Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad Read online

  Was I in some weird computer game where players had to find new ways of making my life hell? Forget the Sims, this was the Slums.

  This was the girl who had called my very own show telling me I was ‘the best’. Now she was all aboard the Martin Harris Love Train with his headmaster dad in the driving seat, wearing a train-driver’s hat. The three of them against me.

  I started to feel sick at the thought of having to hear them together on the radio.

  Suddenly all that came into my head was that song Grandad had crooned earlier, which, judging by his voice, sounded like it was called ‘What Becomes of the Broken-farted?’.

  The warning signs were there from the moment Grandad Ray joined our merry band of radio outlaws.

  Dad had warned me too, and I’d ignored him. ‘Be careful, son, you are doing a kind thing, but remember: Grandad is very selfish. That’s why Nan threw him out.’

  I just thought he was being mean – but he was right.

  For his second appearance on the show, Grandad Ray carried his own chair into my shed studio. The old picnic chair I’d sorted for him obviously wasn’t good enough. So he rocked up with Dad’s office chair. My dad doesn’t actually have an office, it’s just a desk and swivel chair in the gap under the stairs. Grandad had hauled the chair all the way into the shed studio, and I soon realised it wasn’t for comfort. It was because it was a big chair and higher than any of ours. He now had a sort of royal radio throne, to look down on us from.

  It got worse. For the next show I walked into the shed to turn everything on before Artie and Holly arrived, and found Grandad was already in there. Sitting in MY chair, behind MY microphone.

  ‘Just thought we could switch things up a bit tonight,’ he said. ‘I can do a bit more on air – you know, might freshen things up.’

  I stood there, shocked, unable to speak. It was my show. He wasn’t just taking part, he was taking over.

  Holly came in and within seconds had assessed the situation and, more importantly, what she could do about it. ‘Sorry, Mr Hughes Senior, but that’s Spike’s chair. I’m going to have to ask you to move, as the microphone is carefully calibrated to his voice and if you speak into it, your voice won’t sound as big and strong as it normally does.’

  Genius, Holly – appeal to his vanity and ego. She then doubled that up with this:

  ‘Also that’s where the spiders’ nest is.’

  ‘ARRGGGGHHH!’ screamed Grandad Ray as he leaped up and scuttled back to his chair. After the show, I asked Holly how she knew he was scared of spiders.

  ‘You forget, I’m in the Army Cadets. We are trained to notice everything and read people,’ Holly said, looking pleased with herself.

  ‘Wow, that’s incredible. What a skill,’ I said admiringly.

  ‘Yup, that and the fact your mum told me he was,’ Holly said.

  It had been three shows now and we were heading into tonight’s fourth with Grandad Ray on board. It was getting worse. Grandad was holding court midway through tonight’s Secret Shed Show, telling a long, boring story about performing at some comedy club in Blackpool. Holly was rolling her eyes in boredom and miming yawning behind his back. Clearly, she still hadn’t forgiven him for the ‘ginger hair’ comments.

  Artie was politely feigning interest and my face was frozen into a fake grin. I was also trying to swallow a yawn. You know when you desperately need to have a big yawn but you can’t when someone is talking to you, as it’s too rude? So you have to try to swallow it. Not that it would’ve mattered if I had let out a huge yawn anyway – Grandad wouldn’t have noticed, as he was pretty occupied with what he thought was another fantastic story. The same one he’d told last week, and the week before that, I believe.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the time the cruise ship I was working on was in a gale force fifty storm?’ Grandad asked, when his earlier story had mercifully come to an end.

  ‘Yes, I think you did, Grandad.’ But Grandad ploughed on regardless.

  ‘During a song – it was a particularly good rendition of Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender” – a huge wave, must’ve been twenty thousand feet high,1 at least, rocked the ship so hard I flew off the stage and landed on the front row. I went head first into a lucky lady’s bosom!’

  ‘That’s enough, Grandad! You told us this story last week and we got a complaint about that last bit from a listener’s mum who said it was “inappropriate”.’

  ‘Well, she sounds like a stuck-up, boring old whatnot. I always say if a story is worth telling once, it’s worth telling twice,’ Grandad said.

  ‘Maybe not for three weeks in a row, though, eh? Let’s play a song,’ I sighed.

  ‘Song? Do you want me to sing?’

  ‘NO!!!’ said all three of us simultaneously.

  I hit the play button so hard and quickly the studio desk shook. It was more like a panic button than a play button.

  Very quickly my Grandad Ray had overrun the show. Like a rotten apple that stinks out the rest of the thing the apples are contained in. No, that doesn’t work. Forget that. He was a cuckoo. You know what cuckoos do? A cuckoo lays its eggs in the nest of another bird. Just some stranger bird’s nest it doesn’t even know. The cuckoo babies hatch out of their eggs quicker than the other bird babies and they just kick them out of the nest, their nest, totally taking over.

  Grandad was Cuckoo Ray.

  What had I brought upon me, the team and the listeners?

  And it wasn’t just the tendency to take over. Holly had started calling him the ‘Big Topper’ behind his back. Anything you had done, Grandad could top it. Not only had he done it, he’d done it bigger. Better. Scarier.

  Like earlier in the show today, when Artie was telling us the story of what had happened to his hair.

  ‘My dad just said my hair needed trimming and he was perfectly able to do it himself. I said, “You’re not a professionally trained hairdresser, Dad,” but he said he’s been making cakes for years using all sorts of hand-held tools, shaping, cutting, trimming – so how hard can it be? Well, when I looked in the mirror I saw how hard it is. Look at the state of me!’

  I have to say, Artie’s hair was truly in a very bad way. My mum, in her hospital, would have described it as being in ‘critical condition’. He looked like he had contracted a rare tropical illness where the poor sufferer lost random chunks of their hair. Although he mostly looked like a kid whose dad had cut his hair.

  Guess who’d had a worse cut, though?

  The BIG TOPPER, of course.

  ‘That’s NOTHING! I was once working in the Caribbean, back in ’78, I think, and we stopped off in port. I decided to enjoy some downtime and went to visit the local zoo. Well, it wasn’t too long before some of the ship’s passengers spotted yours truly and begged me to sing to the tigers; apparently they love a bit of old Frank Sinatra – I mean, who doesn’t? So I did. Now this was a pretty shabby-looking zoo that wasn’t very well maintained and one of the tigers got out and came after me. I guess it must’ve really loved my voice. It leaped over the shoddy fence. Who knew the old Toni Fandango magic works on humans and animals? Well, I tried running away, but it’s not easy in flip-flops, and I tripped, and the tiger was on me!’

  ‘Were you hurt?’ asked Artie. He didn’t ask out of concern, more in a very bored and tired way.

  ‘I was lucky. The keeper shot it with a tranquilliser dart and it fell asleep on top of me. Stank, it did. But it had taken several chunks out of my hair. So there you have it, I got a haircut from a TIGER!’

  The Big Topper had struck again. Artie’s dad had butchered his hair. Grandad Ray had a tiger ruin his. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the tiger. It would’ve been coughing up Grandad Ray hairballs for weeks.

  The show carried on.

  ‘Call in now,’ I said, ‘if your older brother or sister has ever done something really evil to you. Yesterday, Amber, my older sister, told me I was adopted and for a few hours I really did believe her. The more I thought about i
t, the more it made sense. Mum, Dad and Amber all love Marmite; I hate it. The evidence was compelling and overwhelming.’

  We got some great calls:

  Dev called in to tell us his older brother once put on a monkey mask and jumped out at him, giving him such a fright he fell down the stairs. Knocking a tooth out.

  Arya’s older sister told her that a glass full of vinegar was delicious apple juice, so she took a huge swig. And was sick.

  Ryan really wanted to play football with his older brothers. So they let him. Be a goalpost.

  Nadia was invited by her older brother into a ‘magic lift’. She spent two hours waiting for it to take her up to Fairyland. To many, this ‘magic lift’ looked exactly like a bedroom cupboard.

  Today was a great show. No way would Merit Radio and the gruesome threesome beat me in the Radio Stars competition.

  ‘I’m a little bit bored tonight, Spike,’ said Grandad casually as the record we were playing came to an end. ‘Too many flipping kids on the show.’ Holly and Artie nearly fell off their chairs.

  I managed to say, ‘This is the Secret Shed Show. I’m Radio Boy. Thanks for all your calls tonight …’ while inside I seethed.

  ‘Bless them, eh? You can see why there ain’t too many radio shows by kids for kids!’ said Grandad Ray.

  I really couldn’t find any words. I stared at the MIC LIVE sign. We were still on air.

  ‘Why do you say that, Ray?’ said Artie, in an ominous tone.

  ‘Well, son, I think only grown-ups know how to really tell a story. Even then, it’s only a few that are blessed like me to be storytellers. To be honest, kids just aren’t very good.’

  Artie and Holly glared at him, their eyes burning holes into his head.

  It was in that moment that I realised Dad had been right. Grandad ‘Cuckoo’ Ray had taken over the show. I glanced at the studio inbox where all our emails and texts came in. It was a non-stop blizzard of listeners asking who this rude old man was, ruining our show. The cuckoo had hatched and taken over the nest. Eaten all the eggs. You get the idea.

  ‘Erm, I don’t agree with that, Grandad,’ I said. Very quietly. It seemed almost wrong to disagree with him. But scared though I was of upsetting my beloved grandad, I had to defend my listeners. I’d be nothing and no one without them.

  ‘What’s that, Spike? Couldn’t hear through your mumbling,’ he said.

  This time I spoke louder and clearly. ‘The callers made me laugh, more than your repeated stories. Anyway, that’s it for tonight’s Secret Shed Show. Thanks for listening – maybe next week we will talk about family members who outstay their welcome, or CUCKOOS.’

  I killed all the radio mics before Grandad could say anything else to upset everyone. He took off his headphones and smoothed back his hair. Not as easy as it sounds, as the thick hair cream had attracted a few new cobwebs. Grandad quickly brushed them off as if they were a highly dangerous corrosive acid.

  ‘Those kiddies will try even harder next week, Spike, after my pep talk. Tough love it’s called, used it on your dad.’

  ‘So kids can’t tell stories?’ Holly said in a calm but ever so slightly demonic way. She was like a slow-ticking time bomb.

  ‘Look, sweetie, don’t get upset. These days all you kids get a pat on the head and told no one is a loser at sports day. Well, it doesn’t help you. There are losers in life. Fact.’ Grandad Ray replied as he replaced his fire-hazard comb. With all the hair grease on that, if it came within a mile of naked flame we would all go up in a fireball visible from China.

  ‘Like living in your grandson’s bedroom at your age? Fact,’ Holly replied, winking at him. Psycho-style.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, young lady,’ Grandad snapped back.

  This was going to get ugly. If he wasn’t careful, thanks to Holly, Grandad Ray might end up with his trusty comb sticking out of him. Let’s not forget she’s won karate trophies and is in the Army Cadets. They don’t mess about in the church hall where she goes for her cadet training. I’m talking combat-trained kids. She could half kill him within seconds, then field-dress him and save his life. I’d let her, but I’m worried we’d be hearing Grandad’s story about it for the next eight years:

  ‘She ripped my head off and shouted down my neckhole, then ripped my heart out and ate it in front of me etc. etc. etc.’

  Just then the shed door rattled.

  ‘Dinner’s ready!’ yelled Mum. Saved by Mum’s shepherd’s pie. Something I never thought I’d say.

  ‘Great, I’m outta here,’ said Grandad as he left the three of us standing in the shed and disappeared back to the house.

  The MIC LIVE light went dark.

  Everyone started speaking at the same time. Unleashing their fury and anger at Grandad Ray, The Artist Formerly Known as Toni Fandango.

  ‘He’s killing our show,’ said Artie. He was always the calm one. For him to say such a thing showed how desperate the situation was.

  ‘That was awful, Spike! Did you see the studio inbox?’ said Holly, her cheeks flushed with anger.

  I could only make out odd words through the wall of Grandad-bashing from them both. But their final line to me was crystal clear.

  ‘You have to fire your grandad.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? Are you actually suggesting I sack my own grandad? A harmless old man down on his luck, whose wife has just thrown him out?’

  ‘YES!’ shouted Artie and Holly in perfect unison.

  ‘Yeah, OK, fair enough,’ I said. I understood, but the thought of what I had to do made me feel physically sick. You ever had to fire a family member?

  ‘Plus, harmless? That man is as harmless as Mr Harris’s stinking bad breath,’ said Holly. ‘He’s no cute grandpops, Spike. He’s a bitter old cruise-ship entertainer whose career didn’t happen.’

  Artie was next. ‘Your poor dad, growing up with him. I’m surprised he didn’t run away and join the circus.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘But you’ve seen what he’s like. If I sack him, he’ll … well, I don’t know what he’ll do. He’s pretty …’

  ‘Insane?’ said Holly.

  ‘Crazy?’ said Artie.

  ‘Um. Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make it easy for you,’ said Holly. ‘Either he goes or I go, Spike.’

  Wow. Even thinking about trying to do without Holly was crazy. But I really didn’t want to fire Grandad Ray. I’d won a round of poker one night and he’d thrown the pack of cards out of the window. I dreaded to think what he’d do if I dumped him from the show. I tried to reason with her.

  ‘Yeah, OK, I get it. He’s just … in a tough spot right now … maybe after a little chat he’ll be back on form and apologise …’

  ‘ME or HIM,’ Holly said CLEARLY, SLOWLY and LOUDLY. Then she went in for the kill.

  ‘I’m telling you right now, Spike, you enter Radio Star with him on the show, you’re guaranteed to lose. Merit Radio will sound brilliant compared to us, with your crazy grandad in our shed. The judges, if they are still awake after hearing our entry, with boring stories about cruise ships, will think it’s HIS show—’

  ‘OK, OK, I’LL FIRE HIM!’ I yelled.

  She was right, as always. Radio Star was my big break and I couldn’t let anyone get in the way of that. I’d come too far. The thought that they would think it was Grandad’s show really got me angry. It was MY show. I was the star. Now I was starting to understand why Dad felt the way he did about him. ‘Tough love,’ Grandad Ray had said earlier. Maybe he needed a dose of that himself.

  By the way, ‘Tough Love’ sounds like a bad rapper.

  ‘Hi, my name is Tuff Love and I’m here to rock.’

  No, you’re not. Your real name is Christopher Pringle. You live in your mum’s basement and work in a dry cleaner’s.

  ‘How do I do it, though?’ I asked. ‘You’ve seen him. He’s got the emotional sensitivity of a great white shark who hasn’t eaten in a month. He’ll eat me alive.’ Just thinking
about it frightened me. He could be very intimidating with that overly high hair.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Spike, he’s your grandad, you invited him to join the show so you’ll have to fix this,’ said Holly.

  I looked to Artie for answers. He steepled his fingers and cocked his head to one side, like a wise old owl with some insight to share. I appreciated the fact he was giving my tricky situation the thought it deserved.

  ‘Do you really think a tiger ate his hair?’ he said, at last.

  That night, after we all said our goodbyes, I headed up to bed with a heavy heart. I heard Grandad Ray before I saw him. It was a full-on zombie orchestra in my bedroom tonight, judging from the snoring levels.

  Using the kind of subtle, soft footwork a Russian gymnast would be proud of, I tried to avoid stepping on the noisy floorboard in my bedroom and alerting Grandad to my presence. I caught a glimpse of his right arm over the duvet, and the tattoo on it. One I hadn’t seen before. It seemed to be of a tiger eating a man’s hair. I squinted to get a better look. The man in the tattoo was a barely recognisable version of Grandad Ray. He looked like a large, female Italian opera singer wearing a tiger backpack.

  How on earth was I going to tell a desperate and unstable man like him that he was fired from a kids’ radio show? I had to sleep on it. On the inflatable bed of nails on the floor, listening to Grandad Ray’s snoring as he slept on my comfortable bed.

  The answer came the next day from an unlikely source.

  I leaped out of bed the following morning, before my alarm could wake Grandad. I was also hoping to catch Dad before he headed off to work at the supermarket, but Mum said he’d had to leave early. Maybe no bad thing anyway, as Dad would’ve been angry with Grandad when he heard how he had ruined our radio show. He might have thrown him out on to the streets! I couldn’t ask Mum as she’d just defend him; she was totally under his spell. Or maybe the aftershave fog surrounding him had affected her brain? In her eyes, either way, Grandad could do no wrong.