Radio Boy

Martin Harris is Mr Perfect. Captain of the school football, rugby, cricket and swim teams. He’s also the son of the headmaster, Mr Harris, who I think created Martin in the science lab.Worse than him constantly trying to ruin my life at school is the fact that Katherine Hamilton (the girl I want to marry) thinks he’s great. This is only because she hasn’t really spent much time with me since primary school, when we used to be friends and play at each other’s houses.

2. Going home.

‘Your school years are the best years of your life, son.’

My dad told me this once, just before I stepped out of his car and into a steaming pile of dog poo, right outside the school gates.

My school is St Brenda’s. Named after one of the lesser-known saints, ‘Brenda’, who, judging from this place, must be the patron saint of boring kids to death. I walk around like I’m invisible. Sure, I’ve got my gang of Artie and Holly, but at St Brenda’s, if you aren’t great at sport, you’re about as cool as a boy caught dancing with his mum at the school disco.

All week, I’d been getting used to living in a world of being sacked. On the TV news I’d seen a football manager being fired, and now I felt an instant bond with him. Luckily for me, my sacking hadn’t involved fans waving big banners saying ‘SACK THE CLOWN’ and ‘YOU SUCK’.

Normally, I looked forward to the weekend and to that one hour on a Saturday when I was king of the hospital radio airwaves. Now all that was waiting for me at the end of the week was the dreaded karate lesson. I had been thinking about Dad’s idea of doing my own show, but two things kept coming up:

1 The sadness of doing it from my dad’s garden shed.

2 Mum never letting it happen due to various worries, like me being mauled by a wandering bear or struck by lightning.

But the reality was that it was possibly the only way I had of doing radio again. Unless the school did launch its own station, in which case I’d be the only one for the job. But I didn’t share Holly’s optimism about that. Headmaster Harris had been promising us a radio station for ages.

Right now, though, I didn’t have the energy to worry about getting back on the radio, because I was heading to my first ever karate lesson. After much initial moaning at Mum’s decision to make me go, I had to admit I was now a bit excited. This was down to two things.

Firstly, Holly had told me that Katherine Hamilton (the girl I was going to marry) would be there. This was the perfect opportunity to finally impress her.

Secondly, I LOVE fight scenes and action movies. I’ve often thought I could easily be a stuntman if prime-time radio doesn’t happen for me. Everyone should have a back-up plan: it’s just smart thinking. I have an Iron Man poster on my bedroom wall. I like to look at it and imagine being the stand-in who does all Robert Downey Jr’s amazing stunts.

One evening, I made the mistake of telling Mum about my dreams of Hollywood stardom. She looked at the poster and all she said was, ‘Well, you need to get your maths grades up.’ As a lifelong member of the bottom set in maths, I knew that would be hard work. And, anyway, why would a stuntman need pie charts and fractions?

Brave though Iron Man is, he never has to face my personal hell of the boys’ changing room. Sure, it’s a fun place if you are one of the boys who look like Olympic athletes, with the early signs of hairs on your chest. But for the rest of us it’s a nightmare, nervously trying to take our clothes off without the other, bigger apes seeing you.

While getting ready for the karate lesson, there was an early sign this was not going to go to plan when Martin Harris strutted in, chewing gum.

Soon as he saw me, he shouted over, ‘Girls’ changing room is over there, Spike!’ and his mutant ape mates all laughed.

After some warm-up star jumps, the karate class was ordered to line up. Sensei Terry walked out with his hands proudly resting on his black belt. Cooool! Like a cowboy with his belt and holsters, except this was a gym hall in a community centre, not the Wild West.

He bowed.

‘Welcome, Spike,’ he said. ‘To our class.’

‘Um, thanks, Terry.’

‘Call me Sensei!’ he said sternly. Almost barking at me.

You might remember that Sensei Terry was also our local Neighbourhood Watch leader and postman. (Dad had asked me to check with Sensei Terry after the class about a parcel he was waiting for.)

Sensei Terry proceeded to demonstrate a front kick. Or, as he described it, in his unique Japanese accent, ‘Mae Geri … MAE GERI.’

Hearing the Japanese word for this technique, I felt suddenly excited again, at the prospect of this ancient art being passed on from Master (Terry the postman) to promising young protégé (me). All in a sports hall that stank of cheesy feet, and that we had to vacate by 5pm, as that was when my mum’s Zumba class started.

I could do this. Sensei Terry called out for a volunteer. I shot my hand up. This was my moment to impress Katherine Hamilton (the girl I wanted to marry).

He picked me. Sensei Terry knew there was something about me. This promising newcomer who showed raw potential. Maybe just something in the way I had swaggered into the community hall. As if I belonged there. The Master had finally found his apprentice. Sadly, just walking out to the front of the class wasn’t easy due to my karate outfit.

About that. I’d asked my mum for a new karate uniform to wear to my first lesson. Dad agreed and looked online at one made in Japan, the home of karate.

‘This is the one, Spike,’ he said, ‘as worn by three-time World Champion Chuck Chuckerson.’ My dream of owning such a sacred garment was only one Dad click away. Sadly, this moment was to last less than 0.09 seconds as Mum stopped Dad mid-sentence to remind him that there was already a ‘perfectly good’ karate uniform in the house. My big sister’s.

‘YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME, MUM!’ I pleaded.

‘If you actually stick to this class, then your dad will get you a new one,’ she said.

Dad may be many things, but in this house the real Sensei is Mum – with a black belt in cheapness. If Dad died, I think – rather than pay for a proper wooden coffin – she’d just put him in a shoebox and bury him in the garden, like we did my sister’s hamster, Mr Whiskers.

This karate outfit, or ‘gi’ as I later learned it was called from Terry the samurai postman, hardly fitted as it had shrunk after Dad put it in the tumble dryer for too long. It would have been uncomfortable on a small dog, let alone an eleven-year-old like me, who was about to become a highly trained fighting machine.

‘Spike here will show us how easy it is, won’t you?’ said Sensei Terry.

‘Yeah, Terry,’ I replied.

‘It’s Sensei!’ the samurai postman screamed back, his words almost punching the air.

‘Yes – sorry, Sensei,’ I replied meekly.

‘OK, so, Mae Geri front kick NOW!’

We were in a ‘front stance’. Which meant left foot forward and right leg behind. I was coiled like a cobra, ready to strike. As my rear leg came up like the mighty Sensei Terry had just demonstrated, I fired my foot into an imaginary attacker’s stomach (not really imaginary – Martin’s), and … there was a tremendous tearing noise.

Suddenly, I could feel fresh air around my backside. This wasn’t going to be my moment to impress Katherine Hamilton or become a Hollywood stuntman.

My karate trousers had split.

To be precise – my sister’s karate trousers had split.

In front of the whole class. But, worse, in front of Katherine Hamilton (the girl I wanted to marry).

Leading the laughing and pointing at what my split karate trousers had revealed was, of course, School Enemy Number One, Martin Harris. The tear had revealed my underpants. They were Iron Man underpants.

Yeah, I know, Iron Man underpants. Please don’t judge me. My mum got them when I was younger and they were the only clean ones to wear that day.

It was obvious I could never, ever go back. I had brought shame on this ancient art form and I’m pretty sure the samurai code didn’t allow its warriors to wear their big sisters’ clothes. The laughing, the pointing, the Iron Man underpants: this would now become yet another nightmare I would relive forever.

For days afterwards, as I walked the school corridors, I could see people looking at me, sniggering, trying to hide their laughter, and hear the yells of, ‘Hey, look, IT’S IRON MAN!’

Or worse, ‘He wears his SISTER’S CLOTHES!’

Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up! Then GET INTO THE PIT OF SNAKES, MARTY!

My stuntman career was over before it had even begun.

That evening, I was hit with another MMB (Mum Mind Bomb). As she turned out my bedroom light, she chillingly said, ‘Don’t worry, there’s always the Chess Club.’

As I slept, I had terrible nightmares of Katherine Hamilton in a wedding dress, walking down the aisle with a man in my clothes – except it was Martin Harris. I wasn’t going to be marrying Katherine. Instead, I was playing chess with the vicar at the back of the church.

No! I thought when I woke up, sweating coldly from the nightmare. Not Chess Club. This had to stop, and only one thing could halt Mum on a mission.

I’ve got to get back on the radio.

There was nothing else for it: I was going to have to try out Dad’s idea, and start broadcasting from the garden shed.

There was one big Mum-sized problem with that plan, though, as I will explain in the next chapter, if you’re still reading this horror story.

Another thing I like to think about at school, other than going home and snake pits and School Enemy Number One, Martin Harris, is sacking my parents.

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!

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