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‘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.
I headed to school, with my head and heart full of dread. Sensei Terry was on his post round, with his postbag bursting with letters and parcels. ‘Morning, Spike. I see a young man heavy in thought,’ he said in his wise karate-warrior way.
‘Really? How do you know?’ I asked.
‘Samurai training. I can read a man easier than a book. If I see someone wiggling their fingers, they could be about to attack with that hand. I’ve already thought through my options to neutralise the attack. It’s over before it’s begun,’ he said casually.
‘Wow! Have you ever had to use this knowledge in practice?’
‘Oh yes. A man was once loitering near my car, Spike, looking very shifty indeed. I crept up on him. He spun round and went to withdraw something from his pocket. This could’ve been a knife or gun so I was compelled to react FAST. The best form of defence is attack. I grabbed him at lightning speed and threw him over my hip, classic hip throw, Spike. Correctly known as O-Goshi. KABLAM! On the pavement.’
‘WOW! A knife-wielding maniac?’
‘Not exactly, as it turns out. A traffic warden who was trying to get my parking ticket out of his pocket. Still, we had a laugh about it, once he got out of Casualty a few days later. I never did get that ticket …’
At that precise moment Grandad Ray came strutting past us. ‘Have a good day at school, Spike. This weirdo bothering you?’ He gestured at Sensei Terry.
‘Oh no. This is Sensei Terry. He’s not just a postman, Grandad, he’s also the local karate instructor,’ I explained.
Sensei Terry, upon hearing his introduction, gave a half-bow to Grandad Ray.
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