Radio Boy

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,

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London SE1 9GF

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Text copyright © Christian O’Connell 2017

Illustrations copyright © Rob Biddulph 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Christian O’Connell and Rob Biddulph assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBN: 9780008183325

Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780008200572

Version: 2017-01-17

To my mum and dad, Liam and Jenni. Thanks for always encouraging my dreams and never laughing at them, even when they included becoming:

  Boxing middleweight champion of the world

  World BMX champion

  A DJ

If your parents laugh at your dreams, sack them.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1. Fired!

Chapter 2. Gateaux Chateau

Chapter 3. I’m an O-list Celebrity

Chapter 4. ‘Pirate party in my pants’

Chapter 5. Loser FM

Chapter 6. Mae Geri!

Chapter 7. Chess Club Nightmares

Chapter 8. The Next Chapter

Chapter 9. Merit Radio

Chapter 10. The Supermarket Detective

Chapter 11. Like Magic Really

Chapter 12. Shop-o-rama

Chapter 13. The Best Shopping Trip I Ever Went On

Chapter 14. Shepherd’s Pie Swamp

Chapter 15. How to Start Your Own Radio Show in Your Dad’s Shed

Chapter 16. How to Do the World’s Worst Radio Show

Chapter 17. Elvis is In the Shed

Chapter 18. The Secret Shed Show Launches and Sets the World on Fire

Chapter 19. The Rise of Radio Boy

Chapter 20. Homework Hell

Chapter 21. Fish and Face

Chapter 22. An Angry Monkey

Chapter 23. In

Chapter 24. No Singing Chipmunks

Chapter 25. A Brilliant Mistake I’m About to Make

Chapter 26. Captain Invisible Nerd

Chapter 27. Oh Very No

Chapter 28. The Most Wanted Boy in the School

Chapter 29. Diary of a Fugitive

Chapter 30. The World’s Worst Apology

Chapter 31. The NET Closes

Chapter 32. The UNMASKING

Chapter 33. The Fallout

Chapter 34. Too Many Apologies

Chapter 35. Do the Right Thing

Chapter 36. The Dream Team Rides Again

Note from Me, the Writer of this, Spike Hughes

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

‘You’re fired.’

I stared at the man sitting opposite me. The programme controller of St Kevin’s hospital radio. Barry Dingle, or ‘Bazza’ as he insisted we call him. No one ever did.

‘What?’ I said. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘I … I know that, Spike. But you can’t work here any more. I’m sorry.’

What kind of a man sacks an eleven-year-old boy from his dream job? A monster, that’s who.

‘Why?’ I spluttered. Later, on the bus home, when I replayed this moment in my mind (as I will do for the rest of my days), there were many things I wished I’d said to the bald-headed man ruining my life. Such as:

1. You’re a monster.

2. Technically, you can’t actually fire me as I’m a volunteer.

3. My mum said you live in your mum’s basement. Who’s the bigger loser here?

4. Have you got any tissues as I think I’m going to cry?

But I didn’t say any of that. Annoyingly, my face was letting me down. My bottom lip had started to wobble, and my eyes flooded with tears. The tears of a dreamer who’d just had his heart RIPPED out, put into a blender and then force-fed back to him. My fantasy of being a famous DJ with a detached house and gravel driveway (and personalised gold-plated headphones) was no more.

Barry Dingle was firing me from the only hour of joy I had in my life, my radio show.

The Wacky Kids’ Wonder Hour, Saturday mornings at 6am. Maybe the name of the show hadn’t helped. For the record, it came from ‘Bazza’, not me. But I loved doing that show. It was sixty minutes when for once I felt I was funny and good at something. It was the highlight of my week.

Well, it had been.

Sure, it was only hospital radio, and most people don’t even know hospitals have their own radio stations. But they do: run, for the most part, by overly enthusiastic volunteers with bad breath and sandals. The thing was, I’d read in all the interviews with my favourite DJs that they’d started off in hospital radio. I collected these interviews in a special folder under my bed, safe from my sister’s prying eyes. Codenamed ‘My Favourite Stamps’. I’d learned my lesson after she found a notebook I’d been practising my autograph in.

I thought I was following in these DJs’ footsteps. Not any more. Me getting fired was also going to be bad news for the fellow members of our AV Club at school. The AV (Audio Visual) Club is an after-school club run by Mr Taggart. There are only three members: me and my best mates, Artie and Holly, and each week Mr Taggart does his best to school us in the magical worlds of broadcasting, video and print.

There had been a fourth member, Dave Simpson, but he quit for Jazz Club. We could hear them practising, and I’m no expert, but it sounded like they were all playing from different pages in different books.

I liked to think I was held in some regard by Mr Taggart and the AV Club, as I was actually doing radio. Spike Hughes – the country’s youngest radio DJ.

Now I was the youngest sacked radio DJ. A scandal like this could ruin the AV Club. I just hoped we were strong enough to survive.

The bald-headed monster man started to speak again, his coffee-flavoured breath hitting me in the face. Ugh.

‘It’s awkward, Spike, and I feel dreadful having to do this face to face. I was going to tell your mum, but …’

He drifted off, a thousand-yard stare appearing in his eyes. This was a look I’d seen a million times when people said the ‘M’ word.

Mum.

It was the look of fear, and my mum was the source of it. A force to be reckoned with. Confident, protective – very protective – and always on the lookout for possible danger in everything around me and my sister. She’s a ward manager at the hospital and that’s how I got the show. My mum ‘persuaded’ Barry Dingle to give me an hour on the radio. Her ability to get people to do what she wants is, according to my dad, ‘nothing short of a superpower’. Running a hospital ward is the ideal job for my mum. It puts her in charge, looking after people, and it provides her with an endless supply of grisly stories to justify her need to protect us from the modern world.

‘See, just today we had a boy come in who got a skateboard for his birthday. Yes, it seemed like fun to him, Spike, for the two minutes before he fell off … Now he only has one eye, one leg and no arms. They have to pull him around everywhere on the skateboard.’

No, Barry Dingle wouldn’t have dared give my mum this news or she would have done something to him that would’ve made him a patient at St Kevin’s. I’m not saying she would’ve physically hurt him. No. She would’ve made him hurt himself, using her special powers.

Bazza started to clear his throat to bring his attention back to the job in hand: sacking me.

‘You know I like you, Spike, and you’re a talented kid; you’re a bit odd but I don’t mind that. It’s just that we’ve got the results back from our yearly audience review. It tells me which shows are the most popular and which aren’t … and that leads me to your show … I’ll just come out and say it …’

‘What?’ I snapped, defensively.

‘It has no listeners. Actually, that’s not true – there was one.’

‘Well, that’s good; you always said the key to radio is to imagine you’re talking to just one person,’ I reasoned.

‘Yes, but it turns out that one person was an elderly lady called Beryl who had sadly passed away and no one turned her radio off. Tragic really.’

Oh.

‘Look,’ Barry went on, ‘I can’t justify your kids’ show any more. The show after you, Graham’s Gardening Gang, is our biggest by far so I’m extending his slot by an hour.’

This was even worse news. The shame of it. Graham Bingham is a really patronising old man with a huge beard that has bits of food in it, and on one occasion I think I saw a small mouse in there. Graham actually resembles a garden gnome. All that’s missing is a red hat and a fishing rod.

I was being sacked and replaced by a show about allotments and hedges, presented by a gnome.

‘When’s my last show?’ I asked, thinking at least I could have a big send-off.

‘You’ve just done it.’

And that’s how my career in radio ended. The dream was over. Part of me wished it had never begun. How cruel to be given hope and then have it taken away. By a gardening show. My dad always said supporting England at football was like this.

‘It’s the hope that kills you, son.’

As I was packing away my headphones, I saw something in the bottom of my bag. A gift Artie had got me from his recent holiday to France. Stink bombs. Banned from our school after some boys threw them into the staffroom. Poor Miss Mills fainted into the eager arms of the PE teacher, Mr Lewis. (Quick update on this: they’ve just returned from their honeymoon.)

No, I couldn’t, I thought.

Yes, I could. I really could.

‘Sorry, Bazza, I’ve left my keys in the studio. Can I just pop in and get them?’ I asked, innocently.

‘Yes, of course, Spike. It’s a tulip special this week. Graham’s just setting up.’

Indeed he was. Graham and his garden show, now extended by an hour. As I walked past all the hospital supplies, I saw Graham and his beard were in the studio, sorting through some tulip bulbs.

‘Ah, Spike, so sorry to hear about your show. No hard feelings, lad. You’re young, you’ll be fine. Probably too young really to have a show, much to learn still. Hey, stick around and help out on my show if you like – see how it’s done!’

With that, Graham let out a loud cackle and stroked his beard. As I said goodbye and walked past the flowerpots and compost he’d brought in, I placed not one, not two, but three stink bombs around the studio. One for each hour of his newly extended show. My gift. The barely audible crunch they made as I left the studio, treading on them, will always be the greatest sound I’ll ever hear. No, second. The best was a few minutes later when Graham’s theme tune started playing. As he began discussing the merits of Dutch tulips, all that could be heard was the sound of a human gnome coughing violently and swearing at the top of his booming voice as he threw up into his beard.

I later found out that as a result of some complaints (from my mum) about his language, they had to move Graham’s show to the graveyard slot.

1–4am.

I sprinted up the steps out of the hospital basement, fleeing the scene of the dreadful crime. The crime of Barry Dingle killing my radio career. I walked past the dozing security guard. Quite why there was a security guard at the hospital always puzzled me. Was someone trying to steal the patients? What would they do with them? Sell them on eBay? I was about to hand in my security pass when I thought better of it. You never know when that might come in handy one day.

I then began my very own solemn walk of shame to the bus stop. Like a funeral march. Same as when our dog Sherlock is told off for trying to steal food from the dinner table. His ears go back, his tail drops between his legs and he skulks away, hugging the ground. My walk of shame quickly turned into the bus ride of shame, as I got on the Number Nine as usual to head back to the estate I live on.

At least now I could relate to all those famous people I read about in my sister’s celebrity magazines. The ones with headlines like ‘WASHED-UP STAR NOW CLEANS CARS’.

I asked myself, Did I crash and burn too young?

I didn’t want to go back home right away as I wasn’t ready for my mum’s interrogation. (I was already imagining it: ‘So you said what to him? Then what did he say? Why didn’t you call me immediately? What exactly did he say?’)

Dad would try to fix the situation, but this time he wouldn’t be able to, as it was broken forever. No, at a time like this I needed the kind of people who wouldn’t ask five thousand questions or try to make it better. I texted my best friends, Artie and Holly.

This was a devastatingly serious situation so I used no emojis.

There isn’t an emoji for ‘I’ve been sacked by a bald-headed monster and set three stink bombs off, causing a studio evacuation’. If there was, maybe it would look like this:

I suggested meeting at Artie’s as I knew he’d be in. He’s in every Saturday morning after returning from his weekly pilgrimage to Lionel Vinyl with a fresh batch of records. Artie loves music, but only if it’s on vinyl. These are round discs of black plastic that songs used to be played on in olden times. To me they look like something you’d see in a history museum next to an Egyptian mummy or a dinosaur tooth. It makes no sense that when the rest of the world is simply beaming songs from outer space on to their phones in nanoseconds, Artie is spinning black plastic discs. It’s like preferring to drive an old horse and cart rather than a Ferrari sports car. Or using a carrier pigeon to send a message to your parents asking them to pick you up from the swimming pool, instead of just texting them.

Artie discovered his dad’s old record collection last year when he found him stuffing the discs into bin bags for the guide dogs’ charity shop. Those dogs are amazing. I love my dog Sherlock too. My sister wanted a cat and I was desperate for a dog. Cats are scary to me. They will attack you at any moment with no warning. What an awful pet. If you had a mate who suddenly just tried to scratch you, you would not say he or she was ‘cute’. Dogs are way cooler and help blind people. There are no guide cats.

Anyway, I won the dogs vs cats debate and Sherlock became the fifth member of our family. However, it was a short-lived victory as my sister used all this to get what she really wanted: a pony. It cost way, way more and means we won’t have a foreign holiday this year.

Anyway, as Artie’s dad was cramming these antique relics into his work van, Artie asked what they were. While his dad told him, an instant obsession was formed. Artie took them back into his house and – fast-forward a year – he loves nothing better than sitting in his bedroom, listening to his records on his headphones.

If Artie robbed a bank, maybe to fund more record-buying, and I had to describe him to the authorities, I’d say he looked like an owl. Big eyes, thoughtful and a large rotational head. I made that last bit up, but he does sometimes cough up pellets. This might be from all the out-of-date cakes that are freely available in his house. That’s the big bonus if your parents own a bakery empire. Every time I go round, I’m offered a wide variety of cakes, and it’s guaranteed all of them will be out of date. Artie’s parents own about five cake shops all over town, under the name Mr Cake. Much to Artie’s horror, sometimes his dad makes him dress up in a giant cupcake costume as the shop’s mascot – ‘Mr Cake’ – handing out freebies in the High Street at the weekend.

Artie is accidentally funny. He just says stuff. There isn’t any filter, or any kind of pause, to think about what he is saying. As a result, other kids at school reckon he’s a bit odd. Like the time he was sent to the headmaster, Mr Harris, after our English teacher, Miss Tusk, asked the class to describe her. Artie shot his hand up, she nodded at him to speak and he said, ‘Skin like a ham slice.’ I don’t think it was what she was after.

Artie’s detached house is just on the outside of the estate Holly and I live on. His parents are way richer than mine. We live in a semi-detached house, but Artie’s house doesn’t have any other house attached to it. Also, he has a gravel driveway. I think my dad might be jealous because whenever I mention Artie’s house my dad immediately snaps back with, ‘Paid for by kids’ rotten teeth from all those cakes; might as well have kids’ teeth in his driveway instead of gravel!’

Artie goes on two foreign holidays a year to exotic-sounding places I’ve never heard of. He also goes skiing every year. The closest I ever came to an Alpine trip was when it snowed last year and Dad made me a toboggan. When I say ‘made me’, it was an old door cut in half. I had the half with the door handle.

Holly’s house and my house have numbers, but Artie’s house has its own name. Artie’s house is called ‘Gateaux Chateau’.

The estate Holly and I live on was built in olden times (1970-something) when the people whose job it was to come up with street names finally ran out of ideas.

I imagine the meeting went like this:

‘OK, what can we name all the streets after?’

‘Queens, you know, like—’

‘Done that.’

‘Kings?’

‘Done.’

‘What about birds? Sparrow? Kestrel—’

‘GENIUS! Let’s take the rest of the day off to celebrate how good we are!’

Holly is on Chaffinch Close and I drew the short straw with Crow Crescent.

I got off at my stop. I was going to get my bike and cycle over to Artie’s. No one was at home, but as I was leaving with my bike I saw Terry. Sensei Terry. He made me LEAP right out of my skin as he was crouched behind our garden wall at the front of the house.

‘Sorry, Spike,’ said Sensei Terry as he stood up. ‘I heard a noise and, seeing your dad’s car wasn’t here and fearing a burglary, I came to investigate. Happy to see it’s you.’

‘Yes, just off to my mate’s.’

‘Safe on the roads, Spike. Safe on the roads.’

Sensei Terry muttered to himself as he turned away, going back to scanning the road like a robot.

Sensei Terry, on top of being our postman and a karate instructor (which is why he insists on being known as Sensei Terry), also runs the local Neighbourhood Watch. He lives four doors down from us. When he isn’t working or teaching karate, he seems to be permanently patrolling our streets and area for any, and I mean any, suspicious activity.

Like the time he called the police to our neighbours’ house as their curtains were still closed at lunchtime one Sunday. The police gave the Meachers the shock of their life as they kicked down their front door, splintering it into a thousand pieces, screaming, ‘POLICE! PUT YOURS HANDS UP NOW!’

Only to find a terrified Mr and Mrs Meacher, who had been enjoying a nice lie-in after a late night celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Sensei Terry was made to pay for a new front door and was cautioned by the police. For the second time that year.

The first time was a classic. Sensei Terry called the police to report ‘terrorist activity’ at Number 56 Crow Crescent. The home of a family Sensei Terry hated, as the dad was a rival martial arts instructor.

‘He teaches kung fu; it’s not a patch on karate, just Mickey Mouse stuff you see in movies,’ Sensei Terry would confide to anyone at every opportunity.

The police obviously take these calls very, very seriously. A SWAT team was dispatched and officers with guns stormed the Woodses’ house. They were led out in handcuffs. An emotional Mr and Mrs Woods and their two teenage daughters protested their innocence tearfully.

‘They’re trained to behave like that – they’re lying,’ said Sensei Terry, who was watching it all round at ours. Next to my mum, by her go-to observation post. Just behind the net curtains.

Four ski masks were removed from their house, which Sensei Terry had seen them all in and presumed them to be planning a terrorist attack, rather than what they were actually doing, which was trying on some new ski gear ahead of their trip.

Now Sensei Terry turned to look at me again, frowning. ‘You OK, Spike?’ he asked. ‘You look down.’

I swallowed. ‘Fine, fine, Sensei Terry,’ I said. You see, there are only two members of the Neighbourhood Watch and my mum is the other one. She and Sensei Terry give each other ‘intel’ on a daily basis. Anything I said to him would get back to her, and I did not want my mum knowing about me getting fired. Who knew what she would do.

‘All right then,’ said Sensei Terry. ‘But if you’re ever in any kind of trouble, you let me know, OK? There’s a spare place in my karate class, you know.’

‘OK,’ I said.

‘You would learn the ancient art of KARATE, thousands of years of wisdom for just four pounds a week. Think about it, Spike.’

No, I won’t, Sensei Terry.

‘Sure,’ I lied.