First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Childrenâs Books in 2017
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Text copyright © Christian OâConnell 2017
Illustrations copyright © Rob Biddulph 2017
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Christian OâConnell and Rob Biddulph assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work.
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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.
âYouâre fired.â
I stared at the man sitting opposite me. The programme controller of St Kevinâs hospital radio. Barry Dingle, or âBazzaâ as he insisted we call him. No one ever did.
âWhat?â I said. âBut I havenât done anything wrong.â
âI ⦠I know that, Spike. But you canât work here any more. Iâm sorry.â
What kind of a man sacks an eleven-year-old boy from his dream job? A monster, thatâs who.
âWhy?â 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 Iâd said to the bald-headed man ruining my life. Such as:
1. Youâre a monster.
2. Technically, you canât actually fire me as Iâm a volunteer.
3. My mum said you live in your mumâs basement. Whoâs the bigger loser here?
4. Have you got any tissues as I think Iâm going to cry?
But I didnât 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 whoâd 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 Kidsâ Wonder Hour, Saturday mornings at 6am. Maybe the name of the show hadnât helped. For the record, it came from âBazzaâ, 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 donât 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, Iâd read in all the interviews with my favourite DJs that theyâd started off in hospital radio. I collected these interviews in a special folder under my bed, safe from my sisterâs prying eyes. Codenamed âMy Favourite Stampsâ. Iâd learned my lesson after she found a notebook Iâd been practising my autograph in.