‘Very funny, Spike,’ says Dad. ‘Nice one, good prank call for the Secret Shed Show. Well, you got your mum good and proper. She fell for it, look at her face.’
Mum is confused. I am too.
‘Sorry, Dad, I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Yeah right, you think I’m going to fall for that? That someone from Search For a Star was at the Red Lion show last night? Pull the other one, son – you’re not kidding me.’
‘DAD, I DIDN’T CALL YOU!’
I have my serious face on. I am desperately trying to convince Dad of my innocence. Wait, did he say ‘Search For a Star’?
‘You didn’t?’
‘What did they want?’ Amber asks.
Dad is still in silence, frowning, trying to work it all out.
‘A producer from Search For a Star, looking for new acts, saw the Pirates and invited them on to the live auditions …’ Mum trails off, barely believing herself what she is saying.
‘Hang on, a live audition, as in ON THE TV?’ I spell it out just in case there has been some misunderstanding.
‘Yes, son,’ says Dad quietly, still frowning. ‘I guess I better call them back.’
So there you have it. The big news.
MY DAD’S GOING TO BE ON SEARCH FOR A STAR.
That’s correct. You didn’t read that wrong … This country’s BIGGEST TV show that gives false hope to wannabe members of the public who think they can sing/dance/entertain. And Dad’s band are going to be on the live auditions. Which everyone from my school will see. Live. On their TVs.
17:47
Grandad Ray comes home.
‘What’s happened here? Looks like you’ve all had some bad news.’
‘Dad’s going to be on Search For a Star with his band, Grandad!’ I burst out excitedly.
‘Yeah, nice try, but you can’t kid a kidder, Spike,’ he says, and wanders past us.
‘No, Grandad, he really is – they won the Battle of the Bands last night at the Red Lion. A producer was there from Search For a Star. They want them on the live show.’
Grandad Ray looks like a man who has just received the very worst news he could. Yet in the kitchen his son is screaming excitedly after his call to the producers of the TV show and is sharing the news with the band.
‘They’ll just be on the show as one of those oddball novelty acts that people laugh at,’ Grandad Ray says to us, but more to himself, I think. The snake is jealous.
18:01
Is he the novelty act? I hadn’t even thought about that. I just guessed it was because they smashed Battle of the Bands. I now feel sorry for Dad, protective of him. I’ve seen how cruel the audiences are on those shows, never mind the judges.
As my mind races, it then occurs to me that if people are laughing at him, they will also laugh at me. My life will go back to being even worse at school. All cool points for being Radio Boy and doing the Secret Shed Show will be gone. He will be my three-nippled dad.
PLEASE, DAD, NO! For your sake and mine.
18:03
Text from Artie:
18:03
Text from Holly:
18:05
Feed Sherlock.
As I do, I see Dad in the kitchen by himself. Drumming, using French loaves as drumsticks.
When I came downstairs the next morning, Grandad was in the kitchen holding a broomstick and dancing with it.
‘And a one … two … cha-cha-cha … and a one … two … cha-cha-cha. Just working on my cha-cha for ballroom,’ he said, looking up at me.
Whatever. At least the lucky broom had no sense of smell. I think he’d just poured a bucket of Eau de Pong on himself.
‘Um, right,’ I said.
‘Oh, and you won’t be the only one in this house doing a radio show,’ he added.
I stared at him. I was aware he was trying to ‘rattle my cage’, as I think it’s said. My Grandad Ray was a ten times World Champion Rattler of Cages. Undefeated.
‘What?’ He’d rattled my cage. TO THE MAX.
‘Yep, me and a few ladies from my ballroom class. Daphne, Jackie and Susan,’ he said proudly. ‘And another thing. We’re going to enter that Radio Star competition. May the best man win, Spike.’
‘Doing what? None of you know the first thing about broadcasting or how to do a show!’ I said angrily. The hinges were off my rattled cage doors!
‘Well, I saw what you and your muppet mates do. Didn’t look that hard. I’ll be telling a few stories and singing, the girls and I will talk about ballroom and the olden times when things were better. Better music, better movies, better TV, all better years ago … even better kids,’ he said pointedly, looking at me when he said the last.
‘I have Holly as my producer who knows how all the equipment works, but you … you can’t even work the TV remote!’ I countered.
‘Well, actually, I have my own Holly. I’ve got Susan. She runs the electrical shop in town. Could teach Holly a thing or two,’ he said. If Holly was here right now and heard that, she’d use that broom as a lethal weapon on Grandad.
‘You have no studio!’ I pointed out.
‘Yep, I do. My bedroom.’
‘That’s MY bedroom!’ I fired back. My voice going all high-pitched, I was so upset.
Oh boy, he was really something. Not only was he deliberately trying to get his own back on me for firing him by ruining my dreams and entering Radio Star – he was also doing his radio show from MY BEDROOM. ‘Oh yeah, well who’s the one in the bed? ME. He who has the bed rules the room,’ he replied.
‘Can’t see anyone wanting to listen to people just moaning about the good old days. Mr Taggart, my AV teacher, told me that radio is—’
Grandad, as always, cut me off before I could finish my point.
‘A zee teacher?’
‘A … V … Audio Visual. Sound and vision. Anyway, he said radio is about making people feel good. Not bringing them down.’
‘I know how to make people feel good. Been doing that all my life since the day I was born, with my gift to the world. My voice,’ said Grandad.
Well, that made no sense. How could Grandad have been singing as a baby? Though I don’t doubt he was born with that big-haired quiff of his.
‘You wanna know what one of the best love songs ever is?’ Grandad Ray continued.
‘Not really,’ I sighed. I was finding this all very exhausting and upsetting. At the back of my mind I was thinking how all reality shows and competitions love ‘crazy’ old people like him. And what’s better than one crazy old person? Four of them. It was like AGEING AVENGERS ASSEMBLE on the radio.
I’d disregarded his threat to make me pay. Now it was all starting to get a bit too real. He seriously wanted to beat me and win Radio Star. Maybe even more now that his own son was going to be on the TV.
‘Well, it’s great to have a little competition, isn’t it?’ I said, trying to convince myself.
‘Great – ask me when I’m doing my show,’ he smirked again. Rattling the cage time.
‘When, Grandad?’ I sighed wearily.
‘Wednesday nights,’ he announced.
‘THAT’S THE SAME TIME AS MINE!’
‘Nice to have a little competition, like you said, Spike. You OK? Don’t look too well? And a one … two … cha-cha-cha.’ And off he went, back to dancing with the broom.
This was terrible. Reality shows and talent competitions really do love old folk, almost as much as they love cute kids. As I walked past the hallway mirror, I caught my own reflection. It’s just a shame I’m not cute.
‘Good morning, everyone! Howard “The Hooooooowie” Wright here on Kool FM!’
Howie was always very enthusiastic about his own name, I noticed.
Note to self – I need an abbreviated radio name that rolls off the tongue.
Spike ‘The Hughie’ Hughes?
Spike ‘The Hugh-Man’ Hughes?
Spike ‘Hugh Know It Makes Sense’ Hughes?
‘Ten minutes
past eight on the big one, KOOL FM. So, folks, next Monday we start taking your entries for RADIO STAR …’
Howard Wright played the theme tune to Radio Star, which featured some high-pitched singers all going
‘Radio Staaaaaaaaarrrr
You wanna go faaaaarrrr
You can with Radio Staaaaarrrrrr.’
Then a big American-style voice-over yelled:
‘ONLY ON KOOL FM AND HOWARD “THE HOOOOOOOOOOOWIE” WRIGHT IN THE MORNING.’
My stomach felt like a colony of butterflies had taken up residence. It was fluttering non-stop with excitement and a little fear. This time next year, if I won Radio Star, I could be rich enough to move into a mansion. Or at least get those trainers I wanted.
This was it. Destiny was calling me. Trained by Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright. Who else would be better in this town than me? No one. ‘Do my show for a week.’ I dared not even imagine it. I might faint.
I could just see it now. Me, Artie and Holly in that super high-tech Kool FM studio. I bet it was huge. No cobwebs or spiders in that one, and I bet Howard had a special chair like you’d have on a spaceship – not like the pink fold-up picnic chair I had.
My phone buzzed with excited messages from Artie and Holly.
His texts sometimes have typos as he never checks them before sending.
Her Tuesday-night Army Cadet training at the community centre meant that this would now be run like a military campaign, certain to involve a detailed list being made. Holly lives to make lists. She probably has a list of her favourite lists. Holly is the most efficient and organised person I know. Not only is she the smartest and toughest in the Army Cadets, she is also feared in Sensei Terry’s karate club. She is a lethal weapon, though you would never know it if you met her. Like a red-haired, pixie-faced ninja.
I was excited, just like Holly and Artie, but that lovely feeling evaporated quicker than a sugary doughnut in Artie’s mouth, when I thought of Grandad Ray. How could he possibly launch his own radio show and try to steal Radio Star from me, the rightful winner? Surely he wouldn’t really do that? Maybe he was just saying all this to wind me up, get his own back. Or so I tried to kid myself. I knew my grandad well enough to know that he could easily start a radio show just to prove a point. I also knew something else for a fact. He would do everything in his power to try to win. Stopping at nothing.
I was out of our front gate and heading to school when I saw Sensei Terry with our post.
‘Ah, Spike,’ he said, ‘I need some advice.’
‘After looking after my dad, and protecting me from Fish Face, I am forever in your debt. How can I help?’ I asked.
‘It’s about karate and you,’ he replied.
‘Oh no. I’m not coming back to your club after the last time,’ I said fearfully. Just the memory of my mum making me go to his karate class wearing my sister’s karate pants and them splitting was enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.
‘No, no, not that – but when the time is right, maybe you will come back one day and begin your journey in the martial arts. The force is stronger in you than you think,’ he said.
‘Maybe, but my journey ended in my pants splitting. How can I help?’
‘Radio karate,’ he said, somewhat eagerly.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I’d like to start my own karate show,’ he said, looking at me for approval.
‘You?’ I blurted out in a slightly ruder tone than I meant. It was an unexpected and surprising development that my local postman and one-time karate instructor now also wanted to do his own radio show. I can’t say karate and radio seemed in any way connected. Much like you wouldn’t associate cats with unicycles.
He frowned at me.
‘Sorry, I meant – wow, Sensei Terry. Who exactly would this show be aimed at?’ I asked in the politest way I could. Surely I didn’t need to spell out to him that his target audience might be just a bit small?
‘Well, I imagined there must be lots of like-minded fans of the martial arts. Also I thought I could include some neighbourhood watch information.’
Sounded like Vigilante FM.
‘OK, sounds great, but how can I help?’ I said.
‘Well, I think I need a list of equipment and advice on how to – you know – do it,’ Sensei Terry replied.
I wanted to give him no help whatsoever. I wanted to tell him that radio is a highly skilled art like his precious karate and not everyone can just ‘give it a go’. I can’t roundhouse-kick and he can’t just decide to start his own radio show. But I never said any of that.
‘Sure, I’ll come round with Holly and she can give you the list of what you need and explain how it works.’
With all that confirmed, Sensei Terry bowed respectfully. Something made me glance back at my house. I saw Grandad Ray spying on us and he quickly hid back behind the curtains. I bet his mind was spinning, trying to work out what was going on. Thing is, I wish I knew. Why was everyone around me trying to do my thing?
You never want to see your best friend crying. It stops you dead in your tracks.
Artie burst into tears the moment he got to school. When I say ‘burst’ I really do mean burst into tears. Imagine a massive water balloon exploding.
At first I thought he must’ve forgotten his cakes for lunch. But no, this was serious.
His beloved cat was missing.
I have a dog, Artie has a cat. Or had a cat. This says a lot about us. Artie just would have a cat. Like him, his cat is nervous, skittish and constantly hungry. You never see a cat turn down food. No cat in the history of cats has ever said to its owner when offered food, ‘Do you know what? I’m good, thanks.’ Same with Artie. OK, cats prefer birds, frogs and toads to chocolate brownies (Artie’s favourite) but still there is a similarity. I’ve often looked at Artie’s cat and thought, If I fell asleep right here and now on Artie’s sofa, this thing would try to eat me. No conscience. No loyalty. Just looking out for themselves and their cat tummies.
I didn’t want to say it to Artie, but that cat would probably eat him too, given the chance. Just munch him up if Artie nodded off and the cat hadn’t been fed an entire Sunday roast in the last nine minutes.
My other well-researched observation about cats is that they are always disappearing for hours and sometimes days. Where do they go? What do they get up to? Do they meet up with other cats and laugh about their silly owners who give them dumb names like Mr Poppy Kins and speak to them as if they were human babies?
‘Oh, hello, Mr Poppy Kins-si-winsey. Oh, he’s wanting a cuddle today, well Mr P. can have a ickle wickle cuddle. Oh, how playful Mr Poppy Kins is today, no, don’t scratch me, that hurts Mummy … ARRRGHH MY EYES.’
That’s the other thing with cats. They turn into furry psychos and attack you for no reason. Some of you reading this may own a cat. Good for you. Just remember: DO NOT FALL ASLEEP IN FRONT OF THEM. Or if you do, keep one eye open.
Also, you are not your cat’s ‘mum’ or ‘dad’. If you were, that would be:
a. Really freaky
b. Really amazing.
Did I tell you Artie’s cat was called Mr Bun Face? Yep, it was very hard not to laugh a little as your best friend was wailing on his knees in front of the entire school about the disappearance of Mr Bun Face.
‘Oh, where are you, Mr Bun Face? Are you dead? Flattened on the road? Will I ever see your cute little face again OH WAH-WAH-WAH.’
As we tried to help Artie off his knees and out of the puddle of tears, Holly and I were assisted by Mr Taggart, who had come to find out what the wailing noise was. We tried to lift Artie to a nearby chair in the school’s front office. This chair was dangerously close to Mr Harris’s office. I could almost smell his honking fish breath from there. It took some effort, and our first attempt ended with the four of us – Artie, me, Holly and Mr Taggart – doing some weird ballroom waltz back out of the school doors as if we were bouncers throwing out a drunken customer.
Eventually we moved him
into the chair.
Mr Taggart, our AV Club teacher (Audio Visual, Grandad) and the man who had secretly risked his livelihood by helping us set up the Secret Shed Show, spoke gently to Artie.
‘Is your grandad ill, Artie? Your dad said at parents’ evening he’d had a nasty fall. It can be very sad to see our beloved grandpas and nanas getting older and frailer as time passes by—’
Before Mr Taggart could go any further, Artie, through streaming eyes and a very snotty nose, managed to blurt out the words, ‘Bun Face’.
Mr Taggart frowned in utter confusion. ‘Has he hit his head? Is he concussed? Asking for buns! Poor lad,’ he said, looking at Artie in a very concerned way.
Holly and I glanced at each other, trying to work out who was going to tell him. Holly nodded at me.
‘It’s his cat, Mr Taggart. It’s about Mr Bun Face,’ I said.
‘Bum face?’ asked Mr Taggart in a startled way and quite loudly. So loudly it got someone’s attention.
‘Who is yelling rude words in the halls of MY school?’ bellowed Fish Face, our beloved headmaster, as he came barrelling out of his office.
‘Apologies, Mr Harris, this poor boy is very upset and I’m just trying to get to the bottom of it,’ explained Mr Taggart.
Mr Harris just stared at me. His eyes burning into mine.
‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t my three favourite pupils. What’s up with the king of cakes and turntables?’ asked Fish Face in his usual menacing manner. Holly stared back at him, unblinking, while I broke out in an immediate cold sweat.
‘His cat, Mr Bun Face, is missing. Artie loves his cat,’ Holly explained.
There was silence from all of us now.
‘Is the thing dead?’ spat out Fish Face, who really needed to work on his bedside manner.
Artie started wailing again.
‘No – it’s – missing,’ said Holly, through gritted teeth.
Mr Harris was clearly not a cat owner. I guess he kept pet sharks. His next words were just about the worst thing you could say to a concerned cat owner.
Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad Page 7
