Читать книгу Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad - Christian O’Connell - Страница 13

‘Good morning, World!

‘Who wants MY JOB?

‘Who DOESN’T want my job?

‘Chatting to stars.

‘Going to all the coolest parties.

‘Do you want to be a Radio Star?

‘Do you DREAM of being a DJ?

‘Becoming a famous celebrity?

‘Walking down the red carpet and seeing all the losers behind the barriers wishing they were YOU?

‘Then keep listening, as we have details on a brand-new talent competition, the first of its kind in THE WORLD:

‘Radio Star!!!!’

Wait.

I turned to the radio.

What did he just say?

‘We are looking for a brand-new DJ for Kool FM and it will be one of YOU.’

Every morning, while getting ready for school, I listen to my most favourite radio show in the world, Kool FM’s breakfast show with Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright.

This morning, The Howie’s announcement had just blown my mind.

If you could see my mind before and after this, here’s how it would look:

Sherlock stared at me, confused. I guess Sherlock, in his doggy mind, was wondering, ‘Why has my master’s mind just exploded?’

It would be like he’d just heard a dog DJ on Paw FM announce that all dogs could now come in and eat for free at the new pizza place in town.

Come to think of it, restaurants are quite boring. I have some ideas on how to improve them:

A Pizza Restaurant for Dogs and Their Owners. I’m serious. Think about it. Who doesn’t love pizza? Instead of a plate, they would just bring your dog’s pizza out in a large bowl – 12” deep pan, of course. No anchovy and pineapple toppings for our four-legged friends – instead they’d offer toppings like tripe, beef bone, dried pigs’ ears and peanut butter. Maybe some dog mouth-mints after that for their breath.

Pizza Mutt, I’d call it.

TV Dinners Restaurant. This is a winner. You all sit in booths with a TV right in front of you. Everyone has their own. You eat your meal in front of the TV. Great, right? No need for boring conversations with Mum or Dad, ‘How was school today? What did you learn? Blah, blah.’ We can watch what we want and they can watch some rubbish drama from olden times with posh people in big hats on horses and carts. Everyone is happy.

Anyway.

I had to sit down to take in what The Howie had just said on the radio. My heart was racing. This competition could be my big chance. To break out of my shed and into a real studio. How would Katherine Hamilton feel about the way she’d treated me, then? In a word: badly. I imagined her hanging around outside the Kool FM studio, waiting for me. Then, as I pulled up outside in a chauffeur-driven limousine (or possibly my dad’s old estate car), she would throw herself at me, crying as she begged for my forgiveness. Other screaming fans trying to get my autograph. My bodyguard (Sensei Terry) having to clear a path for me. All very realistic, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Howard ‘The Howie’ Wright knew about me and the Secret Shed Show – when I’d first started the show, the local newspaper had done a story about it, and he’d given a quote. Surely this would give me an unbeatable advantage in the Radio Star competition?

I couldn’t help but think it was mine to win. Wait till I tell Mum, Dad, Holly and Artie, I thought. I raced down the stairs two at a time and burst into the kitchen, where I found Mum and Dad by the sink in a very intense conversation – well, shouting and pointing their fingers at each other. All I heard before they quickly spotted me and stopped was:

Dad: ‘He will just take over the whole thing and ruin it. We have to get him out of this house, Carol.’

Mum doing her trademark move (stamping her foot and pointing): ‘You are being very mean and – Oh, hello, Spike, sweetie, we were just chatting about …’

Me: ‘Yeah, I know who you were talking about and Mum’s right; Dad, you’re being really mean about Grandad. But anyway, I haven’t got time for this right now. I have far bigger things to think about – stardom, for instance. Listen to this …’

I turned the kitchen radio on.

‘Good morning! It’s Howard “The Howie” Wright here, at ten minutes past eight. We are launching THE WORLD’S biggest-ever radio talent competition, Radio Star!

‘If you want to be a famous DJ like me, then this is your chance, my friend.

‘The winner gets personally trained by me, and you will do my very own breakfast show here for a whole week while I’m on holiday in the Caribbean!

‘It’s for anyone and everyone –

‘Young and old!

‘All you need to do is send us a short ten-minute tape of you presenting a show. Not a real one if you don’t have one, just what yours would sound like if you did.

‘Good luck! (Terms and conditions apply.)

‘Let’s get the travel news now with Travel Tanya.’

‘Well …’ said Dad. ‘It’s really exciting, son, and I’m right behind you as always, you know that … but these talent competitions … well, they aren’t really about the best and most talented winning. Look at X Factor.’ He patted me on the shoulder. His brown tie was dotted with flecks of toast.

‘Your dad’s right, Spike, it’s probably just a very big marketing idea to get the whole town talking about the station. I heard the other day –’ SOUND THE-MUM-WHO-KNOWS-EVERYTHING KLAXON!!! – ‘that their latest audience figures are out and they have lost a load of listeners, so that’s probably why they are doing this. My friend Denise, who works in the accounts department, told me,’ added Mum.

‘And a dirt-cheap way to get someone to do his show while he’s off sunning himself in Barbados!’ said Dad.

‘Or … they could be looking for the next new super-star DJ!’ I said. ‘Why are you both being so mean about The Howie? He could be helping me change my life. You heard him, young and old – he’s talking to me! No one else is a young DJ in this town. He’s inviting me to enter so we can work together, master and apprentice. Like Yoda and Luke Skywalker. It starts with looking after his show, sure, but then one day the apprentice becomes the master and I replace him. But that’s a few years away. I’m telling you, this is meant to be. I just know it.’

Mum moved over to the kitchen counter and started doing her daily exercise routine. This involved wearing her gym outfit and bending, twisting and squatting while making mine and Amber’s breakfasts. Using bags of sugar as weights and punching the air with them. To any onlooker walking past our house at that very moment and glancing through the kitchen window, it would’ve looked like a mad woman in leggings squatting down and back up again for no real reason. Like some crazy game of hide-and-seek with strangers, all while waving groceries about.

‘One … two … three … OK, Spike, go for it … four … five … six.’

‘Just be careful, I don’t want to see you hurt – again,’ Dad said quietly.

I knew what he was referring to, of course: my disappointment over Fish Face giving Merit Radio to his son, Mutant Martin.

But this competition was not that. It was a proper competition run by a proper (and amazing) DJ, where the best person would win. Me.

My phone started buzzing in my pocket and I took it out. Messages from Artie and Holly.

The Howie’s announcement had reached them too. My uncontrollable excitement was only brought back down to earth at school. The morning passed uneventfully, with lots of ‘Did you hear Kool FM this morning? You have to enter!’

But then at lunchtime the radio dream bubble burst. Guess who popped it?

‘Hellloooooooo, pupils of St Brenda’s, this is Merit Radio and your fun-lovin’ – that’s lovin’ with no “g” as you kids like to say – host! Yes, it’s Mr Harris here, but you can call me Mr Harris or Headmaster or sir …’

‘Or His Excellency,’ I said loudly. It got a big laugh. I wasn’t smiling for long, though.

‘Some extremely exciting news to share with you all,’ continued Mr Harris. ‘Now, some of you may not be aware that Kool FM (the FM of course stands for FREQUENCY MODULATION. There’s your fun fact for today!) have launched a disc jockey competition and I’m sure you would all like to wish good luck to …’

Wow. He was going to wish me luck? Fair play. Even with that thick, fishy-scaly skin of his, he knew I was the one to win this. He had learned something from what happened between us, after all.

‘Good luck to … ME! Yes, that’s right, I will be entering Radio Star. No doubt you are cheering my decision in the dining hall right now …’

Cut to silence; total, gobsmacked silence. People looking at each other, frowning and confused. People looking round at me, all thinking the same as me. Is he seriously entering? Thinking he could do well? Win it, even? I just shrugged my shoulders and carried on eating my soggy jacket potato. Even the dinner ladies went quiet and laid down their serving spoons to look at each other. And then it got worse.

‘Yes, and also good luck to my son, Martin, who will be joining me in our entry, along with the brand-new member of our team … Katherine Hamilton.’

I dropped the glass of water I was holding. It smashed on to the dining-room floor.

‘Katherine will be doing a fascinating feature called Lost Property Corner. All the latest things left just lying around, so it could be your shoe, gym bag or underpants that Katherine will tell us about, and hopefully we can have some wonderful reunions live on the show.’

‘Reunions live on the show?’ Was he mad? Who did he think would hear Katherine Hamilton describe their stinking PE kit and still want to go and claim it live on Merit Radio? Not me, that’s for sure. Mainly because my mum had gone to great efforts to sew my name into just about every possible item. In an ideal world, she’d have my name sewn into the back of my neck.

Katherine Hamilton.

Just hearing her name again had caused the blood to rush to my face and I could feel my cheeks turning hot and red. This was the girl I had once dreamed of marrying. Then she went and ruined our future life together by helping Fish Face to find me – by betraying me as Radio Boy. She grassed me up.

Yet even though she threw me to the lions (well, to the fishes), she still had this strange power over me. And I had planned to forgive her one day.

But maybe never now!

Everyone at school knew she was going out with … MARTIN HARRIS. My arch-enemy and nemesis. But now she was joining Merit Radio and entering Radio Star, against me! This was open-heart surgery. With no anaesthetic.

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?’.