Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad

by Christian O'Connell

  I realised I hadn’t even thanked Artie and Holly on stage and now Howie was asking me to just drop them and I had actually considered it for a moment. Without them I would have nothing.

  What was I doing?

  I caught my dad’s eye and he smiled. The ninja mind-reader was at it again. There might come a time in my life when I would certainly not want my dad reading my mind. I didn’t care today, though. He knew what I was thinking because it was the only right thing to do.

  I grabbed a microphone and asked Producer Neil if I could say a last few words.

  ‘Sure, it’s your moment, why not?’ he said and ushered me back on stage.

  ‘Well, our winner here has a few more words he wants to say,’ yelled Howie, ‘and as he is the Radio Star, he can do what he wants; back to you, Spike – I mean, Radio Boy.’

  I stood on the stage staring out at the crowd, and at first words failed me. It was eerily quiet in the showground, as most of the people were standing in front of me waiting to hear what I had to say. Even the sheep had stopped bleating and the cows mooing.

  I swallowed nervously, and looked at the trophy in my hand.

  ‘I cannot accept this,’ I said into the mic.

  ‘I cannot accept this,’ I repeated.

  I was terrified, but strengthened by knowing I was doing the right thing. I said it again, but louder and more sure this time.

  ‘What are you talking about, Spike? Sure you can!’ joked Howie nervously.

  ‘No, I can’t, Howard.’

  ‘Please – to you, it’s The Howie,’ he said generously.

  ‘Thanks. But this prize isn’t for me.’

  The strange hush in the crowd ended and people were now talking, trying to understand what on earth was happening. It had certainly been a day of the unexpected at the Spring Fair this year.

  ‘It was me,’ I said. ‘It was me that caused the “electrical meltdown” during my grandad’s interview challenge. I was jealous about how well my Grandad Ray was doing and I wanted to win so much. Too much.’

  ‘YOU NAUGHTY BOY!’ yelled some lady in the background. I looked around and saw it was my mum. Dad started to try and calm her down.

  ‘I thought winning was everything, but actually I was losing so much. I’m not a Radio Star, but I am Radio Boy.’

  I handed Howie my microphone and walked off the stage. Dad was first to find me, and he hugged me. At that moment, he obviously wasn’t thinking about the enormous bill he was going to get for the dry-cleaning from a crowd covered in straw and cowpats.

  ‘Choices, Dad, choices,’ I said to him.

  Sensei Terry came over and said wisely, ‘Sometimes, Spike, in life, it isn’t the path you walk down, it’s the path you don’t walk down.’ For once, I knew exactly what he meant.

  Artie and Holly came running over to me.

  ‘You are full of surprises, Spike Hughes,’ Holly said. ‘Turning off the electrics and causing chaos! But then saying no to that prize – that took real bravery. You wanted it so much.’

  ‘I thought I did. Part of me thinks I must be mad turning it down,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Holly.

  ‘I very much DO,’ said Artie.

  ‘You don’t get it,’ I said. ‘They weren’t going to let you two come with me. It would have been me and Producer Neil filling in for The Howie’s holiday.’

  A pause.

  ‘Oh,’ said Artie.

  ‘And you turned it down … because of us?’ said Holly.

  ‘Well, partly,’ I said.

  She gave me a quick hug, and for a moment I felt that strange warm feeling I’d felt when we touched in the store cupboard. Then she pulled away and grinned. ‘Right, I’m going to go and get a hot cross bun,’ she said.

  ‘And I’m going to get some music,’ said Artie. And then headed over to a stall selling second-hand records.

  I looked over at the Radio Star trophy (an oversized golden microphone) that was now lying unwanted on the stage floor. Geoff, the award-winning peeing pug I’d met before, went up to it and did what he’d done earlier to my leg.

  Exactly, Geoff.

  So now there was a Radio Star vacancy. Who would be standing where I’d been only a few minutes ago, receiving the trophy?

  We soon found out. Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright was back on stage. Producer Neil was applying some disinfectant to the Radio Star trophy.

  ‘Well, today just keeps getting more interesting … So, we now have a new winner. And it’s yet another member of the Hughes broadcasting dynasty … The new winner of Radio Star is Grandad Ray!’ The crowd cheered its approval.

  While I knew I had made the right decision, this was going to be awful. Grandad Ray would be unbearable.

  He walked past me and I braced myself for how pleased with himself he would be up there.

  Grandad took the microphone that Howie offered him and paused. I saw that right at the front, behind the metal barrier, was Nan. Grandad Ray saw her too and he froze. I mean he just stood there, looking at her. It was like he was seeing her for the first time. His face softened.

  Howie broke the silence. ‘Obviously in some shock, old fella, but maybe we can get a song or something from you to sum up how you feel about winning this amazing prize?’ he suggested.

  This was actually a good idea as Grandad Ray certainly preferred to let songs do the talking for him.

  He struck his trademark wide-legged pose.

  ‘S-s-s-since my BABY left meeeee …’

  Artie later told me this was an old Elvis Presley song called ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. When performed/strangled by Grandad, it was more ‘Heartbreak Bed and Breakfast’.

  He then fell dramatically to one knee. Something clicked as he did and Grandad Ray grimaced.

  ‘Wow! I get the feeling you’re speaking to someone special here today, Ray,’ said Howie.

  Grandad Ray leaped back up – maybe too quickly, as I heard another bone make an awful crunching noise.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been a fool. I did all this for you, Diane. I wanted to show you I could do something. Please take me back, I’m

  sorry. I can change …’

  I could see Nan looking at him and thinking, ‘Can this man really change?’

  Grandad Ray saw this too. ‘I can change. Diane, I honestly can … Mr Howard Howie Wright, I can’t accept this award, right though it is to give it to me as I was the best.’ Grandad Ray shot a look my way. He just couldn’t help himself.

  He then looked back at Nan, who was shaking her head. Grandad Ray saw his chance at a reunion slipping away.

  ‘I can change! I have gone too far and upset my grandson. But it isn’t worth all this. I just entered this Radio Star thingy to get my own back about being sacked from his radio show. I am sorry, Spike. I don’t blame him totally, it’s that bossy girl Holly – no offence, Holly.’

  Holly shook her head at Grandad.

  And then it was time for another song from Grandad Ray, back to one of his favourites.

  ‘What becommmmmmmesss of the broken-hearrrrrtted …’

  It was enough for Nan Diane. While he crooned his song to her, she clambered over the crash barrier, assisted by Sensei Terry, and on to the stage where she and Grandad Ray hugged. Producer Neil burst into tears. I’m not sure if it was the sight of two old people still in love or the fact that they now had yet another problem with this competition.

  Two people had now turned down Radio Star live on air. What were they going to do now?

  The Howie didn’t look very happy.

  ‘How can this day get any worse? I know what we’ll do! The winner, the most honourable man here, the Radio Star, is Sensei Terry!’

  The crowd managed another cheer, despite being a bit cheered-out by now.

  Well, thank goodness he hadn’t given it to Fish Face! I was happy with my black-belt postman getting my job. Good choice, Howie.

  Sensei Terry bowed and struck a karate pose. Howie shoved a microphone into his face and pr
obably prayed yet another person wouldn’t resign.

  ‘Thank you, everyone. The real winner today isn’t me – this is all about love. Love yourself, your friends, your life,’ said Sensei Terry to rapturous applause from the now very emotional crowd. He bowed.

  ‘Bor-ring!’ came a familiar voice at the back. It was Mr Harris as he stormed off the stage.

  At that moment his son Martin marched to the front of the stage and grabbed Howie’s microphone. What on earth was happening now?

  ‘Dad, I quit. I don’t want to be part of your dumb radio show,’ said the son of Fish Face. Martin Harris, in a day of many twists and turns, had given us another shock.

  Good for him, I thought.

  It must be a nightmare having a dad like that. My feelings of sympathy subsided a bit when I saw Katherine Hamilton run up and put her arms round him.

  He wasn’t the only one getting some special attention. The newly crowned winner of Radio Star, Sensei Terry, was also the focus of affection. From the lady he’d flattened earlier by throwing Producer Neil on top of her. Margaret Babble, with a fresh goldfish-bowl-sized glass of wine, was draped all over Sensei Terry. He appeared to have red lipstick on the collar of his gi.

  I had nothing.

  That’s not true. I had my shed studio. I had Artie and Holly. I had me back.

  I had everything.

  I opened the rickety shed door at the bottom of the garden of Number 27 Crow Crescent. The door has been warped by decades of sun and rain, so takes quite some effort to open it. Once I’d summoned the strength of ten men, I entered my shabby, dirty, dusty, smelly studio. I felt at home.

  Sure, it’s no comparison to what I could’ve had at Kool FM. Air-conditioning, my own butler/producer in Neil and probably my own car with my name on it eventually. But this was home.

  Maybe one day I’ll have a studio like that for real. Maybe I don’t need to rush there just yet. Looking at my mum and dad sometimes, I think being a grown-up is overrated. I turned on all the equipment, accidentally kicking over a plant pot in the process. It was obviously home to a million and one creepy-crawlies that were now on the loose. This was their home too and I really didn’t mind. I turned my mic on and the big MIC LIVE sign glowed red.

  ‘Hey, Radio Boy here. I’ve had quite a day today. Can I be honest with you? I’ve been a bit of an idiot. I thought I wanted something very much and actually I didn’t. I thought it would make me happy, but I’ve learned the hard way today that no prize, or trophy or fame, can do that. Well, maybe it can for a bit, but it won’t last because it’s not real. I spent so much time trying to win, thinking that if I did I would be happier, that I forgot to be happy with what I already have. I stopped noticing all the good stuff I have in my life. This, here, in this shack of a shed, this is my happy.’

  The shed door opened and the person entering saluted me. I carried on talking.

  ‘I’d like to play a song now, but someone’s going to sing this one live. It’s my Grandad Ray. Today, let’s call him Toni Fandango.’

  With that Grandad Ray, the great Toni Fandango, sang, with all his being. The shed window rattled, such was the power of his booming voice. Loud and over the top. It was perfect.

  ‘Weeeeeeee arreee family,’ he sang, so loudly that a can of paint fell off a shelf, maybe in a desperate attempt to take its own life. Who knows?

  I invited Grandad to stick around on the show, but he declined and headed out of the shed door, where I could see Nan waiting for him. His beaten-up fake snakeskin suitcases were there too. He was finally moving out and going back to Nan, where he belonged.

  He paused for a second and came back in and up to the microphone. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned in. I guessed he wanted to say a final apology to me and how much he really loved me.

  ‘We both know I would’ve won that competition if you hadn’t pulled that plug and set them beasts loose on me,’ he said.

  We stared at each other. A deadlock.

  Sherlock growled at Grandad Ray. Nan came in and asked, ‘Everything OK in here?’

  ‘Sure, just telling my grandson how special he is,’ Grandad lied. He smiled at me.

  I smiled back. He’s possibly the world’s worst grandad. But he’s never boring or dull.

  ‘See you, Toni Fandango,’ I said.

  With that he turned and left, but not before he’d pulled my favourite ice cream out of his cool bag and handed it to me. He winked and said, ‘You’re the biggest star in this family, kid.’

  It was pouring with rain so Dad was giving me a lift to school.

  ‘Can I turn the radio on?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said Dad.

  I tuned to Kool FM as I did every morning to hear Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright’s show.

  ‘Hi, this is Sensei Terry, on Kool FM, looking after Howie’s show while he’s on holiday, in some exotic place no doubt.1 Anyway, after the news, our new feature, “Can Sensei Terry break it?” This morning I’ll be attempting to karate-chop a brick, an iPhone and a front door. My producer, Morning Margaret,2 will be assisting.’

  I smiled to myself. Sensei Terry was doing a great job. I thought I might have been jealous hearing him doing Howie’s show, but I wasn’t. How could I be? On my show tonight we were holding a competition to do the best impression of your parents, and the big prize was one of Glenn Tims’s award-winning cakes.

  If it was good enough for Mr Harris’s face, it was good enough for my listeners.

  Thanks for buying my second Radio Boy book. The fact so many people bought the first means this book exists, so thank you. It also means Katherine Harris has to start noticing me now I have TWO books out.

  The cash I get from this book will go on:

  Some new headphones. Mine were cheap ones Mum got from the market and appear to be made of dust and air. They are as strong as really old underpants when they lose their elasticness. And smell as bad.

  A treat for Sherlock. One of those fake shoes from the pet shop that dogs love and chew for days.

  Some decent aftershave for Grandad Ray.

  Thanks for reading. I feel like we are in a secret gang. You can let anyone you want into that gang by telling them about this book. And if you’d like to drop me a line, do: radioboy@radioboy.co.uk

  I gotta go. It’s show time and this radio show isn’t going to present itself. Be awesome.

  Footnotes

  Chapter 1. The DJ who stole Christmas

  1 By situation, I mean masterminding a strike at school over crushing amounts of homework, which ended up with the headmaster breaking into my garden and having a tooth knocked out by Sensei Terry’s front kick. That kind of situation.

  Chapter 5. A new team member

  1 Turned out my VIP fame did not extend to free snacks at the school tuck shop. After a scene of public humiliation where, after I’d been asked to pay, I’d told them I was THE Radio Boy and maybe they’d like a shout-out on my show, the blank face of Tuck Shop Theresa meant I had to get Artie to lend me the money.

  Chapter 7. The guest from Hell

  1 You cannot have twenty-thousand-foot-high waves. If you did, the waves would be four miles high. Kinda like Grandad Ray’s hair.

  Chapter 12. When Grandads go Bad

  1 Munchkins? Oompa-Loompas? For the record, my listeners do not have orange faces, and nor do they have jobs driving candy-cane boats in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

  Chapter 16. The Rumble at the Red Lion

  1 I used tiny font to indicate barely audible mumbling.

  Chapter 30. The Cha-Cha Caat Show

  1 Grandad Ray loves gravy. So much so I think his blood might be gravy.

  2 How was the weather better years ago? Why did the people in old black-and-white photos look so miserable, then?

  Chapter 55. One last thing

  1 There was in fact some doubt that he was in the Caribbean, as Mum swore she saw Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright with his mum at the local caravan park. When I asked if it was definit
ely him, she said she was very sure as his horse-dented car with his name on it was there.

  2 Morning Margaret was Sensei Terry’s news producer on his show, supervised by Producer Neil. Morning Margaret was Margaret Babble

  It’s a ghastly word that. Who even says, ‘Can I just acknowledge you?’, or ‘acknowledge you’ instead of ‘thank you’?

  I’m not sure what’s a better word or phrase. I asked my kids, which is what I’ve done whenever I got stuck with this book, and they said ‘fist bumps’. I’ll go with that, then. So join me as I fist bump the following people:

  My wife, Sarah. For pushing me when I was having a meltdown. For daring to say you can do better. Being there to bounce ideas off and, annoyingly, having better ideas. Now go and write your own book. No really. Do. You helped the writer in me; now I’m returning the favour.

  My two mini editors, Ruby and Lois. The fact-checkers of this book. Hearing you both roar with laughter was always what I was aiming for. Thanks for taking the time to read all the early drafts, or being kind enough to lie and say you had and that they were great. Big love, your loyal dad servant.

  Sean Hughes. RIP. You aren’t around on this planet to thank in person, and I did when you were, but I have to say this here anyway. I gave Spike your surname. When I was younger, you had a big impact on me and I hope Spike can do the same for someone like me who feels a little lost. Sometimes laughing at serious things makes them seem a little bit less scary.

  Rob Biddulph, the genius illustrator. Spinning my half-baked ideas into gold. If you can do such a thing, he did it.

  Nick Lake, my guru and patient editor, who basically took a sprawling book so big and long it would’ve taken a young reader through childhood, adolescence and into early retirement before finishing it, then examined each line like a master jeweller with an eye glass, before stepping back and working out how to find more gems and lose the flab.