Join Me

by Danny Wallace

  But that would certainly be my tip for you, if, as I suspect is the case, you’ve bought this book as some kind of academic research manual. On balance, I would now always suggest:

  Find your purpose

  Spread the word

  Recruit your members

  Rather than:

  Recruit your members

  Spread the word

  Find your purpose

  And it wasn’t just Joinee Whitby who had been demanding more information. Dozens of joinees were constantly emailing me – always jokily at first, and slightly aggressively later on – to demand to know what it was they had joined. Frustration was growing; it seemed like people assumed there would be some kind of purpose to their involvement in Join Me. That had never really occurred to me at the start. But I had begun to see their point.

  The fact was, I only had myself to blame. I’d thought I could probably just drop my joinees when I’d eventually had enough. But these were real people, with real feelings. I suppose I was responding to their questions in a very irresponsible way, now that I think about it. I was still acting all mysterious, trying to give the impression that everything was in hand. I sent out leaflets and stickers which gave the impression Join Me was something far bigger than it was. And all it did was build up the anticipation. My joinees had obviously taken my responses to mean that some grand plan for their involvement was in place, and now I had to think of one.

  With power comes responsibility, tedious men in pubs will tell you. It always seemed slightly unfair to me, that. I think the whole point of having power is so you can delegate responsibility. I’d like to be the world’s most powerful man, living in a house so big it has its own Marks & Spencer, and never have to make another decision again. That’s why you never see the world’s most powerful men when you’re out and about – they’re all at home playing on their PlayStations and eating cheese on toast. Which someone else has decided is what they should have for their lunch.

  I sat at my keyboard with my head in my hands and thought carefully about what to do or say next. Should I come clean? I’d still achieved my original goal of a hundred joinees, after all. I could stop right now. Or I could take it to a new level. Maybe the answer lay within the joinees themselves. What did they want Join Me to be?

  I went through my emails and letters. Some of the joinees had taken guesses at what Join Me really was.

  I would ask whether this is some kind of statistical survey. For example, are you trying to find people who differ in looks and heights?

  This is something mysterious for the bored, depressed, isolated and outcast generation.

  I believe Join Me is a spiritual gathering of minds coming together for the greater good.

  This is a massive ego trip for one demented megalomaniac.

  I made a mental note that if I were ever going to start chucking people out of Join Me, I’d start with the bloke who called me a demented megalomaniac. But maybe he was right. I was enjoying the power. Not many people have a huge group of followers who voluntarily refer to them as the Leader. It’s basically just me and Gary Glitter.

  I made a cup of tea and sat down in front of my computer. I checked my email, answered a few potential joinees’ questions in as vague and yet convincing manner as I could (still feeling guilty about it), and then had a quick look at the website. Joinee Whitby was still on my mind. The paranoia that he might be up to something continued to bother me.

  I noticed there had been further talk of joinees meeting up and, generally speaking, I was all for it. The more joinee interaction we could get going, the better it would be for all concerned. It might even help us find a common cause. Something to do. New friends would be made, and from those friendships might blossom new and wonderful joinee collaborations. Perhaps before the year was out, we would have our first joinee baby, and from there it’s just a short leap to me ending up living on a farm in Mexico with nine wives and the FBI tapping my phonecalls. You gotta have dreams.

  On the forum, one joinee had suggested meeting outside Harrods, and then going on to have a picnic in Hyde Park, and the idea had been approved by a few others. They’d decided that 2pm on Saturday would be as good a time as any. Each was looking forward to it, and would be travelling specially from Hampshire, or Oxford, or Surrey, or various parts of London.

  Part of me really wanted to go along, to say thank you for joining, and buy them a sandwich or freshly squeezed orange juice. But I knew that it wasn’t time to reveal myself properly. It might have a detrimental effect. Far better to keep an air of mystery going. Far better to let people still imagine there might be some kind of robed and spiritual Dalai Lama-style figure behind Join Me, rather than some bloke with messy hair who’s forgotten to shave again. Oh, and who still hasn’t wiped that toothpaste off his top. And so I decided to leave my joinees be, for now.

  But the one thing that rankled, the one thing I found disconcerting about the proposed meet-up was that Joinee Whitby was going to attend. I became slightly concerned that his dissatisfaction with the way things had been going would rub off on some of the others, and I would soon face my predicted mutiny. The pressure was on. I needed a point. A cause. A mission. If only to stop Whitby nicking my joinees off me. But what cause?

  * * *

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum, it’s Dan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dan. Mum, it’s Daniel.’

  ‘Is that Daniel?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, it’s your only son, Daniel.’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Mum, put the phone to your good ear.’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Mum, put the phone to your good ear.’

  ‘Is that Daniel?’

  ‘Mum, this is your son, put the phone to your good ear.’

  The phone is handed over.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dad, it’s Dan.’

  ‘Hello, Dan!’

  ‘Hi Dad. Can you put Mum on?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The phone is handed back over.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum, it’s Dan.’

  ‘Who?’

  * * *

  Once my mum had put the phone to her good ear and worked out it was me, she agreed to my request straight away. Of course she did; she’s my mum. I’d remembered something. I still had the letters I’d inherited from great-uncle Gallus. Letters I’d not been able to read because they were written in Swiss German, and – well – because I’d been a bit busy lately. But mum, being a fine and wise Swiss woman, told me she’d have those letters translated in a jiffy.

  I typed out as many of them as I could, probably making dozens of errors along the way, and emailed them over. The next morning my translations arrived.

  They made fascinating reading. I vowed to read them more carefully in the coming days, but now, today, all I needed was a pointer. Some clue as to what kind of society Gallus would have started, had his plans worked out and he’d had his own joinees. I hoped that within one of these letters, I’d find the guidance I needed. But, on first glance, there was nothing. Just something about never letting a cow out of a field after midnight (which, to be honest, I couldn’t really imagine any of my joinees were doing on a regular basis anyway), and something about it being better to get your eggs from some woman in Frauenfeld rather than Kradolf because the woman in Kradolf doesn’t wash her hands as often as she should. But then . . . in a throwaway sentence, in brackets, in the middle of a jokey anecdote about his friend Paul . . . the words: ‘It is better, think I, always to make happy, those gentlemen who are in advance of you in years!’

  The words were instantly burnt into my mind. Well, polished up a bit, grammatically, and then burnt into it.

  But Gallus had spoken. Spoken from beyond the grave.

  He, in many ways the spiritual Leader of Join Me, had given me, his envoy on Earth, a . . . well . . . a Commandment.

  It’s importan
t . . . to Make An Old Man Very Happy.

  I hatched a plan.

  * * *

  That afternoon, I bought the things I needed. A padded envelope, a cheap dictaphone, and a disposable camera.

  Back in the flat, I recorded a message on to the dictaphone. Involuntarily, and slightly bizarrely, my voice deepened and suddenly had more resonance. Somehow, I’d developed a kind of ‘Leader’ mode, and even pointed as I sternly improvised a message. I felt like a tit. But I sounded like a Leader.

  ‘Hello, Joinees. Well done on opening this package correctly. And well done on finding each other today. Perhaps you will make new friends. Perhaps, by the end of the afternoon, two or three of you may even be married.’

  I thought about it.

  ‘More likely to be two of you than three, but . . . er . . .’

  I snapped back into Leader mode.

  ‘I have a task for you,’ I boomed. ‘I want you to undertake one of the very first Join Me Commandments. I want you . . . to Make An Old Man Very Happy.’

  It sounded good. It sounded right. I continued.

  ‘You can choose any pensioner you like. One in a park, maybe, or that one smoking a fag on a bench. It doesn’t matter – so long as they’re happier after having met you than they were before, that’s fine. Take pictures with the enclosed camera as proof of your endeavours, and return it forthwith to Join Me HQ.’

  That’s how much I sounded like a Leader – I was using words like ‘forthwith’.

  ‘Go to it, joinees. I . . . am proud of you.’

  I finished with a final ‘Good luck!’, then tucked the recorder and camera into the padded envelope. I sent it special delivery to one of the joinees I knew was going to be there, figuring it would get there before he left for London, and there were strict instructions not to open it unless in the presence of all those joinees who had agreed to attend.

  I was excited.

  I sat back and I waited.

  * * *

  Saturday. 7pm. I received the following email.

  Dear Leader,

  Joinee Davies here. We have had the most exciting day in the name of Join Me. Thank you for assigning us a task. I hope we have not let you down.

  Myself, plus Joinee Whitby, Joinee Vallance, Joinee Jess and Joinee Nedelec met as agreed outside Harrods at 2pm. From there we moved to Hyde Park where your package was opened. We were deeply excited when we heard your voice – the voice of the Leader!

  Anyway, things were progressing nicely and we found a great deal of old men to make happy. In Hyde Park itself we found several old men on deckchairs and bought them cups of tea. We took pictures and will send them soon.

  Once we had run out of old men there we got on a train to Hammersmith, and tried to find hospitals, rest homes and shelters, or anywhere we thought old men might hang out. As we passed a McDonald’s, we spotted an old American man buying a cheeseburger, so we ran up and paid for his meal for him. He was very surprised but rather delighted.

  But then we were walking past a pub in Hammersmith, and . . .

  . . . and this is where I started to smile a very big smile indeed. Looking back on it, this was quite a turning point. Something which would help shape the future of Join Me forever.

  The joinees were getting towards the end of their day together. They were satisfied. They’d done as I’d asked, they’d made some old men very happy, and they’d been enjoying themselves.

  Just as they were about to stop for the day, though, they spotted an old man, in a blue blazer and with white hair, trudging into a pub in Hammersmith. They followed him in, and observed him for a little while, from a table on the other side of the room.

  He looked sad. He’d bought himself half a lager – never a good sign – and was now sitting in a corner, lost in thought, a look of concern all over his old man’s face.

  The joinees considered him for a while, then discussed what actions, if any, they should take. They chose to approach him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Joinee Whitby. ‘I’m from something called Join Me. I was wondering if there was anything we could do to make you happy?’

  The old man looked up at my joinee, and tried a smile.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do to make me happy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  And the old man – an old man named Raymond Price – told him.

  ‘My car’s broken down. I live in Teignmouth in Devon. I’ve had to spend all my cash to get the car towed away. I’ve got no way of getting home. I’ve just spent my last pound on this half of lager. I was just sitting here wondering what on earth I’m going to do. I can’t get home.’

  Whitby looked over to the table of joinees and then back at Raymond Price.

  ‘I think we can help,’ he said.

  * * *

  Joinee Whitby emailed me to tell me he’d be sending the dictaphone back to me straight away, and that Raymond Price had recorded a special message on it for me. I told Whitby that I was keen that the dictaphone arrived safely, so I would trust him and tell him my home address, rather than have him use the PO Box number. He told me he’d already found all my personal details some time ago on the Internet, through some kind of domain name search. This worried me. For a start, he’d already lost me with the phrase ‘domain name search’. But was this the beginning of the stalking Ian had talked about? What was he doing, tracking down the home address of his usually anonymous Leader? What were his plans? And why had he told me that rather scary fact? I tried not to think about it for long, and the package arrived safe and sound the next morning.

  I took the dictaphone out and pressed play. There was a muffled, pub atmosphere . . . faint music . . . someone’s mobile phone playing the Murder She Wrote theme tune in the background . . . a fruit machine . . . and then the soft, Devonshire accent of Mr Raymond Price.

  ‘I’m in the doldrums,’ it started, which made me laugh, because the only other time I’ve heard anyone use that expression was on an episode of Take the High Road. ‘My car’s broken down. They’ve taken it to New Morden. I live in Teignmouth in Devon. I was sitting in this pub, having a half a lager, thinking how on earth am I going to get the cash together to get back to Teignmouth in Devon. Within seconds of that thought a gentlemen came up to me and asked “Can I make you happy?” And I said to him, “No. I’ve got a real problem here.” And then I explained to him, and he said that he and his friends thought they would be able to help me. From whence they all clubbed together to get me my train fare back to Teignmouth in Devon . . .’

  How great was this? There are three things I’d like you to take away from Mr Price’s statement. One: on a whim, and for no personal gain whatsoever, my joinees had got their wallets and purses out and pooled their resources in order to give a random old man £38 – enough to cover his train fare, and buy him some dinner for the journey home. Two: Raymond Price can’t say ‘Teignmouth’ without saying ‘in Devon’ afterwards, which I love. And three: he used the word ‘whence’, proving beyond all doubt that he is, indeed, a very old man. I loved Raymond Price. And I loved my joinees for helping him out.

  The recorded message continued:

  ‘It is an unbelievable story. It is as if somebody has sent these people into my life at this time, just when I needed help. It is as if someone from above has sent them to give me aid. And I have never been so happy as I am now. And I’m an artist and already have everything I need. But they have helped me. I am so happy.’

  Well, there you have it. I was now, officially, a Higher Power. I was that someone from above, sending my angels into places of despair. I was the Orson to my joinees’ Mork.

  The joinees took Mr Price’s home address, and told him that I would almost certainly write him a letter. He thanked them again and again, and promised to pay them back, and thanked them again, and shook their hands, and said he’d be getting in touch with the Teignmouth News to tell them of his experience in the usually cold, usually unfriendly L
ondon.

  The joinees returned to their homes around the country having made new friends and done something truly worthwhile with their day. This had been an important event. For one thing, I knew now beyond a shadow of a doubt that Whitby was back on board. There’d be no more mutiny now. But more importantly, we had made an old man very happy. We had done a good deed, for a random pensioner, and brought an unexpected ray of sunshine into his life. We had made a difference.

  I knew then that we had found our purpose. We had found our cause. We would make old men very happy.

  And then we would start on the rest of you.

  CHAPTER 9

  11. Daniel did bring forth bread, and cheese of kine.

  12. And Daniel laid the cheese upon the bread, and placed them in the oven.

  13. And presently out of the oven issued fire and brimstone, and the smoke thereof ascended as the smoke of a furnace, and verily, the kitchen did quake mightily.

  NOW, I DON’T know if you’ve ever started a cult, but there are certain things you have to take into consideration when doing so.

  The first is whether or not you refer to it as such. Others may have continually referred to Join Me in this way, but I was sticking with ‘collective’. Partly because I prefer it, and partly because that’s the kind of thing a cult leader does.

  Secondly, you have to decide whether to use your powers for Good, or for Evil. I suppose in some ways this was the dilemma I had been facing, but now Raymond Price had made the decision for me.

  I would be lying if I told you there wasn’t a part of me that wanted to use my joinees to spread mischief across the land. I would love to be able to tell you, for example, that myself and two hundred followers had arranged the largest-ever Post Office robbery, with 201 masked raiders invading some sub-branch in Tooting and making off with roughly a tenner each. I was also starting to daydream about booking every single ticket for the opening night of the next Ben Elton musical and then getting everyone to stand up and leave just as the curtain was going up for the first song. But alas, it wasn’t to be. Because I, Danny Wallace, was to be at the service of All Things Good.