‘Right, well, you have been busy. Well done. How can I help? Oh, hang on, hang on! Oh no—’ he said, realising what was coming next.
‘We’re being bidded out on eBay—’
‘Outbid, Spike! OUTBID.’ Mr Taggart was always a stickler for correct grammar. Even when involved in a highly illicit operation.
‘Well, eatmycat is the problem, sir!’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Spike?’
‘eatmycat58 is trying to OUTBID us,’ I said.
‘Ah, eBay. All right. Let me think.’ Mr Taggart took a moment and his face frowned in deep concentration.
Think, Mr T, think!
‘I’ve got it,’ he said at last. ‘There is a shiny brand-new mixing desk that just arrived yesterday. Top of the range. Incredible bit of kit—’
‘Perfect! Thank you, Mr Taggart.’
‘—that Mr Harris ordered for Merit Radio.’
I slumped into a chair.
‘Don’t worry. I do have one. It’s old and basic, but all you need to do the job.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said. The show would go on!
‘Hang on, though, it’s currently sitting by the recycling bins behind the school, as the cleaner took it there earlier ready for the bin men tomorrow. You’ll need to find a way to go and retrieve it without anyone seeing you. Then get it out of here. Good luck. If you get caught then I will deny I told you any of this. Mr Harris won’t like you doing your own show. Understood?’
‘Yes, Mr Taggart.’
‘Mr Harris is – how can I put this politely? – a very intimidating man, and I’m already in his bad books.’
‘What for?’
‘I parked in the wrong spot last week. No one knew there were “right” and “wrong” spots. But apparently there are. Anyway, he gave me a written warning, right there! Used a napkin to write a makeshift parking ticket on. He also threatened to take away my parking permit. Said he saw me as a future deputy head here and was disappointed in me, but would like to see me show him I’m still the right man for the job. That’s a nice pay rise for me. Mrs Taggart could finally book that cruise she’s always wanted. So that’s why this all has to be under, way under, the radar. For the sake of my job here, and Mrs Taggart’s cruise, and my parking spot.’
‘Understood. Under the radar.’
‘Good lad, now run along.’
‘HOW ON EARTH ARE WE GOING TO DO THIS?’ cried Artie, after I explained our new mission.
‘It’s simple. I have a plan.’
I relayed my cunning idea to them. They took some convincing, but this was the final item on our list, the only remaining thing we needed to make our own show happen, and we were so close. I texted my dad at work and told him to pick me up from near the school gates at 4pm, and have the engine running. He replied:
At exactly 3.55pm, minutes before school ended, I pulled the fire alarm.
As you can imagine, teachers sprang into action.
‘We all know what to do: leave in single file and follow me to the top playing field. SILENTLY AND CALMLY. Leave all bags here … GO … GO … GO,’ ordered our science teacher, Mr Boron. (Also our head of drama. Two jobs.)
I did leave. Not, as instructed, to the top field – but in the opposite direction to find the back alley behind the school where the bins are. It takes quite a while to evacuate eight hundred kids: about the same time as it takes to find an old bit of radio equipment beside a bin.
Only the mixing desk wasn’t by the recycling.
I couldn’t see it anywhere. There was a big metallic bin with a big black lid I struggled to push open. Out came a terrible smell and hundreds of flies. I was really up against the clock. I didn’t have long until they realised it was a false alarm.
‘Urggh!’ I said as quietly as I could.
I held my nose and peered inside. Oh no. The cleaner had dumped the mixing desk in the bin along with all of lunchtime’s leftover scraps.
I couldn’t reach in and get it. There was a swamp of cold shepherd’s pie and peas all around it.
But I had to. What was happening to me? Did I really want my own radio show this badly?
Apparently, I did.
I tried to reach in, but couldn’t get to the mixing desk. I leant in even further as I stood on my tiptoes. Then something awful happened. Something that will give me nightmares FOREVER.
I fell in.
I leaned too far and lost my balance, and to anyone observing it must have looked like the bin swallowed me. Just my feet were sticking out of the top.
Then, from deep inside the bin, I heard the fire alarm stop.
They had discovered it was a false alarm.
My time was almost up. I had to get a move on. But I was head first in food leftovers and trying not to be sick. I didn’t even have time to panic – I just reached for the mixing desk, smeared in mashed potato and carrots.
I peered out of the bin, breathing in gulps of beautiful fresh air. I was aware I was covered in leftover food. It would have to act as camouflage.
Now to get out of the swamp.
I swung one leg over, then the other, and landed on the ground with a soggy thud. I ran to the gate at the bottom of the school – the one hardly anyone ever uses. The one where I had told Dad to be waiting.
I made it out of the school gates, struggling to run with the soggy weight of the prized possession, heading to my getaway driver.
I will now tell you what my dad said he saw as he went over what happened in my bedroom at bedtime.
‘I heard some yelling, looked in my rear-view mirror and got a fright. A strange-looking beast with a wild look in his eyes was running at me, carrying a box. It looked like he’d fallen into a vat of shepherd’s pie. Then I saw it was you, and you flung the car door open and threw the machine smeared with cold mash and carrots in, while screaming, “GO, GO, GO!”’
We laughed quietly, and my eyes went to the now-clean mixing desk hidden under a blanket in the corner of my bedroom.
We were good to go. It was time to get ready.
In a history lesson at school one day, we were learning about the Second World War and how soldiers would carry letters to be opened by their family if anything happened to them.
Like a soldier, I thought I should put something down on paper about how we got the secret radio show ready to broadcast to the world, just in case I was captured alongside my co-conspirators, Artie, Holly, Dad and Mr Taggart. (I don’t think they have prisons for dogs. If they do exist, I hope it’s clear that Sherlock didn’t know what was going on and his fellow dogs on the jury find him innocent.)
If I do ever get in, like, serious trouble, I really hope the papers and TV news DO NOT USE my recent school photo. A tooth had just fallen out and my fake smile made me look like I was possessed by the devil.
ATTENTION, ALL MEDIA: YOU DO NOT HAVE MY PERMISSION TO USE THAT PHOTO.
STEP 1:
HIRE YOUR RADIO TEAM
TOP TIP: USE YOUR FRIENDS SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO PAY THEM
I offered Artie the role of head of music (in charge of just himself), which he accepted on one condition: that we would only play vinyl (those black plastic discs I mentioned). Oh, great. Thanks, Artie, why not make everything even harder?
This would mean somehow getting hold of a ‘turntable’ to play them on. He also wanted complete control of the music. I gave him that, though, as I didn’t really care. I just wanted to do the show. Artie wants to work in the music industry one day and he saw this as his first break. It was a win-win, as I’ve heard Dad say.
Artie was also going to be my sidekick. My favourite radio show is the breakfast show on Kool FM. The host is Howard ‘Howie’ Wright, and he’s brilliant. Unlike other radio DJs, he’s actually funny sometimes. He has a sidekick, Slim Jim (who is actually a chubby man), and it’s often the chat between the two of them that makes the show as funny as it is. I needed a sidekick too. Artie always makes me laugh so he got the job.
So, b
y hiring Artie, I was hiring two people really: my head of music and my sidekick. He was like a Swiss army knife with all his uses.
I will detail shortly how we got hold of the turntable thing for the vinyl records. For you, it will be way easier. You won’t have my antique-loving head of music. You could play music from your phone, or not play any music at all. Remember, it’s your show.
Now every radio show needs a producer to make everything happen and to keep things in order. There was no one I knew better suited to that job than Holly. Lover of making lists and being super-organised, she would be perfect. Holly’s experience on the battlefront of our local woods in her role as Chief Telecommunications Officer would be invaluable. However, I knew it was the covert nature of this adventure that really appealed to her, because Holly wants to work for a ‘secret government department as a spy’.
This was going to be a great opportunity for her to test her abilities to the max!
Holly leapt at the chance. ‘I’ll need total control over the mission, and I will provide codewords for us to use when discussing this project in the field,’ she said.
‘Field? Why will we be in a field?’ I asked.
‘Hmm. Sorry, “field” is what we call the real world.’
Right.
More importantly, she was the only one who really knew how all the equipment worked. We were the perfect team.
Holly sat us all down and looked at her list.
‘First things first. We need a name for the show, Spike,’ she said.
This leads me to …
STEP 2:
NAME YOUR SHOW
TOP TIP: PICK A NAME THAT IS MEMORABLE AND ISN’T AS BORING AS ‘MERIT RADIO’ – I MEAN EVEN ‘BLAH-BLAH-BLAH RADIO’ WOULD’VE BEEN A BETTER NAME
I’ll stop with the caps lock now.
This was really hard, coming up with a name for the show. Our shortlist was in fact far from short and kept getting longer.
The Midweek Freak Show: because the show was going to be on a Wednesday night. Hardly genius.
Death to Fish Face: we agreed that while this was very funny, it could be seen as a bit, you know, mean. The death bit in particular.
The Funky Monkeys: Artie’s idea – Holly and I said it made us feel physically sick it sucked so bad.
The Radio Rejects: true, but it’s not a very cool name, is it?
Dinner Ladies’ Delight
The Dog Ate My Homework: can you tell we were getting tired and bored?
In the end, it was Artie who solved the problem.
‘It’s just a show in a shed that’s secret,’ Artie sighed.
‘Yes, well done, Artie, thanks for that, Captain Obvious,’ snapped Holly.
‘No, he’s GOT IT … THE SECRET SHED SHOW!’ I shouted.
‘YES!’ the team agreed. High fives were exchanged.
‘I also want a name,’ I said.
‘What do you mean? What’s wrong with Spike Hughes?’ asked Holly.
‘No, no, no. This needs to all be secret, remember? I need a different name. If Mum finds out about all this, she’ll put a stop to it – you heard my dad.’
‘I know …’ said Artie. ‘But this is our chance to get noticed, to do something cool for once. Why hide like we always do?’
I paused.
‘OK,’ I admitted. ‘I’m scared no one will tune in and, even if they do, what if I suck? I can’t handle any more mickey-taking. I don’t want yet another opportunity to fail at something. Spike Hughes is a nobody at school, and he will be a nobody on the radio.’
Artie nodded slowly.
‘Enough said. I understand. I think you’re wrong though. You’re missing a big chance to show everyone who you really are and what you can do.’
‘It’s this way or not at all,’ I said.
‘Fine,’ said Holly.
‘Who will you be then, mate?’ asked Artie.
I had this one. For years, I’d been drawing a cartoon of a pretty unique superhero. He couldn’t fly, or shoot webs from his hands, and he certainly wasn’t made of iron. He wasn’t even a grown-up superhero. Some would find him boring. No, this pretty ordinary superhero was just a kid with one special power. He was great at radio. He was Radio Boy.
‘I’m Radio Boy,’ I said to Artie and Holly.
STEP 3:
IF YOUR SHOW IS SECRET THEN KEEP IT THAT WAY OR FACE THE REST OF YOUR LIFE BEHIND BARS (SLANG FOR PRISON)
We had to protect our identities. If you or I wanted to really do this on the street then we would put on some disguises and outfits, maybe a fake beard and glasses. On the radio, it’s not so easy.
‘You’ll need to disguise your voice as well, Spike,’ said Holly, casually. ‘We’ll need a vocal transmogrifier.’
‘Yeah, of course.’ (That was me.)
‘Uh-huh.’ (That was Artie, nodding.)
But Holly could clearly tell by our blank expressions that we had no idea what on earth she had just said.
‘It’s something you put on the microphone and it disguises your voice, alters it. You know, shifts it higher or lower. So no one would know it was you, Spike, or if Artie is talking, we could disguise his voice too.’
‘How do we get a noodle transiter?’ I asked.
‘IT’S A V-O-C-A-L TRANS-MOGRIFIER! My dad will make us one. I’ll just say it’s for AV Club.’
This news did not reassure me. Holly’s dad’s newest invention was a phone for dogs. The dog would wear a small phone round its neck and while you were out you could call the dog and have a good old chat by yelling, ‘WHO’S A GOOD BOY …?’ to a terrified pooch. Like many inventions from Timothy Tate Enterprises, it had to be recalled after complaints of dogs needing canine counselling after just a few hours with the Dog Phone.
However, this time Holly’s dad, Timothy Tate, struck gold.
Timbo Tate made us what will stand as his greatest invention yet: this thing was a beauty!
A couple of days later, Holly returned to my house, carrying a black box with a small, shiny knob.
‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘This is a vocal transmogrifier.’
We needed to test this mysterious device. Which meant we needed to get into our studio. This would be the first time we’d attempted to sneak in through the secret back gate, to make it to our shed. This would be an important practice run to see how easy or hard it would be next week for real.
I waited until I knew Mum would be out at work.
‘Quietly,’ ordered Holly. Then she did some funny gestures from Army Cadets that apparently meant, ‘open the gate with the key, Spike’. I worked that out after she had to whisper it, because I didn’t understand her little hand movements.
I took the secret key Dad had given me from round my neck and unlocked the hidden gate. At first it wouldn’t shift, after years of never being used. Then, finally, it flew open. We fought our way through the angry brambles in my garden jungle to the shed door. There was a shiny new padlock Dad had wisely fitted to keep out any unwelcome visitors – luckily, he’d given me a key for that too, last night.
We were in.
Holly quickly went to work switching everything on, and various red and green lights started blinking awake.
‘You excited, mate?’ whispered Artie. He’d bought some out-of-date cakes along for the occasion.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But what if no one listens?’
Suddenly, this had gone from being a great idea and adventure to a reality that made me scared. Scared that I might not actually be that good at being a DJ, just like almost every other area in my life. Scared no one would even bother to tune in and I’d look stupid to my friends, Dad and Mr Taggart.
‘Well, I think you’re great, Spike,’ said Artie. ‘This is what you’re meant to do. The school needs you as well. Why don’t you just see it as … you know, a funny little thing we’re going to try for a few weeks, no big deal. Just us shooting the breeze like we always do.’
He was right. I was building this up to be some HUGE li
fe-changing event when I didn’t need to.
Artie patted me softly on the shoulder. It meant just as much as his reassuring words. I felt like hugging him but DIDN’T as that would have been WEIRD.
‘Ready to try Dad’s creation, Spike?’ Holly asked.
We all sat round the studio desk and put headphones on. This voice disguiser had to work, otherwise there’d be no show. I had to remain the unknown DJ. Now I knew how spies must feel when they’re deep undercover.
I pushed the fader up on my ‘mic’ (technical lingo, short for microphone) and felt a jolt of nervous excitement.
‘Twist the round knob and pick how you want your new secret voice to sound, Spike,’ instructed Holly. I moved it a bit and spoke.
‘Hi, this is Spike,’ is what I said. But what came out was:
‘NNNNNNNNNNNNMMMPPPPPP HHHGGGGGGGGGGG.’
We all burst out laughing. It sounded really, really deep and slowed down, like one of the messages a kidnapper leaves in a scary movie.
‘Well, I can’t use that voice – no one would listen.’
‘Move it again,’ suggested Holly. I did, this time way more to the left.
Now I sounded REALLY, REALLY HIGH-PITCHED! Like a chipmunk on helium.
More giggles.
‘Shhhhhhhhh!’ Holly pleaded.
I moved the shiny dial again.
‘Hi … one two … one two … oh, this sounds great! How cool is this … NOW I’m a DJ!’
Everyone nodded in agreement. Holly, the new super-producer, came round with a pen and made a mark where the dial needed to be for ‘me’ in disguise.
I sounded a bit older, a bit deeper. Manly. If Katherine Hamilton heard this, well, it could be a game changer and a voice changer. I wanted to carry the black box of wonder (vocal thingy, more technical lingo) with me everywhere.
‘Hey, wouldn’t it be cool for me to say ‘yes’ during the class register tomorrow morning? Freak everyone out,’ I said. We were all smiling, and in that moment I felt happier than I had in a very long time.
STEP 4:
ADVERTISE YOUR SHOW
Radio Boy Page 6
