Radio Boy

Radio Boy
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From leading breakfast radio star Christian O’Connell comes a brilliant and laugh-out-loud story of an ordinary boy with an extraordinary secret radio show. (Broadcast from his shed.)Meet Spike, aka Radio Boy: a new Adrian Mole on the radio for the internet generation.Spike’s your average awkward 11 year old, funny and cheeky and with a mum to reckon with. When he becomes the first presenter ever to be sacked from hospital radio, he decides to carry on from a makeshift studio in the garden shed, with the help of his best friends Artie and Holly, disguising his voice and going by the moniker Radio Boy.Week by week, word gets around and soon Spike is a star… if only people knew it was actually him. When Spike begins to believe his own hype, and goes too far with his mocking of the school headmaster, a hunt is launched for the mysterious Radio Boy.Can Spike remain anonymous? Will he get to marry the girl of his dreams, Katherine Hamilton? Will he become famous and popular? The answer to most of these questions is no…

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is: www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © Christian O’Connell 2017

Illustrations copyright © Rob Biddulph 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Christian O’Connell and Rob Biddulph assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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.


‘You’re fired.’

I stared at the man sitting opposite me. The programme controller of St Kevin’s hospital radio. Barry Dingle, or ‘Bazza’ as he insisted we call him. No one ever did.

‘What?’ I said. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘I … I know that, Spike. But you can’t work here any more. I’m sorry.’

What kind of a man sacks an eleven-year-old boy from his dream job? A monster, that’s who.

‘Why?’ 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 I’d said to the bald-headed man ruining my life. Such as:


1. You’re a monster.


2. Technically, you can’t actually fire me as I’m a volunteer.

3. My mum said you live in your mum’s basement. Who’s the bigger loser here?

4. Have you got any tissues as I think I’m going to cry?

But I didn’t 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 who’d 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 Kids’ Wonder Hour, Saturday mornings at 6am. Maybe the name of the show hadn’t helped. For the record, it came from ‘Bazza’, 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 don’t 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, I’d read in all the interviews with my favourite DJs that they’d started off in hospital radio. I collected these interviews in a special folder under my bed, safe from my sister’s prying eyes. Codenamed ‘My Favourite Stamps’. I’d learned my lesson after she found a notebook I’d been practising my autograph in.



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