Christian O’Connell - Radio Boy

‘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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