OK, maybe that’s a bit harsh, but wouldn’t it be amazing if at least we actually ran our own parents’ evenings? Instead of them sitting down for a cosy chat with our teachers about our efforts, we would sit down with our parents and ‘review’ how they have performed over the year.
Of course, there wouldn’t be in-depth analysis about their progress in maths, English or science. The subjects up for discussion at this parents’ evening would be a little bit more interesting.
This would be my dad’s report.
Dad’s Report
Subject: Meltdowns
In science one day, Mr Boron told us about something called DNA. He said it was ‘the code of life’. Every human has genes that make up who we are. I think in my dad’s DNA there must be a MELTDOWN gene. He can be all calm for weeks on end, then all of a sudden, with no warning, something very small will make him explode – like a volcano in slippers.
Take last week, when he couldn’t find the TV remote control. A weird vein came up on his neck and started throbbing. It looked like an angry worm. Mum told him helpfully to ‘calm down’, which made the worm double in size. He went off like a dad firework.
‘REMOTE … MISSING … WHY CAN’T ANYONE JUST PUT IT WHERE IT SHOULD BE? ON THE COFFEE TABLE … I AM CALM, CAROL!’
At this point, Mum breezed in, reached down the back of the couch and instantly found it. Dad was still mumbling about it an hour later, threatening to put a chain on the remote control, like they do with pens in the bank.
Mark: F. Fail. Must try harder, Dad.
Subject: Gifts
Dad is pretty good at choosing Christmas and birthday presents. Better than Mum, who will always insist on trying to find a cheaper version of the gift I want. Last Christmas, when I asked for a pair of Nike trainers, my dad said, ‘Yes, son, sure – just ask Father Christmas nicely.’
Only nanoseconds later, Mum gave him what Dad calls the ‘death stare’. This guaranteed I ended up with trainers from the market that would have made Santa’s elves cry to look at.
Mark: F. Good effort, Dad. Next time just ignore Mum. Like a real pair of Nike’s, Just Do It, Dad.
Subject: Odour
You do not want to go into a toilet after my dad has been in there for a long visit. My dad’s favourite room in the house seems to be the toilet. He likes to keep a wide selection of books and newspapers in there. It’s like a very smelly library.
Mark F: Fail. Use an air freshener.
As for Mum, let me show you her end-of-year report.
Mum’s Report
Subject: Talking
My mum really likes to talk. All the time. On phone calls, in the school playground, to strangers in the street, to a man walking his dog, to neighbours and of course to the postman (Sensei Terry). In my view, a large percentage of these people don’t actually want to talk to her. (With the possible exception of Sensei Terry, who shares her obsession with the comings and goings on the street.) This makes no difference to my mum. She just carries on regardless.
The phone is her main weapon of choice. Dad says we should get her a call-centre headset for Christmas, so she can make multiple calls simultaneously. It seems to Dad and me that these calls are mainly to school mums she spoke to only minutes ago in the playground, making sure they understand EXACTLY what she wants them to do. Follow her orders.
She is at her worst when we go on holiday. Mum will strike up a conversation with any available family and then for the rest of the trip we are forced to eat dinner with them every single night. Without fail, she always manages to pick a really boring and annoying family that we all end up hating (even Mum). We then have to give false contact details when we say goodbye in the hotel lobby in case they ever decide to visit or attempt to contact us again.
Mark: F. Fail. (Can’t keep quiet for more than 3.7 minutes.)
Subject: Embarrassing Me
Mum embarrasses me on a daily basis. I’ve started to think she must be filming a hidden-camera TV show called Ruin Your Son’s Life. Last week, at the school gates, she shouted to me in front of the whole school, ‘Don’t forget to rub the cream into your eczema.’
Then there was the cinema humiliation. I went to watch Jurassic World with some friends, but I didn’t tell her as she’d have said no. Somehow she found out, though, from her network of spies (other mums, terrified of her) and she stomped into the cinema and called out my name. My world suddenly became more terrifying than the sight of a pterodactyl ripping a man’s head off. At first my friends all laughed, then even they went quiet as she came closer.
‘Spike, come with me RIGHT NOW. You know you’ll have nightmares, like you did when you watched Harry Potter and thought your dad was Voldemort.’
That night I did have a nightmare. That a dinosaur got into our house and ate my mum. That wasn’t the nightmare bit. It was that the dinosaur spat her back out.
Mark: F. Fail. But really an A because she’s just so good at it.
Subject: Snooping
(This is the important one so really slow down and read this properly.)
My mum likes to spy on people. Actually, that’s a bit inaccurate: she LOVES to spy on people. I know for a fact that she searches my room almost every day. It’s like being under constant surveillance from an overly suspicious prison guard. Is she searching for hidden digging tools that she thinks I’m planning to use to tunnel out and escape?
And, as I’ve said, nothing goes on in our street without my mum knowing about it. If something unplanned does occur, she’ll hide behind the net curtains in the front room to get a better view. We then hear these frontline reports:
‘Who is that outside Number 52 in the removal van …? And Number 48 … Have they split up? Never trusted him, eyes too close together.’
Then she will be straight on the phone to her network of spies.
‘Hi, it’s Carol … you seen what the Meachers have outside their house right now? Did you know anything about this? No? Me neither. What do you think it’s about? Blah-blah-blah-de-blah blah-blah.’
She’d make a great spy.
‘The name’s Bond, Carol Bond. Licence to pry.’
Mark: A+
Which leads me to the big problem with Dad’s plan.
What was he thinking, believing that we could keep a radio show in the shed a secret from Carol ‘the spy’ Bond?
To my surprise, though, something happened the next day that changed everything.
Something I was not expecting.
‘Spike, you’re going to be back on the radio!’ Holly said, excitedly.
News had spread around the school that there was going to be a special assembly and it was all about the launch of a new school radio station.
Hope was not lost! Dad’s shed would thankfully not be required.
We had been asking Mr Harris for ages and ages about setting up a radio station. We’d even organised a petition that most of the school signed. I say most, as Martin Harris and his mutant apes didn’t. It wasn’t that they couldn’t spell their own names, it was just that Martin snapped my pen in half when I gave it to him to use. None of this mattered now, though, as all our hard work in the AV Club seemed about to be finally recognised.
‘You think they’ll pick us to do it?’ I said.
‘Of course!’ said Holly. ‘We’re the AV Club, aren’t we? And you’re the only one with actual presenting experience.’
I allowed myself a half-smile. She was right. We were surely the only candidates to run it. This was it. The dream was back on.
‘Class, can you all please head to the main hall for the special assembly. Mr Harris has some very exciting news about … well, I don’t want to ruin his surprise,’ Miss Taylor, our form teacher, told the class.
The entire school walked in hushed silence to the main hall where all our assemblies and school plays were held. All the headmaster’s assemblies began this way, with the walk of silence. Mr Harris would stand at the top of the steps that lead into the hall, watch
ing us all file past, like a prison warden keeping an eye on the inmates.
‘Surprised we don’t have to wear handcuffs as well,’ said Holly.
‘Shh,’ I replied. The last thing I wanted to do was upset my chances of getting a show on this new radio station.
St Brenda’s school all sat in obedient silence. Mr Harris walked out, waited for a few seconds, then began talking. All of this was conducted in the manner of a world leader at a press conference announcing world peace, rather than a jumped-up teacher just speaking to eight hundred bored schoolkids. Well, 797 bored kids, since Artie, Holly and I were super-excited.
‘Good morning!’ Fish Face began. Did I mention that’s what we call our beloved headmaster, Mr Harris? When he talks, it’s like a big fish blowing bubbles, with his large puffy cheeks and massive bulging eyes.
‘Some of you may be aware that there has been a campaign to get St Brenda’s its very own radio station. Well, if there’s one thing Mr Harris is known for, it’s listening to his pupils,’ said a grinning Fish Face. He’s the only person I know who, when they grin, look totally terrifying. Like a shark smiling at you before it bites you in half. Except this is a shark covered in sausage-roll crumbs. Mr Harris loves jumbo sausage rolls.
Our great leader was still going on. ‘I can announce to you all now that St Brenda’s will be launching its very first radio station …’
Wild applause and cheers ran through the main hall. This was school history in the making. Fish Face was in his element, enjoying every moment. His gormless son was leading the applause. Clapping like a demented seal. Despite our grievances, it was very sporting of Martin to cheer this news as I’d thought he hated me. I guess people can change.
‘Now, many of you will want to be part of this exciting new adventure. On the microphone, behind it, helping make the programmes. Today I would like to tell you who will be the voice of our station. Radio is one of the oldest mediums in the world. It is a friend to everyone. There is someone in this room who embodies all that radio is about, and is dedicated to continuing its legacy for the next generation. This person has a unique passion.’ Mr Harris paused.
The entire school looked round at me, including Mr Taggart, our AV Club teacher, who gave me a reassuring wink. Holly, Artie and I couldn’t contain ourselves. I was wide-eyed with excitement. Christmas Day was here right now.
‘It wasn’t easy arriving at this decision as there were several very worthwhile contenders, but the pupil who will be on air and launching Merit Radio will be …’
‘Get on with it, Fish Face,’ said Artie, a little too loudly.
‘… MARTIN HARRIS.’
Wait.
What?
Who?
I must’ve misheard him. Not Martin. That just wouldn’t happen.
‘Yes, Martin Harris. Merit Radio will be celebrating all that’s great and good about St Brenda’s. Each lunchtime, pupils who have achieved high grades will have their names read out on the air, as I believe you disc jockeys say. Martin Harris may be my son, but he has, by quite a long shot, the highest number of merits in the school, so that’s why he is the very best person to launch Merit Radio. No one can argue with that.’
Everything went very quiet and into slow motion. The first thing I noticed was Mr Taggart staring at Mr Harris, stunned. He got up and quietly walked out. He obviously hadn’t been consulted on this decision. I thought I was going to be sick. Artie and Holly were speechless. Everyone looked round at me again, this time in a pitying way. Like driving past a car crash. Even my older sister looked over, concerned.
Martin Harris! A radio DJ! How? He lasted one AV Club, called us all nerds at the end of it and never came back. We silently shuffled out of the hall, and Artie and Holly guided me back to our classroom. My eyes were filling with tears. I couldn’t cry, not in front of everyone. The final blow was seeing Katherine Hamilton (the girl I want to marry) rushing over to congratulate Martin Harris. That ape had only got his overdose of merits because he was the headmaster’s son and all the teachers wanted to keep their jobs.
What even was ‘Merit Radio’? Radio for school goody-two-shoeses and their high grades. They wouldn’t even hear it; they’d be in the library, swotting up. That’s not what radio should be about. Who wants to hear guff like that? A Fish Face is who.
It felt like my world had just been blown apart. I was back on the outside looking in. A spectator on the sidelines.
The hardest thing, what really hurt the most, was that all hope had gone.
That was until I got home and opened the mysterious gift-wrapped box that was waiting for me on my bed.
A brand-new microphone.
A big silver one, like actual, proper DJs use, and a brand-new pair of headphones. That’s what was in the mysterious gift-wrapped box on my bed. I was so confused. Who would do this and why? Not Mum, that’s for sure. These weren’t cheap pound-shop ones.
I didn’t have to wait long for the answer. Attached to the microphone was a note in my dad’s messy handwriting, saying, ‘Meet me in the shed.’
I followed the instructions and ran out to the bottom of the garden. Sherlock trotted excitedly alongside me; even he was curious to find out what was going on. I’ve often thought, Wouldn’t it be great if dogs could talk?, but I think they could be really boring. Like that kid at school who clings on to you and wants to know what you’re doing and where you’re going all the time.
Dad’s shed wasn’t the easiest to find. It’s not like we have a big garden or anything, but it’s almost completely hidden under all the overgrown bushes, most of which are like barbed wire and cut you to ribbons if you try to get past them. To the rest of the family it’s a no-go area. Which may have been Dad’s plan, as he likes to disappear in there sometimes. There’s a very high chance of you bleeding to death just trying to get in, and then you have to contend with what’s behind the shed door. Giant rats, angry wasps and entire colonies of ants. It’s like a horror movie: The Little Shed of Horrors. It even has its own weather system. Whatever the actual weather is outside, inside the Shed of Horrors it will somehow be the exact opposite. Hot outside? Polar bears will be shivering inside. Cold outside? Then you can guarantee the ants will be sunbathing.
Mum has only ever ventured into the shed once, and came running straight out, screaming as if she’d encountered a fire-breathing dragon with a clown’s face. She was convinced she’d seen a deadly scorpion, and called the pest-control man. Who found a spider.
Other humans would’ve been slightly embarrassed by this and apologised to the pest-control man for wasting his time – not my mum though. This was yet another chance to warn us about the danger that is everywhere.
‘Well, it must’ve escaped then. I scared it away thankfully before it stung you, Spike. Trust me, I’ve seen in my hospital with my very own eyes the effects of a scorpion sting. I’m talking unable to go to the toilet ever again without several medical professionals helping you with machines. Machines, Spike!’
Have I told you yet that my mum has an unhealthy obsession with bowel functions? That’s a posh way of saying a number two. Every single day I dread the question, ‘Have you been to the toilet today yet?’
When I was younger, I had to fill out a daily poo chart she’d put up in my bedroom. I thought this was normal until Artie came round for the first time and asked what on earth the chart on my wall was with brown stickers and smiley faces. That was the very first moment I realised my mum wasn’t like other mums. The poo chart. For the record, the poo chart doesn’t exist any more, but I still get asked every day by the poo inspector, ‘Have you been yet?’ I reckon even when I’m, like, a grown-up and getting married Mum will run to the altar and whisper to me, ‘Have you been yet?’
Today, though, this was a very different shed. The impenetrable wall of brambles was still in place, but what greeted me when I opened the rickety old door took my breath away. It was totally spotless inside. I could smell fresh paint. There had been a shed makeover. C
olonies of exiled ants were fleeing the area angrily, looking for a new home. Dad was sitting there quietly having a cup of tea.
There were also some fold-out picnic chairs round the shaky-looking desk.
Dad carefully put his tea down on the desk/wallpapering table, and the legs wobbled a bit.
‘I heard what happened, what that idiot Mr Harris did,’ Dad began.
‘What, already?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Mr Taggart, your AV guy, came storming in at lunchtime today for his usual cheese and ham sandwich, crisps and industrial-strength coffee.’ Dad listed these lunch items like a detective giving evidence. He not only knew all of his customers’ names, he knew what they bought. ‘What my customers have in their weekly shop is as revealing about them as their fingerprints, son,’ the Supermarket Detective had said one day.
‘Extra beer or wine? Maybe a party or a tough week. Nappies? A baby is coming. Extra salad? Someone is trying to lose weight. Probably poor Mrs Thomas – always looks like there are two people in her dress, bless her.’
‘Normally, your Mr Taggart is a cheery guy,’ continued Dad. ‘But not today. I went over to say hello and he could hardly speak, son. Furious the man was, so I invited him into my office – you know the one, behind the deli counter.’
Dad calls this an ‘office’, but the sad reality is it’s just a tiny desk in a storeroom that’s more of a cupboard. The desk is the sort of thing you’d see in a kids’ Wendy house. To get into this ‘office’ you have to navigate round the sausage rolls and pork pies. Hardly a high-flying executive suite, Dad.
‘And … Mr Taggart told you about what Mr Harris did?’ I asked.
‘He did, son. Merit Radio! What a load of old tosh! The headmaster’s son doing it all. What a total stitch-up! So I decided to tell him about my idea, about you doing your own internet show …’
Dad paused here. As if steadying himself.
‘Spike, Mr Taggart LOVED the idea! He actually leapt out of his chair, knocking over some toilet rolls stacked in my executive office! He said he’d help in whatever way you needed.’
Radio Boy Page 4
