh’ noises. I think this meant she was impressed.

  Sensei Terry was handed a microphone and given a ten-second countdown. A crowd was gathering round him and Margaret.

  ‘Five … four … three … two …’ counted Producer Neil.

  The speakers in the tent boomed once more with the sound of Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright live on Kool FM and around the County Fair.

  ‘Now it’s time for our second contender. Hopefully this will be … smoother than our earlier one. Now I go live to the vegetable tent and our karate-teaching postman, Sensei Terry.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wright,’ said Sensei Terry. ‘Nature provides us with precious treats. I am surrounded by these. We are connected to the Earth. We must respect the Earth. We are guests on this wonderful planet.’ Focusing on Margaret, he bowed and said, ‘What a big cucumber you have, madam.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Mr Terry,’ she slurred.

  ‘Sensei,’ said Sensei Terry. Not with as much force as he had earlier to Producer Neil. But still forcefully enough.

  ‘Oh, I love a man with a strong manner,’ slurred Margaret. ‘Sensei Terry, thank you.’ She took another gulp from her wine glass. Some of her bright red lipstick stayed on the lip of the glass.

  ‘How did you grow such a large cucumber?’ asked Sensei Terry.

  ‘Well, I sing to them at night,’ she said, and hiccupped.

  ‘You sing to them? How lovely,’ said Sensei Terry. ‘What will you do with it now you’ve won?’

  ‘Well, I shall be eating cucumber sandwiches for about a month,’ she slurred.

  ‘I bet,’ said Sensei Terry.

  ‘I hear you can break a brick in half with your bare hands,’ she purred at Sensei Terry.

  ‘Yes, I can. It’s just my chi power and focusing the energy that is within all of us,’ he replied.

  ‘Would you be able to break a cucumber in half? Not any cucumber – but say my prize-winning super-sized one here?’ asked Margaret Babble, gesturing to the green salad monster on the prize-winner’s table.

  ‘Of course I could,’ said Sensei.

  ‘Who wants Sensei Terry to karate-chop my cucumber?’ asked a now woozy-looking Margaret Babble. The entire tent started chanting in unison.

  ‘Chop it. Chop it. Chop it, chop it!’

  The crowd loved Sensei Terry. This was worrying for the competition, but even I found myself screaming at him, ‘CHOP IT!!!’

  ‘Very well – if you are very sure …’ and on that, Sensei Terry handed his microphone to Margaret and rolled up the right-hand sleeve of his karate gi. He placed his left hand on the cucumber ever so lightly. Marking the spot for impact.

  No sooner had the left hand been taken away, than Sensei Terry’s powerful right hand came down:

  CHOP!

  The County Spring Fair’s most Amazing Vegetable exploded with a SPLAT, showering the crowd with cucumber pulp. It would probably be very good for their skin.

  People screamed; they loved it. The giant cucumber had been no match for Sensei Terry’s karate chop. He was in the zone and looked ready to pounce on the rest of the innocent prize-winning vegetables on the table.

  It was at that moment that Producer Neil made a big mistake. Observing proceedings from the back of the tent, he looked at his watch and realised the interview time on air was up. The next song was obviously due to start. He rushed towards Sensei Terry and reached out from behind to touch his shoulder – merely to let him know he needed to wrap up the interview.

  As we know, though, you don’t lay hands on Sensei Terry without good reason and NEVER without warning.

  I guess because it was seconds after his karate chop, he was still in full warrior mode. The ninja postman didn’t even turn round to see who had put their hand on him. Maybe he thought it was the amazing cucumber fighting back but, within nanoseconds, both of his hands had instinctively come up to Producer Neil’s wrist, which he twisted sharply. At the same time he shoved his hip into the poor innocent radio producer’s legs and performed what is known by Sensei Terry as a hip toss.

  Over his shoulder went Producer Neil and his fall back to earth was kindly cushioned by the still wine-woozy Margaret Babble.

  The tent went deathly silent as Margaret Babble lay sprawled beneath Producer Neil. A few moments of shocked silence passed and then I heard someone mutter, ‘Is she dead?’ and another, ‘Psycho’.

  Bad news for Sensei Terry and his efforts to win Radio Star. Great news for me. As for Margaret, it turned out she wasn’t dead. After a moment she sat up, burped, and said, ‘Does anyone have any more wine?’

  I left the tent that truly had lived up to its name.

  Amazing.

  ‘OK, Spike, the young challenger, you are up next. As the only actual DJ here, it’s your job now to show everyone how it’s done after the last two … efforts,’ said Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright, trailing off as he realised he hadn’t a clue how best to describe the chaos so far. ‘As a dog owner yourself, it’s man’s best friend for you today. You will be interviewing, live on Kool FM, the Best in Show dog.’

  ‘You want me to interview a dog?’ I asked. Grandad Ray let out a sarcastic laugh.

  ‘No! The owner, obviously,’ said Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright.

  ‘Struggling already, Spike,’ muttered Grandad Ray. I accidentally on purpose trod on his foot.

  ‘Owwwww! Watch it, you clumsy kid,’ he yelled.

  ‘No way to speak to a child, let alone your own grandson,’ said Sensei Terry and fixed Grandad Ray with an icy stare. He massaged his left hand and a knuckle cracked loudly. It had the desired effect of silencing Grandad Ray.

  ‘I’ll take you over to the dog arena now,’ said Producer Neil.

  In the arena, I’d never seen so many dogs in all my life. Dogs of all shapes and sizes. Some with bows round their necks and all looking immaculate after being blow-dried at the dog hairdresser. While all the dogs were different, their owners all had something in common. Each and every one looked utterly mad. Crazy-eyed and very intense people. Producer Neil introduced me to the owner of the winning dog.

  ‘This is the winner – Tony Storey. And this is his winning dog, Geoff.’ I shook Tony’s hand and wondered who calls their dog Geoff. I made a mental note to ask about the name in our interview. I looked at his winning dog, Geoff, and saw it was a pug. Pugs, to me, look like they’ve run at great speed face-first into a brick wall. Geoff’s pug face was fixed permanently in a sneer. As if he had just smelt something really awful. How he had won, I had no idea.

  ‘Thirty seconds till you are live, Spike – good luck,’ said Producer Neil as he handed me a microphone.

  I tried to control my breathing and focus myself. I saw Holly and Artie behind the barrier that ran round this arena we were in. Holly mouthed ‘Good luck’ at me and Artie gave me a thumbs up as he stuffed a hot cross bun into his mouth. Seeing them made me happy. Great friends can do that sometimes without even saying a word. Just by being there for you.

  ‘Five … four … three … two … one,’ counted down Producer Neil and pointed to me as he got to one.

  ‘Hi, it’s Kool FM live from the County Fair. Howard “The Howie” Wright here, and today we find the winner of Radio Star. Our HUUUUUGGE competition to find Kool FM a brand-new DJ. We have four finalists going up against each other, but only one can win the big prize – looking after my amaaaazzzzing radio show for a week, trained by me. What a prize!

  ‘We will now hear from our youngest contestant – it’s Spike Hughes, also known as Radio Boy from the Secret Shed Show. I hope he can perform outside of his mum and dad’s garden shed! Let’s go live to him now as he does a special interview for us. Spike, are you there?’

  ‘Thank you, Howie, yes I am. Welcome, everyone, and let me introduce you to Tony Storey. His dog has just been crowned winner of Best in Show,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, young man. I’m not the winner really, though – Geoff here is,’ he said. Geoff the pug just stared off into the distance
towards the burger van parked nearby. I quickly thought of a joke.

  ‘He’s staring at that burger van. Maybe he fancies a hot dog! HOT DOG – get it?’ The crowd laughed politely. After the mess of Fish Face and Sensei Terry’s interviews, I was finally showing everyone some real skill. With an early laugh, the crowd were on my side. Not Grandad Ray, who I could see in the distance snarling at me.

  ‘Now, his name, Mr Storey. Why Geoff?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s a good question. Geoff was my late dad’s name and I wanted to honour him by naming my new precious pug puppy after him. He reminds me of my dad.’ If I was to name an animal after my Grandad Ray, it would have to be a venomous snake.

  ‘Did your dad have a squishy face and trouble breathing like Geoff here?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Of course he didn’t. Geoff has the same colour fur as dear old Dad’s hair,’ said Tony Storey in a very huffy voice.

  ‘URGGH!’ I screamed. ‘Geoff, NO.’

  Geoff had lifted his little stumpy leg and weed on my right one. People were in stitches, laughing. This was not going well.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Tony, horrified at what his prize-winning pooch had done.

  Sorry? Your wheezing furball has PEED on me, I wanted to say, but I needed to regain my composure. I was live on Kool FM and my claim to winning Radio Star hung on this interview. I stank of dog wee. I could’ve done with some of Grandad’s aftershave, that’s how bad I smelled. It broke my concentration. My mind suddenly went blank. I couldn’t think of a single question. Oh no, what’s happening? Then I told myself: just roll with it. Like on the park bench.

  ‘I bet you must miss your dad,’ I said.

  ‘I do,’ said Tony. ‘But it’s hardest on my mum. They were very close.’

  My mind suddenly flashed back to the park bench and chatting to old Violet.

  ‘She must miss him terribly,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. In fact, do you know, she still goes to the park every day to sit on their favourite bench.’