‘So what’s all this about?’ said Hanne. ‘Why the lunch?’
‘I just decided I needed to pay you more attention. I’ve been a bit distracted lately,’ I said.
‘Like when you were dribbling in your soup?’
‘For example, yes. But those days are far behind us now. There’ll be no more dribbling in soup, no way.’
‘Good. Because you’re not . . . you know . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well . . . up to anything. Are you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like wanting to meet other people called Danny Wallace. Or planning to bounce around from twin town to twin town. Or seeing if you can hold your breath for a total of seven hours a day.’
‘I never did that. I just wondered whether it could be done.’
‘Well, whatever. Because you know I wouldn’t stand for it if you’re up to anything. So are you?’
‘No,’ I said, slightly ashamed. I think I may even have crossed my fingers under the table when I said that. Hanne brings out the child in me sometimes. In the past I’ve even felt I’ve had to ask her permission if I wanted another can of fizzy pop.
‘Good. Now, I was going to ask – there’s a film premiere next week. We got tickets at work. Something starring someone called Vin Diesel. Do you want to go?’
‘Yes. No. Well – if you’re there.’
Hanne said she would be, and the rest of the meal passed without incident.
‘Okay, so if you think you can make it to the film,’ she said, as we walked out of the restaurant, ‘then I’ll sort the tickets out next week. Thanks for lunch today. It’s been lovely. Oh, and Danny?’
‘Yes?’
‘You still have a bit of dribble on your shirt.’
* * *
At home I changed my shirt and thought about the challenge that lay ahead. 900 people to convince. 900 complete and utter strangers I’d need a passport photo from. 900 people I had to get to join me. I was suddenly rather daunted by it all.
And so I did what I always do when faced with a tricky predicament. I made a cup of tea and had a bit of a sit down.
How on earth could I get my collective up to 1000 people? I only had a hunded or so. And then I realised what I was saying. I had a hundred people. A hundred people who seemed quite open to the idea of doing my bidding. A hundred people who, surely, could help when it came to getting others to join me? My joinees would surely be able to help me spread the word; to get others to join our beautiful, burgeoning collective.
But how?
I studied my questionnaires and came to some conclusions. I’d asked my joinees how they thought we could best spread the word and appeal to new people. Fifty-eight per cent had agreed that either leaflets or stickers would be a good idea. The joinees had spoken; I would get some leaflets made. Hopefully they’d be so impressed by receiving leaflets in the post that they’d forget about all the other, less important stuff, like the point.
So I needed a graphic designer. I could have cobbled something together myself with a Pritt Stick and a photocopier, but hey – this was Join Me. It deserved to be done properly. And it needed to look good to convince people it was important. Besides, surely I’d have a graphic designer of some kind already in the collective, ready and keen to donate their services for free?
As it happened, I did not.
The closest I could come was a bloke who designs gnomes for students.
I phoned him up immediately and he confirmed that he’d once done a night course in graphic design, and providing I had a basic design package on my computer, he’d be pleased to come round and knock something out.
The next day, at three o’clock, Joinee Bob Glanville of Putney – a young man with baby blue eyes and curly blonde hair – was sitting at my desk, talking to me about designing gnomes. It’s not what he’d always done, and after the winter he’d probably never do it again, but at the moment he was on a six-month contract, designing novelty gnomes to be given away at student unions with every four pints bought. If ever students had an incentive to drink, I decided, it was the prospect of a free gnome at the end of the night.
‘The thing about designing gnomes,’ said Bob, ‘is you have to know what it is about a gnome that catches the eye. A lot of people would say the hat, or the fishing rod if they have one, but actually a lot of what appeals about a gnome is in the eyes.’
‘Yeah, I’d go for the eyes.’ I said. ‘Friendly, gnomey eyes.’
‘Personality is in the face. It’s important. Plus, one of the great things about designing gnomes is that the companies allow you pretty much free rein in developing their personalities. You get to write the leaflet that accompanies the gnome. So, for example, I’ve been working this week on a gnome called Rocky. He likes eating pork pies, traditional jazz, and taking long baths. But he dislikes pigeons and slugs. So, you see, you do get a lot of input. Now . . . let’s do this leaflet.’
I clapped my hands together and said ‘right’.
‘First of all, I’m going to need to know the basic premise of this Join Me lark.’
‘Okay.’
‘So what is it?’
‘It’s about people joining together.’
‘Okay. Good. To what end?’
‘Eh?’
‘For what purpose are we joining together?’
‘To be as one.’
‘Right. And then do what?’
‘That’s difficult.’
‘Why?’
I decided to come clean. He’d understand.
‘You can’t tell this to anyone.’
‘Er . . . okay?’
‘Well . . . I don’t know what the purpose is yet.’
Joinee Glanville looked shocked.
‘But everyone seems to think you do! I’ve seen the website!’
‘I know. It’s terrible.’
‘So why don’t you stop?’ he said. Confusion had taken Bob’s face hostage.
‘I need 1000 joinees. And I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I just keep saying mysterious things in a way that implies I know what I’m doing and people believe me.’
‘The longer you do it, the more disappointed they’ll be. And what are these leaflets in aid of, if you can’t explain what Join Me is?’
Joinee Glanville had a point. How could I create leaflets explaining what Join Me is, when even I, the Leader of Join Me, didn’t know what Join Me was?
‘Let’s just see what happens when I sit down at the keyboard,’ I said.
And I sat down, and began to write. I didn’t know where it was leading, but ten minutes later I had something.
Hello, stranger!
Did you know that all over the world, strangers just like you are uniting to the beat of a single drum? It’s true! It’s a Join Me drum, and its beat is getting stronger all the time. This leaflet has been presented to you by someone who’s Joined Me. A proud and noble warrior, although not one who’s involved in conflict of any kind.
Look at their happy, laughing face. Wouldn’t you like one like that? You would? Well, of course you would!
Then you should Join Me.
I showed it to Bob.
‘But that says absolutely nothing about what Join Me is,’ he said.
‘I know. I’m going to start thinking about what Join Me is soon, I promise. But this at least sounds fun, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. It’s not enough to get people joining you, though. Why don’t you reveal who you are?’
‘I don’t think it’s important who I am. It’s all about the joinees. It’s about the group.’
‘Then I think you need testimonials. I think you need to show why people have joined you.’
Then he paused.
‘Actually, why the hell have people joined you?’ I didn’t know. I looked at Bob.
‘Well, why did you join me?’
‘I . . . have absolutely no idea,’ he said. ‘A whim, I suppose. And you asked. I suppose that was enough.’
&n
bsp; I turned back to look at the screen and read what I’d written. Bob was right. We needed testimonials from happy, carefree joinees. And I knew where to look. The questionnaires.
One of the things I’d asked people was ‘What is the best thing to have happened to you since you Joined Me?’ People had replied with varying degrees of seriousness, but what if I could somehow claim credit for all those good things? What if those people could appear to be blaming Join Me for all the wonderful things to have happened to them in life? Surely that’d get more strangers believing in what we were doing? And if it was worded correctly, it wouldn’t even be lying. Not strictly speaking, anyway.
‘I’ve got a plan,’ I said to Bob, before rifling through my drawer for printed-out questionnaires. ‘And here it is . . .’
Bob and I read through the small stack of paper before finding some suitable quotes. I gave him the passport photos and he started to scan the relevant ones in.
Soon, the leaflet had taken shape. My blurb at the top, with a row of passport photos and slightly rejigged quotes underneath them. I think you’ll agree, they make quite a convincing case for why you should join me.
Joinee Jones: ‘I joined, and just two weeks later I won £20 on the scratchcards!’
Joinee Pyle: ‘Only a month after Joining, I fully survived a potentially hazardous operation!’
Joinee Davies: ‘Since I Joined, I’ve been on holiday to Tenerife! Thank you, Join Me!’
Joinee Vid: ‘I Joined, and my band’s never had so many bookings! Coincidence? No way!’
Joinee Fletcher: ‘Joining is brilliant! I give it the big thumbs up! You will too if you like it and have thumbs or a thumb!’
Underneath, I wrote: THESE ARE TRUE STORIES.
I called each joinee and asked them for permission to use their photo on the leaflet.
It would be fair to say that I confused a few people that day. Each of them said yes, mind you. But each then also asked me who I was, and what the hell Join Me was, and what it was we were up to, and I told them they’d understand when I sent them a leaflet. Joinee Glanville looked at me disapprovingly. He’d designed the leaflet and didn’t know what it was all about. How did he think I felt? I’d written the thing and still had no idea.
Bob saved the work to disk and then took it away with him.
‘I’ll drop this at the printers tonight,’ he said. ‘You do realise it won’t be cheap. Printing thousands of leaflets which don’t actually say anything about the thing they’re advertising doesn’t seem all that wise to me.’
‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘It’ll work out.’
Bob looked at me. ‘You’re doing it again, aren’t you?’
‘Doing what?’
‘You’re acting all wise and mysterious when really you’ve no idea what you’re doing. Just saying it’ll all work out and looking at me in a mysterious way and hoping I believe you.’
I tried to make a mysterious face but failed, and sighed.
‘Yes.’
‘I like that about you,’ he said, before turning on his heel and walking off.
* * *
Leaflets and stickers designed, I returned to the everyday chores of a Leader. I checked my emails, and this one popped up first:
Dear Leader
I have been a joinee now for a number of weeks. You have always said in your emails to have faith and that all would become clear. But I am facing a problem.
I have told others about what I have joined and they say it sounds stupid and pointless. I am sure there must be a point otherwise why would you be doing it? However I am finding this hard because every time someone asks me what this is leading to I have to say I don’t know.
I know I should have faith but it is difficult. Can you let me know some more information. What is the point of this? Please tell me.
Thanks
Joinee Jade
Durham
I honestly didn’t know what to tell Joinee Jade. I couldn’t come clean to her; couldn’t tell her that . . . well . . . there was no point. Telling her about Gallus wouldn’t help, either. If I did, I’d have to admit that all I was doing was trying to collect 999 other people like her, and no one wants to be thought of as a mere number, do they?
So I told her I would be sending her some leaflets and stickers which would help explain more about the scheme. She seemed satisfied and emailed me back to say ‘Great! I knew it’d all work out! Thanks!’
I’d managed to put her off. But for how long could I keep these people interested? Asking them to recruit friends, neighbours and complete strangers to the cause may keep them happy for a little while . . . but then what? What exactly was I going to do with all these people I was collecting? Surely there was something I could do with them while I upped the numbers? Maybe we could merge with the Hare Krishnas, or do some kind of deal with the Church of Scientology? Something that’d mean we wouldn’t have to believe any of their nonsense, but we could still wear the T-shirts and meet John Travolta.
Still, you’ll be happy to hear that while I was worrying my pretty little face off, more joinees were embracing the spirit of Join Me and signing up on a daily basis.
And it became clear that people were joining me for a variety of reasons. Some were doing so in the spirit of adventure and fun. Others because they were just desperate to find out what ‘joining’ meant. And others . . . well . . . others were joining for reasons all of their own.
One joinee in particular was beginning to worry me. Don’t get me wrong; he seemed like a terribly nice man, and terribly terribly friendly with it. He’d often send me cheerful emails throughout the day, and always seemed to have another little something up his sleeve in the name of Join Me.
I encouraged him and nodded him on, like a proud and doting father, until I began to realise that Join Me was beginning to take over his life. I would go out for an evening and return to find four or five emails from him, asking me questions, or sharing ideas, or telling me stories, or hinting that he had yet another grand scheme on the go. And it started to make me feel guilty. While I’d be out for a pint with a friend, or holding Hanne’s handbag while she tried on another new skirt she wouldn’t buy, it really did seem as if Whitby was devoting every hour of his day to coming up with new and imaginative ways of raising awareness. And each email or letter I received from him was extremely cheerful – even when I’d refused to tell him for the fourth time what the purpose of Join Me was. He just got on with things. I liked him for that. But the sheer level of dedication he was willing to commit was – in all honesty – slightly worrying.
Again, don’t get me wrong – I needed people like Joinee Whitby. People who would take me to 1000 in fine style. But still . . . listen to this . . .
Within one typical week of tireless devotion to the cause, Joinee Whitby had made his own Join Me T-shirt. He’d had Join Me business cards printed. He’d sent emails left, right, and centre. He’d turned up at the offices of his local newspapers and emailed his local radio station in order to get the word out to the Hampshire massive.
And it soon became clear that his family and friends weren’t too happy about it. Writing on his very own website, which he’d set up specially so he could record his thoughts and progress for all to see (‘www.joinee.co.uk – where people come together . . . but aren’t sure why’), he said:
I have come to discover through the wonderful world of ‘Join Me’ that all my friends, family and work colleagues have come to the conclusion that all of this malarky has caused me to finally lose the plot completely. There were pretty much two options open to me. Renounce the whole Join Me thing once and for all and return to a dull level of sanity. Or choose to fully embrace my madness. Guess which path I took.
Did his family really think he was mad? Or – worse – that he was being wacky? If there’s one thing that would cause me to lose sleep at night it would be people thinking I was making them be wacky. Wacky is not something I would ever willingly be involved with. Wacky people are bad. I f
rown upon their wackiness. They wear Wallace & Gromit socks and think it’s expressing their wacky personality. It’s not. It’s expressing they’ve got bad socks. I broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of me leading an army of self-confessed ‘wackies’, each of them wearing zany ties and telling everyone it was me that made them do it. I read on through Whitby’s website, hoping to find evidence that would prove it would never happen. I clicked on a link which took me to a gallery of photographs he’d taken, each of them incorporating the words Join Me in some way. He’d written something at the bottom of the page. I read it and shuddered. ‘If you could do a Join Me picture as well, then . . . well . . . it wouldn’t make me any less mad, but at least I’d have some company!’
No! Whitby had written the Join Me equivalent of ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps!’
I had to stop him. I had to stop him from doing too much in the name of Join Me. But how? For several days I ignored his emails. I tried to show less interest. Surely if I did that it wouldn’t be long before he at least toned it down a bit?
But Whitby showed no sign of losing interest. He badgered his friends to join me. He made long-distance calls to the States to beg long-lost friends to sign up. He got up ridiculously early one morning to climb the tallest hill in Hampshire in order to put a self-made Join Me sticker at the highest altitude he could. He tried to paint the words ‘Join Me’ on a small child’s face at a school fete his son was attending. He continued to hassle his local newspaper on a weekly basis. He hired a badge-making machine for a weekend and made badges. The man was obsessed.
And he was growing impatient with me. Politely, but increasingly, frustrated. I didn’t blame him. Here I was, the so-called Leader, and I was doing less than him to spread the word of my own organisation.
He began to post messages on the website forum. ‘I am being driven insane by a lack of information,’ said one. In another, he wrote ‘It’s day 900 since Whitby first entered the Joinee House, and Big Brother has been silent for eleven days. Joinee Whitby worries that the world outside has lost interest and wonders whether he is alone and forgotten in the house. There is no reply from the diary room, no tasks have been set and the food is running low. Joinee Whitby paces up and down and looks sombre.’
Join Me Page 8
