‘You keep these people in your flat?’
‘No, no. In a box.’
Amar look stunned.
‘Photos of them, I mean. Not the actual people.’
I laughed nervously. Amar didn’t.
‘Anyway, my friend came round and pointed something disturbing out – that basically everyone in my collective was white. And that’s not the way it should be. So I would like some of your readers to put that right.’
‘What you are basically telling me is that you are a cult leader and you want to capture some Asians.’
‘No! It’s not a cult – it’s a collective. And I wouldn’t be capturing them – I’d just be asking them to do good deeds.’
‘You think Asian people don’t do enough good deeds?’
This wasn’t going too well.
‘I’m sure they do!’
‘Why do you want them, then? Because we make good workers?’
‘Eh?’
‘Do you not think Asian people have suffered enough under brutal white regimes without having to follow your every whim as well?’
‘I’m not brutal! And I’m sorry about all that stuff! Listen—’
‘Have you heard of the Raj, Mr Wallace?
‘It’s nothing like the Raj! Please don’t think it’s like the Raj!’
This man hated me. His expression was unwavering. Maybe I’d been stupid being so conscious of the race thing. But just when I was about to plead with Amar for his understanding and then leg it when that too somehow backfired, a smile cracked on his face.
‘I was messing with you!’ he laughed. ‘Look at your face!’
I exhaled for what seemed like the first time ever. Oh thank God. He was messing with me.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help it. Buy me a beer and tell me more about it . . .’
And I did. And we got on brilliantly. Amar had seemed to forget he was on deadline, stayed for another beer, and confessed he was getting quite into the idea of Join Me.
‘I might even join you myself,’ he said. ‘Just to set a good example to other British Asians.’
‘Well, you’re the Voice of British Asians. What you say must be heard.’
‘I think we can definitely put something in the paper about this. We might have to brush it up a bit. Make it more intriguing to the Asian people. We’ll say you wrote a mysterious letter.’
‘Whatever you think,’ I said.
‘Can you get me an appropriate picture? Ideally, one of you.’
‘I don’t really put pictures of myself around,’ I said. ‘I don’t want the publicity for myself. Just for Join Me. And my girlfriend doesn’t know I’m doing this, so it’s tricky.’
‘Does she read the ethnic media?’
‘No. She reads Heat.’
‘You’ll be fine, then. I think it would really help the readers to know who they’re joining. You’ve got a trustworthy face. They’re far more likely to get in touch if they can look into your eyes.’
‘Okay,’ I said. He had a point. And the chances of Hanne accidentally buying the Asian Xpress when she meant to buy Heat was minimal, at best.
‘Right. I’d better be off. I might pop into town, take a look around HMV.’
‘I thought you were on deadline?’
‘Nah. That was yesterday. I only said that in case you were a nutter and I needed to get away from you.’
And so I watched the Voice of British Asians, Amar Singh, wander off, and I jogged back to the flat, where I set up my digital camera, ready to take a picture of myself. This was basically the first time I was revealing myself to the British media as the Leader of Join Me, and I suppose I had to decide what kind of look to go for. Friendly and welcoming? I tried one, but looked like a simpleton. I went for a casual look next, smiling like I hadn’t a care in the world, and again, somehow the photo made me look like slightly simple. Not even I would join me. What was wrong with this camera? Maybe I needed a new one.
Finally, I settled on a kind of Lord Kitchener-style look, pointing at the camera, my most serious face on. I was also holding a small sign I’d made, which read JOIN ME, ASIANS. If that didn’t get ’em in, nothing would.
And Amar stayed true to his word. The article, and photo, appeared in that Friday’s Asian Xpress, and read as follows:
WHAT A CULT!
A mysterious man who claims to have ‘started a cult by accident’ is appealing for Asian followers.
Wacko leader known only to us as ‘Danny’ wants more Asians to join his ‘collective’ in order to make his membership base more diverse.
Danny, who claims to be a big fan of our paper, says: ‘As any cult leader worth his salt knows, your cult should reflect society at its best – at its most diverse. I find the idea of an all white cult positively offensive. It’s not right. It shouldn’t be allowed. So I need your help.’
The article continued, giving details of how people could contact me, before finishing with a strict warning: ‘Asian Xpress cannot vouch for this man’s reputation or motives.’
Blimey. They weren’t taking any chances. And I now understood what Amar saw as ‘making it more intriguing’. Not only was I now seemingly referring to Join Me as a cult, but according to the headline I was now a complete and utter cult myself. Oh, and a ‘wacko leader’. I just hoped people wouldn’t misread that as ‘Waco leader’, and mistake me for David Koresh.
I was happy with the article, though. And a couple of days later I received, in the post, a passport photo from my first Asian joinee. Amar Singh. The editor of the Asian Xpress. The Voice of British Asians. Even if not one more Asian person joined me, I’d have the official spokesman of an entire ethnic minority on my side.
But more Asian people did join. Joinees Banarjee, Bhogall, Khan and Sarmah dutifully did as the Xpress had asked, and sent their photos to me. Joinee Sarmah even wrote: ‘I am pleased you have appealed for more Asian people to join you. Things which are exclusively white, black, or Asian are not right. Especially if they are all-white. You only have to think of the Chuckle Brothers or the cast of Bread to know that I am right.’ And I did, and he was.
I also received an email from a man called Gubs Hayer. He was a producer with the BBC Asian Network, had read all about me, and wanted me to be interviewed on that night’s Late Show, broadcast to Asian people throughout the world. He said it would be a great chance for me to add more Asians to my collective. I agreed with him. I did the interview; more people joined me as a result. And the Asian Xpress appeal was still working a few days later, when I received a brown, A4 envelope, containing the following anonymous message . . .
Hello. I saw your picture in the Asian Xpress and read about what you had to say. For both of these reasons I enclose this book as I think you need it more than I do.
I took the book out of the envelope and read its title. How To Succeed with Girls, by Steve Marshall. Well, really. There was no need for that. I chose to take it not as an insult, but as a kind and generous gesture which was aimed at helping me get more women to join me. I flicked through the book, subtitled, The Complete Guide to Success with Girls, just to see if there was anything I could pick up and utilise in my ongoing quest to reach 1000.
I stopped flicking at ‘Places to Meet Girls’. Mr Marshall was keen for me not to overlook the girl next door. Apparently, being around when she first moves in is a real bonus. Tips for conquering her include: ‘Babysit her cat for the day while she gets organised’; ‘Take round a bottle of champagne and two glasses for the evening’; ‘Just to celebrate her arrival, arrive with flowers and hamburgers for supper.’ However, Steve also warns: ‘Don’t come on too strong with her in the beginning.’ Jesus, if turning up at a stranger’s house with champagne, hamburgers and flowers isn’t too strong, I’d hate to imagine what kind of court cases would arise from whatever he reckons is.
I read on. Where chatting girls up is concerned, he suggests a cracking line such as: ‘My parents are coming to visit this weekend. Can y
ou recommend any good restaurants?’ Presumably, you would then move straight on to penetration.
I shoved the book in my drawer and got on with my day. Now satisfied that my collective represented humanity at its most diverse – and that I was up to a rather pleasant and impressive 713 joinees – I was free to continue as before. I called Ian first, though.
‘Right,’ I said, ‘it’s much more ethnically diverse now. So will you join me?’
‘No. And can I have that blonde joinee’s phone number?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got a book you can have instead.’
* * *
It was a Tuesday, about threeish, and we were in a taxi on our way into town. It was a red one, if that helps you build your mental picture, and the driver had a hook nose.
‘I’m going to Dublin,’ said Hanne, out of the blue.
‘I thought we were going shopping,’ I said.
‘No, not now. This weekend. I only just found out today. There was a deal on the Internet and Claire bought four tickets for a quid each. So we’re flying there Saturday morning and coming back in the evening. Bit of shopping, nice meal, that sort of thing.’
I tried to reply, but ‘It’ll do you good to get . . .’ was as far as I got. Because, unless my ears were playing tricks on me, I’d just heard something a little odd on the radio.
‘Can you turn that up?’ I asked the driver.
‘What’re you doing?’ asked Hanne.
It was BBC Radio 2, and the nation’s favourite daytime show, Steve Wright in the Afternoon.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘So what made you choose Dublin?’
And as Hanne began to speak, and I began to nod as if I were paying her the utmost attention, a man named Miles Mendoza began to talk in some detail about Join Me and the Karma Army . . . and I was stunned.
‘So this is the website of the week, Miles?’ asked a man whose voice I recognised as that of Mark Goodier, standing in for Steve Wright, and Miles said yes, and my heart leapt. I started to smile the biggest smile in the world and strained to keep control of it so as not to alert Hanne to what I was hearing. But imagine it! Several million people listening to a man talking about Join Me! And me unable to say a thing about it!
‘You know how I like a website with a story,’ said Miles, ‘well, this is a website with a story. It all started a few months ago, when a man named Danny placed a small ad in a local London paper . . .’
My eyes were about as wide as they could get at this point. I tried subtly to cover my mouth to stop my smile from showing.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Hanne.
‘Nothing. Tell me more things about stuff.’
She looked at me oddly, but that really didn’t matter, because Miles had started to go on and on at great length about my very important work.
‘. . . so initially people didn’t know what they were joining, but the weird thing is that that didn’t actually stop them from joining . . .’
Mark Goodier laughed. Join Me had made Mark Goodier laugh! And that made me laugh!
‘What are you laughing at?’ said Hanne, and I stopped instantly.
‘. . . with joinees going out every Friday and spreading good . . . buying coffees, befriending the elderly, that sort of thing . . .’
‘That sounds amazing!’ said Mark Goodier.
Mark Goodier said it sounded amazing! Amazing! Mark Goodier! I laughed again.
‘What is it?’ said Hanne.
‘Nothing,’ I said, trying to look very serious. ‘Go on.’
‘. . . and so the Karma Army was born . . .’
‘The Karma Army?’ said Hanne, clearly realising I’d been listening to the radio. ‘Wasn’t that a film, or something?’
‘No,’ I said, struggling to look like I wasn’t all that bothered by what Mr Mendoza was saying. ‘So anyway. When are you going to Dublin again?’
‘. . . and their brief when they met up was to find an old man and make him very happy . . .’
Mark Goodier laughed again! Very loudly, this time! So did the cab driver! I struggled not to squeal like a lady.
‘The flight’s on Saturday morning,’ continued Hanne, oblivious. ‘I’ll come straight round to yours afterwards. We can cook dinner. Or you could always get a ticket too, you know . . .’
‘Er . . . well . . . I think I’m . . .’
‘Working?’ she said. ‘You’re always working now . . .’
‘. . . and one of the things they did concerns a bloke who calls himself Raymond Price . . .’
‘Always working now,’ I blindly repeated, using a clever tactic girls don’t know about to hide the fact that I wasn’t really taking it in.
‘Well, you are,’ she said.
‘Are,’ I said. It’s amazing how well that works.
‘. . . same scam for over fifty years . . .’
‘You’re not even listening to me, are you?’ said Hanne. Well, I assume she did, because I wasn’t even listening to her. I’ve no idea what she said. All I know is, the whole of the UK was suddenly being told about Raymond Price. About how he’d been conning innocent members of the public out of money by feeding them the same lie year after year, and about how, instead of finding him and shouting at him, they could support The Raymond Price Fund For Keeping Raymond Price Out Of Trouble!
Blimey! The fund I started – and which currently stood at around £18 – had just been given official backing by the BBC! I was now more or less as established and worthy as Children In Need or Comic Relief!
And, as our cab pulled up in the middle of Soho and Hanne grumpily got her things together, I giggled. And giggled. And giggled.
And Hanne said, ‘I don’t know what you’re bloody laughing at,’ and that made me giggle even more, and eventually I was just one big, red-faced giggling mess.
And I think that’s when Hanne realised for the first time that life with me was never going to be all Chocolate Oranges and stainless-steel peppermills.
And that’s a moment I would come to regret.
* * *
The response from the Radio 2 listeners was astonishing.
They had visited the site in their thousands, and I had over a hundred messages to wade through when I got home.
Heartening messages, like one from a man I would later know as Joinee Turner of Reading, who wrote: ‘I truly believe that the world can only benefit from as many people performing random acts of kindness as possible, and having done my best as a solo nice person until now, I think I can do so much more for so many more people as a member of your collective.’
And he was just one of many who were thinking along the same lines. In the days that followed, I received passport photo after passport photo from every corner of the UK. From Belfast to the Isle of Man to Dundee to Pontypridd to Birmingham to Exeter to the Isle of Bute and back. Each one a gesture of solidarity from someone who just . . . you know . . . wanted to be nice.
And there were also emails and letters from people who wanted to tell me all about – yes – Raymond Price:
Dear Danny,
I just had to write to you about Raymond Price. I was listening to Miles Mendoza on Radio 2 and nearly fell off my chair when Raymond Price’s name was mentioned – he has never been far away from my thoughts, the old rogue! My husband and I were in Southampton staying with our daughter. Having just parked our car, this lovely old man appeared at our car window . . . ‘Excuse me, my car has broken down and I have to get back to Devon . . . could you lend me some money?’
My husband was reluctant, but as I am of the caring ilk, I looked at my husband and said ‘Well, if we can help another fellow human being, let’s do it’. . . so yes indeedy! We handed 40 quid over . . .
I don’t feel at all bitter – just bemused to think that we were one of many gullible people to help the old bugger!
My very best wishes to you, Danny, and to your wonderful cause! Let’s hope Raymond gets himself sorted . . . whoops! Have just seen a pig fly across the
sky!
Jo Johns
And incredibly, Jo wasn’t the only one . . . Price sightings were sent to me from all across the land. Intrigued, I checked the Raymond Price Fund to see whether anyone had donated any money to keeping the old fella out of trouble . . .
And they had.
All of a sudden, TRPFFKRPOOT was worth £61!
The people of Britain had taken pity on an old devil. Whether these anonymous benefactors did it out of a sense of fun, or to genuinely keep this old man out of prison, I’ll never know. I just know I went all warm and silly when I found out.
Not everyone was convinced, though . . .
Having heard about you on the radio today I listened to the tale of Raymond Price. I think your guesstimate of how much money he has made is very low. I disagree with your idea of trying to pay off a conman as it would cause me great heartache to give to someone who did not deserve it. The world needs people who care and also people who appreciate the care they are given. Build on those folk first before those who couldn’t care less.
All the best. I will keep checking the site and most probably will take an interest.
Brian
It pains me to say it, but I understood Brian’s point. If Raymond Price really had been ripping off more people than we’d initially thought, then maybe he didn’t deserve the money after all – no matter how much he’d inspired me to try and do good. I guess all I could do was wait until the day I got to meet him before making that judgement.
In the meantime, I was thrilled by the amount of people continuing to join me on a daily basis. And by the strange little events that were starting to take over my days.
For instance, someone from The Ruby Wax Show phoned me up and said Ruby had been handed a Join Me leaflet and wanted me to go on her BBC1 TV show to talk about it. I didn’t know what to say. Would a morning chat show be the right way to come out to Hanne about being, effectively, a cult leader? I told the producer that I had something I had to do first, and would call them back. But there were lots of things I had to do first . . . because lots of things were happening.
Join Me Page 29
