To this day she always winks at me and gives me extra mash.
So many people were talking about the show; in fact, WE GOT PUT IN THE LOCAL PAPER!
OK, it wasn’t the front page (actually page 27, right by the adverts for converting your loft into a room cheaply), but we were FAMOUS!
Dad crept upstairs with the newspaper tucked dramatically up his woolly jumper. You’d have thought it contained top-level government secrets. He waved page 27 in front of my face with a huge grin.
‘You’ve done it!’ said Dad as he proudly patted my shoulder and crept back out of my bedroom (quietly, in case Mum heard).
I was dizzy with excitement reading the article. I had to sit down I was so stunned and happy. I was famous! Only a few weeks ago I had been fired by Barry ‘Bazza’ Dingle and replaced by a human garden gnome. Now I was winning for once.
Not only that but HOWARD WRIGHT (the bestest DJ ever) had heard about me.
I read the whole thing again, especially the line where he said, ‘I’m gonna tune in.’
MY MIND WAS OFFICIALLY BLOWN. It could only get better from here. Couldn’t it?
‘So, Secret Shed Show listeners, there almost wasn’t a show tonight due to the crazy amount of homework we all have.’
I wasn’t lying: Mr Harris was in a bad mood – I had a feeling it might have had something to do with the Secret Shed Show – and he was taking it out on the whole school by making sure we had extra homework. Hours and hours every night, all week and over the weekend. There was no escape.
‘Can someone please explain the benefit of writing a rap about the Vikings?’ chipped in Artie aka Elvis. ‘Since when has rap been a way of learning?’
Seriously, this was last week’s history homework. Our teacher, Mr Swift, trying to be down with da kidz. Next he’d be coming into school with a baseball cap on backwards and covered in bling.
‘Yeah, why rap music? Why not opera?’ I said.
‘Oh, woe is me, my axe has gone blunt …’ warbled Artie in his best opera-singer impression.
‘Ha!’ I said. ‘Want to hear some of my Viking lyrics I didn’t hand in?’
‘Sure!’ Artie and Holly nodded.
‘Right, I’ll read them out after this.’ I played a song. The show was really going well tonight. Artie and Holly were enjoying themselves and I couldn’t have been happier. The last time I had been this happy was in Artie’s tree house during the summer holidays, when the three of us spent the night in it. Artie’s dad hadn’t given his only child any normal tree house. This was more a palace placed in a tree. A tree palace. This luxurious hideaway had:
A TV
A fridge
A telescope that NASA would envy
Armchairs with a remote control to adjust their settings
Some ancient unit that played those old-fashioned records Artie collected
Air hockey
A popcorn machine
A telephone
A butler
OK. I made the last one up. But it was amazing. The only thing missing was an elevator to take you up to it.
The song ended. I put our mics on and the big red MIC LIVE sign lit up.
‘Hi, it’s the unknown DJ Radio Boy here on the Secret Shed Show. With me, as ever, is Elvis, my music man, and of course the Secret Producer. Say hello, team.’
‘HI!’ they both said.
‘So these are some of my Viking rap lyrics I had to reject … Elvis, could you beatbox to provide some suitable backing music …?’
Artie did indeed start laying down a drumbeat with just the power of his mouth. It sounded more like he was having severe breathing difficulties, but it was all I needed.
‘Here we go … My Viking rap … HIT IT …
‘I got a axe, I got a mace
One swing and I’ll destroy yo face
Let’s go, Viking
It’s better than biking
Get on a horse
And join the Norse.’
My Viking rap got a shed studio round of applause, and I played another song. I could see we had some calls coming in. Artie and I looked at each other and grinned; we didn’t even need to say anything – we knew that was funny.
Holly held up the phone. ‘I’ve got a girl on the line who has a homework problem she wants some help with,’ she said.
‘Great, stick her on air then,’ I replied. The show was alive tonight. Comments flooding in on the site, about hating homework, about the Viking rap, about whether Elvis could maybe sing some more opera. I could feel the adrenaline rush it was giving me. After spending so much time mumbling to myself and hugging the walls at school, I was now in the spotlight. People were finally listening to me.
The song was coming to an end. Time to chat to our caller.
‘Hey, Radio Boy here. It’s your Secret Shed Show! Time to chat to someone who’s called in. Hello?’
‘Hi, Radio Boy, Katherine here.’
OMG. Be still my beating heart. This, I could tell from just five words, was KATHERINE HAMILTON. The girl I wanted to marry. I froze. Artie kicked me under the table.
‘Ow!’ It got my attention back to the live radio show. Be cool, Spike, be cool. You are Radio Boy.
‘Yes … um … great … What a lovely name you have, Katherine.’ WHAT A LOVELY NAME YOU HAVE, KATHERINE? THAT’S THE BEST I CAN DO?
I wanted to hit myself in the face. With a Viking mace.
‘Thanks,’ purred Katherine Hamilton. This could be the start of something. Holly threw her arms up in the air, clearly not impressed with my on-air flirting with a caller.
‘How can the Secret Shed Show help?’ I asked. That’s better, Spike. Professional.
‘Well, firstly, can I say how much I love this show?’
I almost fainted. She loved me. The show, I mean. But …
‘Th-th-th-th-thanks,’ I stuttered.
‘I hope you can help. This other history homework we have, about the Queen and our royal family. Anyone else struggling with it?’
Artie and Holly groaned at the mere thought of this homework, handed to us just a few hours earlier. An assignment about why we have a Queen and something-something about a ‘monarchy’. All I know is Mr Harris has a big picture of her in his office so she must be important. To boring people.
‘Yeah, sounds like a job for Wikipedia,’ I said.
‘It’s so boring though! I mean, really boring. What can we do?’ Katherine Hamilton asked ME.
I needed to come up with something here. I needed to impress her. I, Radio Boy, could not let my future wife down.
‘Got it!’ I yelled.
‘What?’ replied an excited Katherine.
‘Let’s make it WAY more interesting with a game.’
‘Oh, goody! I love games.’ Again, be still, my beating heart.
‘Great. Well, I’m going to give everyone a phrase that they have to try and work into their assignment. Whoever does it the best wins a prize.’
I had stolen this idea from my favourite DJ, Howard ‘Howie’ Wright – and the time when he got his listeners to try to slip the word ‘cowpat’ into letters printed in the newspaper.
‘Great idea! What’s the phrase?’ said Artie.
‘Fish Face. Aka Mr Harris.’
‘That’s so naughty!’ said Katherine Hamilton. ‘I love it. I’m going to go and do it right now. Don’t forget it’s due in tomorrow. Thanks, Radio Boy, you’re the best.’
I was ‘the best’ – it was official. Like a seal of approval. My head felt dizzy. I wanted a T-shirt made with ‘the best’ on it.
‘Well, that was truly sickening, Spike,’ said Holly, when the mics were off, bringing me back down to earth abruptly.
‘Yeah, sorry. It’s just Katherine Hamilton and I really have something, I think. A connection. You heard it. Didn’t you?’
‘She was using you, Radio Boy. Like she does everyone.’
Artie spoke up. ‘You made it weird, but great save with the Fish Face challenge. I wonder if
anyone will actually do it. I will obviously.’
It turned out Artie wasn’t the only one though: quite a few took up my challenge.
So much so, in fact, that Mr Harris got wind of it and called an emergency assembly at school two days later.
Artie, Holly and I all exchanged nervous looks as we made our way to assembly.
Once we had all been quietened down, Mr Harris marched on to the stage. It was the little things that gave away the fact he wasn’t the happiest. The red angry face that looked like a dog chewing a wasp. The fact that he appeared to be muttering to himself. Then I saw what he was carrying.
He reached the middle of the hall and turned to face us. No time for niceties like ‘Hello, children’ or ‘Good morning’.
‘This is OUR QUEEN,’ he spat, and held up the framed picture from his office of Her Royal Highness the Queen of England. ‘And she deserves our respect! This incredible woman raises millions of pounds for charity and works hard every day for this great country. She is not an object for pathetic PRANKS.’
Some spit came flying out when he yelled ‘PRANKS’ and landed on the face of poor Joshua Wilson. He would now be forever tainted by this spittle. No longer just Joshua Wilson: from that moment he became Spit Face. RIP Joshua Wilson.
More yelling from Mr Harris.
‘How is this funny?’ he screeched as he held up a load of our assignments and began reading from them.
Oh no.
‘Elizabeth II has been Queen of England since 1952. In a certain light, some say she has a fish face.
‘The Queen owns four corgi dogs. Her two favourites are Fish and Face.’
We had all been trying to suppress our laughter, but couldn’t any longer. A few kids snort-laughed. Mr Harris was not giggling. He was staring madly at us, his eyes bulging, like a fish you might say.
‘I know who’s behind this. A very sad individual in a garden shed. Someone calling himself Radio Boy. He has polluted your fresh, innocent minds and committed an act of treason against Her Majesty the Queen.’ Mr Harris looked apologetically at his framed portrait of the monarch.
‘A silly game that you will all pay the price for now. You will receive DOUBLE homework for the next week.’ There wasn’t any sniggering now. The assembly went very, very quiet as every single kid there grimaced at the thought of EVEN more homework. Double!
‘I know Radio Boy is one of you. He may be in this room right now.’ Mr Harris was walking around now, looking at each and every one of us. No one could bear to hold eye contact with him, for fear of him stealing their soul. My insides turned icy cold; the room felt as if it was closing in on me. Could he smell me? Through his fish-face gills?
‘Hear me now, Radio … BOY. Hand yourself in and I will show due leniency and only suspend you for a week.’
Suspend me? That was nothing compared to what Mum would do to me if I got suspended. I could just hear her now. ‘My Spike, SUSPENDED! What will people say? Do you have to wear an ankle tag like criminals under house arrest do?’
‘I’ll say one last thing,’ went on Mr Harris, his voice catching on his words, such was the extent of his rage. ‘The Queen is a b-b-b-beautiful woman who does not have a f-f-f-f-fish face.’ Everyone almost lost it again with that one. We, of course, were all in on the private joke that it was our dear Mr Harris who really had the fish face.
We all filed out, and Artie, Holly and I found a quiet corner to talk.
‘Well, that backfired. Don’t provoke him again, Spike, or he’ll expel us all,’ warned Holly.
‘You worry too much,’ I said.
‘You don’t worry enough,’ countered Holly.
Artie wasn’t listening. ‘He’s such an idiot,’ he said. ‘It was just a bit of fun; he didn’t need to double our homework. I hate him.’
As we walked back to class, something occurred to me: I should’ve been scared. But I wasn’t. I was having the time of my life. I was enjoying the new power I had as Radio Boy.
You want a fight, Mr Harris? Well, you’ve got it.
I decided it was time to do some more show marketing. Holly was a bit nervous about it at first, but I reminded her there was no way Mr Harris could trace us. Our voices were disguised. And we had the perfect cover thanks to Mr Taggart’s ‘AV Club lessons’. It was obvious the show was going out live and, as far as Mr Harris knew, we were in class when it did.
For the extra promotion, we decided on flyers around school in the toilets. Why the toilets? Less chance of teachers seeing them and removing them. Holly, who warmed to the idea quickly since it involved logistics, which is a big thing in the army, suggested that along with our flyers we should also have a photocopy of the newspaper article about Radio Boy.
However, somehow the flyers and article made their way to Mr Harris. He decided the best way to handle this was by having a nuclear meltdown live on Merit Radio.
The speakers actually shook, such was the force of his fury.
In the dining hall, listening, Artie and I smiled at each other. Holly gave us an annoyed look.
‘MAYBE I WAS TOO NICE IN MY ASSEMBLY. MY OFFER TO THIS RADIO … BOY WAS NOT HEARD OR RESPONDED TO.
‘LET ME TELL YOU RIGHT NOW. THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THIS LIFE WHO WILL AMOUNT TO NOTHING AND BECOME NOBODIES. THOSE ARE THE PEOPLE SOME OF YOU MISGUIDED PUPILS THINK IT’S COOL TO LISTEN TO ON THIS I-I-I-I—’
‘SPIT IT OUT, FISH FACE!’ shouted Artie, earning him huge laughter. Since the secret show had launched, Fish Face was starting to develop a stutter.
‘… I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-ILLEGAL RADIO BROADCAST. IN A MISERABLE SHED. THEY ARE JEALOUS OF THE GREAT STATION WE HAVE HERE AT MERIT RADIO. THESE PEOPLE ARE SAD AND DESPERATE AND, BY LISTENING TO THEM AND THAT NOISE, YOU ARE ENCOURAGING THEM AND ROTTING YOUR BRAINS. PLEASE STOP.
‘THERE WILL BE NO RIVAL TO MERIT RADIO ON MY WATCH.
‘M-M-M-M-M-M-MARK MY WORDS … THE PUPILS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS VERBAL VANDALISM WILL BE FOUND, THE STATION WILL BE CLOSED AND THEIR NONSENSE ENDED.
‘FOR THE RECORD, I HAVE MY PEOPLE ACTIVELY LOOKING FOR THESE … RADIO TERRORISTS.’
Terrorists, were we now?
I could only guess how red that big fish face was. He tried to calm himself as he finished his rant, which I am reflecting here by dropping the ALL CAPITALS of his previous shouting.
‘This … this … this … is what we do here on Merit Radio. We let our talented pupils’ achievements shine. Take Alan Hanson from Year Seven: he is here to treat us to a wonderful recital on his xylophone … Alan, work your magic for us …’
Alan must’ve really felt under pressure, as it sounded like he was falling down the stairs with his xylophone.
To say Fish Face’s ridiculous rant had really annoyed me was a huge understatement. Nothing we were doing was ‘illegal’. Part of me – a big part – really wanted to push him even more. To see how far he could lose it. Luckily, it was Wednesday, which meant I had the perfect chance to voice my right to reply on the show that night.
Before we started the show, Artie and Holly, seeing how amped up I was, tried to talk me down.
‘Don’t let him get to you – you can’t talk about what he said,’ pleaded Holly. ‘Seriously, this is going to go wrong. I can just feel it.’
‘Spike, he’s on the edge,’ said Artie. ‘I mean, it was funny at first, but … you heard the stuttering and shouting. Don’t make him any worse. We’ve had our fun, let’s just leave it now, yeah?’
I ignored them both. Spike would’ve been scared, but Radio Boy didn’t need to be.
I opened my mic at the start of the show.
‘So, we all heard Fish Face shouting about us. Ranting like some bully. Thanks for the plug, Mr Harris. Nice one. Well, in the spirit of helping each other out, I have on the line now Martin Harris, the host of Merit Radio and captain of almost all the sports teams at St Brenda’s … Martin, thanks for coming on, and no hard feelings …’
Arti
e and Holly looked at each other, worried.
I selected my sound effects. Imagine the sound of an excitable monkey – that’s the sound effect I played for Martin Harris talking. Funny, right?
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Martin. What’s on Merit Radio tomorrow, Marty?’
The sound of a monkey howling, screaming and jabbering.
‘Sounds great, Martin. What are you up to tonight?’
Using sound effects, I made a noise as if a chimp was banging around some saucepans.
‘Oh, banging some pans around. Lovely, Martin, that’s how you relax, I guess. Well, bye, Martin, thanks for joining us.’
We played a song. The silence in the studio was finally broken by Holly.
‘I think you went too far there, Spike,’ she said.
She turned the laptop to face me.
A new comment had appeared at the top of the page.
It was from a new listener.
Martin Harris.
‘You went too far, Spike!’ Artie shouted, while music played and the mics were off. I’d never heard him shout before.
‘I’m not scared of Martin any more. I’ll show him.’
‘Well, I’m scared of him,’ said Artie. ‘On sports day during the shot-put he threw the shot over the school. That’s who’s coming after us now – as if it wasn’t bad enough that you’ve already got his dad searching for us. You’ve turned a whole family against us.’
‘And if they find us then what exactly? We aren’t actually doing anything wrong. We’re untouchable now – we’re in the newspaper,’ I said.
The current song was coming to an end, and we had a caller on the line. On that night’s show we’d been running a phone-in called ‘Worst Things About School’.
‘Just take it easy, Spike; things are getting a bit crazy. Craig is on the line,’ said Holly.
‘Hi, it’s the Secret Shed Show live every Wednesday night. I’m your host, Radio Boy, and on the line now is Craig.’
Radio Boy Page 9
