Old men the length and breadth of this country wouldn’t know what had hit them. I was absolutely determined that overnight, their lives would improve. And why? Because the sheer excitement of the Raymond Price initiative was yet to die down. Maybe it was because I couldn’t really tell anyone, or share my excitement. I was hoarding it and, consequently, it was lasting bloody ages. I was as close to being giddy as it’s possible to be while still maintaining a fairly masculine air. A plan had formed in my mind. I’d already written a lengthy letter to Mr Price, explaining who those five joinees were and why they had done what they’d done, and even invited him to join me. I posted it off with a spring in my step and a whistle on my lips. As it turned out, the whole thing had been a handy trial scheme. A useful experiment. And all the signs were pointing to the fact that I could now do it on a much larger scale.
I really could improve the lives of hundreds – if not thousands – of old men.
But it would cost money. I’d already shelled out for all those leaflets and stickers. Surely it was someone else’s turn to pay? All this was kind of in honour of Gallus, though, I kept telling myself And let’s not forget – he was an old man himself. This is something he would love. It wasn’t about me. Not really. Just because I was enjoying it . . . well . . . that shouldn’t even come into it. It was just a by-product of the real quest; a bonus. If I was serious, I would have to be prepared to sacrifice a little something. In this case, some money. But, as I think you are beginning to understand, I was serious. In fact, I was becoming very serious indeed.
So I found a company, phoned them up, and ordered a hundred brand new disposable cameras.
‘A hundred?’ said the man.
‘A hundred,’ I said.
‘Big wedding, or something, is it?’
‘Nope. I’m going to send them all to strangers and make them take pictures of old men.’
‘Cool,’ said the man.
* * *
Two days later the cameras arrived in a big brown box, by special delivery. I lugged them upstairs and unpacked them carefully. I now had 100 Pro-Image Flash cameras. Oh yes. Pro-Image. I’d even gone the extra mile and paid for ones with flashes. Now it wouldn’t just be the daywalking pensioners we’d be making happy – we’d be able to make the hardcore, nocturnal ones happy, too.
It was all very exciting. The only thing that put a downer on it was a discovery I made a little later that morning. The only other mail to arrive that day, you see, was one that on first glance seemed very familiar to me. There was something about it I recognised. It had my handwriting on the front, for a start. And an official Join Me rubber stamp mark on the back. I realised with a growing sense of unease that it was the letter I’d sent to Raymond Price. This was odd. I studied it.
Someone had scribbled out his address and written ‘PTO’ on the front. I did as it said. I turned over and read. I was shocked and disappointed.
No one by the name of Raymond Price is known at this address.
I’d got the address wrong. Bugger. I went back to the original email sent to me by the joinees who’d met him and checked where I’d gone wrong. But I hadn’t. I’d written it out exactly as they’d sent it to me. Which was strange. Because they’d copied it straight off Raymond’s driving licence.
My joinees were intelligent people. They knew how to copy stuff down. Surely they couldn’t have got it wrong? Hang on . . . what if Raymond Price had . . .
No. It didn’t bear thinking about. Surely not.
But what if?
What if Raymond Price, our happy old man, had given us a false address? What if the cheeky old devil had nicked our money and legged it back to Teignmouth in Devon? If, indeed, that was where he was from in the first place . . . he could well be, right now, sitting in the finest restaurant in all of Hammersmith, smoking cigars and wearing a new silk top hat, lavishly tipping people left, right and centre – and all with our £38!
That surely couldn’t have happened, could it? If it had, then my faith in humanity, in the future of Join Me . . . it’d all be shattered in just one awful moment. It didn’t make sense to me. Who would do something like that?
Anyway . . . think about it from his point of view. What if Joinee Whitby and pals hadn’t come across as simple, trusting folk; Good Samaritans, bringing hope into this bleak and ever darker world? What if Raymond Price had thought they were some kind of happy-clappy extremist Christian group? What if he thought they were nutters? They’d certainly been very keen to help him – maybe overly keen. What if he’d felt bullied into accepting money from these ‘Joinees’ acting under a ‘Commandment’ from an unseen ‘Leader’? That poor bloke! He must have been cacking himself. His voice had certainly wobbled slightly on that recording, but I’d put that down to emotion; I hadn’t even considered it might have been sheer bloody terror.
Or . . . more likely . . . what if it had all been just a silly mistake? What if Raymond had shown them the wrong piece of ID? One with an old address on? We’ve all got them.
I decided that was the most likely occurrence of all, and that nothing would deter me from my mission. More old men would be made happy – whether they liked it or not.
And so I bought a hundred jiffy bags and printed out a hundred letters, then wrote a hundred addresses of a hundred random joinees onto each, and put a hundred cameras in them, along with their mission statement. Find an old man. Make him very happy. Take a picture as proof. Job done.
I took six plastic Tesco bags, each full of jiffy bags, to the Post Office down the road and bought seventy-eight pence worth of stamps for each. My arms were already tired from all the packing, but this was nothing compared with how tired my tongue became after licking three stamps per envelope for a hundred envelopes in a forty-minute period. I had so much glue in my mouth after that you’ll be glad to hear it put me right off the whole gluesniffing scene for good. I started to walk home and felt my mobile going off in my pocket but ignored it. You try licking 300 stamps of a morning and see how bloody chatty you are.
On reflection, I should have answered it. It was Hanne. She’d left a message, saying, ‘Hi, look, I thought you were going to give me a ring about the film premiere. Do you want to go or not? Let me know or I’ll give your ticket to someone else. I know that Steve from work would love to go. He likes Vin Diesel.’
Who was Steve? She’d never mentioned a Steve before. Surely I’d have remembered she worked with someone with a name as distinctive as that. And who the hell’s Vin Diesel? I called her straight back, but her mobile was off. She was probably on air. I should have left a message saying yes, of course I’ll be there, and I love Vin Diesel too, but I decided I should probably find out who Vin Diesel was first, just in case he wasn’t a film star but a mate of Steve’s and I’d just declared undying love for him.
I got home, stuck some cheese on toast in the oven and thought about Raymond Price some more. Paranoia set in again. Could he really have given us a false address? It seemed unlikely. In the pictures he looked very jolly about everything. There was even one in which my joinees gather behind him, and he crouches in the middle, with two thumbs-up. That was a very visual thank you, not a cry for help from a man overwhelmed by overbearing do-gooders. Plus, just look at his face. It’s round, and happy, with the soft, warm eyes of an old man either so kind he can’t help but radiate it, or so old he can’t focus his eyes properly. And I was sure Raymond could focus properly – he’d shown the joinees his driving licence. Here was the picture of him doing just that, to prove his address. And here’s the one of him accepting the cash – his face a picture of humility and gratitude. Nope, this was a mistake all right. And a mistake I was sure we could correct. I was certain I could track Raymond down . . . we had a last known address, after all, and we had his name, and job, and his voice on tape, and photographs of him. Hell, that was more than most people with a missing person have – and if Raymond had been a bank robber rather than an old man I could’ve caught him in no time with a bit of h
elp from Crimewatch UK, and . . . shit. My cheese on toast was burning.
As I ate my lunch and contemplated my life, I reflected that this wasn’t so bad. Being your own boss. Sitting at home. Watching telly when you wanted. Going to bed when you wanted. Eating what you liked. Having to wade through passport photos to get to the fridge. Buying disposable cameras and posting them to strangers. Making random old men very happy. Oh, I can see why so many people work from home, I really can. You get a lot done.
I decided to leave a message with Hanne, asking her when exactly the premiere was, and telling her to give me a bell that night.
Boyfriend-duty done, I jogged downstairs to check the second post and was delighted to see that the PO box delivery, which always arrives slightly later than my normal mail, had made it through. And with it, a letter from a new joinee. My 201st.
The photograph enclosed was of a smiling man, with soft blonde hair and glasses, wearing a black T-shirt with a white collar. It made him look a little like a vicar until closer inspection . . . but in this case that was probably the point. What he was wearing could really be described as ‘vicar casual’. Because this man, my latest joinee, went by the name of the Reverend Gareth Saunders. I read the letter excitedly. Could it really be from a proper, bona-fide vicar? There was a website address for his own homepage, and I checked it . . . and yes. He was a vicar. A practising vicar. An assistant curate, no less, at Inverness Cathedral!
Now, the one thing I hadn’t been expecting was for a vicar to join me. They’re already part of quite a big club, so to speak, and it’s a club that’s famed for its strict belief system. Surely it wasn’t normal for the Church to let vicars go about joining things like this? Unless the Church was worried about Join Me, and Gareth was a vicar spy, but being a vicar he wasn’t allowed to lie about it? That would really get on people’s tits, being a vicar as well as a spy.
I was fascinated. Joinee Saunders’s letter was polite, and funny, and engaging. He’d simply found Join Me on the web and thought it sounded fun.
I emailed him immediately, just to touch base, and was surprised when, minutes later, he replied. We hit it off electronically, straight away. And he was full of good advice.
‘Regarding Join Me, the one thing I can tell you I’ve learnt from the Church,’ he wrote, ‘is that it spreads best through personal contact. That’s the one thing you really need.’
Personal contact. He was right. I’d been worried about revealing myself to my joinees en masse, but if they could look into my eyes, if they could feel the passion face-to-face, then surely that would be the way to enthuse them? To get them to spread the word even further? To let them know just how important it was to make old men happy? To really believe in Join Me – and make others believe? Wasn’t that what Jesus had done with his disciples? And there were only a few of those – I’ve got loads more than he managed.
And before any Christian readers get all offended – relax. I’m not saying that I’m the new Jesus. I’m just saying that there’s a very good chance that I might be.
I wrote back to Gareth to say that I agreed, personal contact was definitely the way ahead. And to prove it, with his permission, I would visit him. He said of course, and when was I thinking of? I told him I was thinking of that weekend. He appeared unfazed, and said ‘okay’.
So I booked my ticket to Scotland and packed my bag.
The Reverend Gareth J.M. Sounders
CHAPTER 10
1. In the fiftieth year of the reign of Elizabeth queen of Britons, Daniel went forth to the land of Scotia.
2. And there he beheld a great temple, and before it a priest.
3. And the priest spake unto Daniel, saying, Hear ye the Leper Messiah, and hearken to the Phantom Lord.
4. And Daniel was astonished, and said, How canst thou preach such iniquity?
5. And the priest answered, saying, Och, well, perhaps you should start with some of their earlier stuff. Like, ‘Ride The Lightning’. Now that’s vintage Metallica, that is.
6. When he had spoken these things the priest wrought lewdness; and Daniel was filled with fear.
7. But the priest gave Daniel provision, and shelter, and it was good.
8. And at the cockcrowing Daniel went on his way.
THE PLANE TOUCHED down at Inverness International Airport. I say ‘touched down’. That really doesn’t do justice to the extreme violence that the captain managed to invest in his touchdown. It’s like saying you stroked a cat, only you did it with a hammer.
Oh, and I say ‘International Airport’. It’s more of a cowshed got lucky. Apparently, as well as flying to and from sunny Luton, happy Inverness residents can also fly to Malta, although if you miss your flight you have to wait a full six months for the next one. It would literally be quicker to walk.
It was stormy in Inverness and the short amble from the plane to the cowshed saw me soaked through with icy, furious water. But there was a fantastic sight to behold as I made it to the arrivals lounge: a tall man with a goatee beard, dressed in full vicar’s gear, holding a small sign saying ‘Join Me’.
‘Gareth?’ I said, although if it wasn’t Gareth I would have been very seriously worried for the Christian faith, having to resort to my very basic tactics to get people to sign up.
‘Hello!’ he said, cheerily. ‘I thought I’d make this sign so you’d know it was me. I was worried the dog collar wouldn’t be enough.’
Gareth and I walked out of the airport to find his car. It was still raining very, very hard. His mobile went off.
‘Yes . . . I’ve just picked Danny up . . . the bloke I joined . . . yes . . . well . . . we’ll see . . .’
He looked over at me and smiled. Clearly there were people less at ease with Gareth meeting me than he was.
‘Okay . . . yes . . . well, it’s pissing down here . . . yes . . .’
Pissing down? Was this the way a vicar talked?
It was his wife, Jane, on the phone, and he continued to chat as we clambered into his sleek red Rover. The road out of the airport gives you two options . . . one sign points to Aberdeen. The other points to Inverness. Gareth slowed the car to a stop and pondered for a moment.
‘Do we want fun, or do we want . . .’ he sighed . . . ‘Inverness?’
‘I suppose we want Inverness, really,’ I said. ‘What with that being where you live, and all.’
Gareth exhaled heavily. ‘Okay,’ he said. And we drove towards Inverness.
The Rover’s heating kicked in, and I started to take my jumper off, before realising with horror that that morning I’d pulled on the first T-shirt to hand. It was a retro 70’s T-shirt, with a big pointing hand, and the words ‘I’m With Stupid’ written on it. I decided I couldn’t reveal it. For one thing, it was pointing towards where Gareth was sitting, and it really wouldn’t have proved a great way of endearing myself to him. Anyone standing in front of the car would have seen one man dressed as a vicar, and another quite clearly mocking the Christian faith. I kept my jumper on.
‘So, um . . . Danny,’ said Gareth. ‘Who else has joined you? I mean, what kind of people, generally?’
I took a tatty piece of paper out of my pocket and read it.
‘The average joinee is thirty-three years old,’ I said, ‘and living in the Midlands with one-fifth of a child.’
Gareth nodded.
‘He is approximately fifty-eight per cent male.’
‘Right,’ he said, as we somehow negotiated our way through the storm. ‘That’s kind of what Jane says about me.’
‘How did you meet Jane?’ I asked.
‘I met her at my dad’s funeral. She was after my brother. But I got her.’
‘Nice one,’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
I had warmed to Gareth within seconds of meeting him. Thirty years old and with the build of a rugby player, he neither looked nor sounded like a conventional priest. He’d lived all over the country, and toured the world with the National Youth Choir of Great
Britain, and, perhaps best of all, he was a laugher. He’d tell jokes, and react well to jokes, and had a quick and inclusive wit.
He drove me past Loch Ness, which was all but hidden by huge grey smudges of mist, and the relentless torrents of rain which crashed down onto the windows of the car.
‘Hey,’ said Gareth. ‘One of the houses round here has a load of gnomes in its front garden, and they’re all playing cricket, you’ll like that . . .’
We slowed the car down as we passed the house Gareth thought it was, but couldn’t spot even one gnome. Play must have been called off due to rain. But if it’s garden ornaments you want, you could do worse than a trip to Loch Ness. Nearly every hotel and bed and breakfast we passed had some form of huge and inconvenient Loch Ness Monster in its garden or forecourt. You could almost sense the confusion of visiting Americans in the area, none of them sure which hotel to go for, thanks to nearly all of the monsters being . . . well . . . a bit shit.
There were also half a dozen signs up and down the road, proclaiming ‘Loch Ness 2000! Exhibition! This way!’ I love it when people still use the number 2000 in titles, as if it continues to make things sound futuristic. I expect that the Loch Ness 2000 exhibition probably had a massive, aluminium foil-covered Robo-Nessie with red lightbulbs for eyes and a dictaphone hidden in its mouth with the sound of fearsome roaring on it. If you visit the Loch Ness 2000 exhibition, and it doesn’t, tell them you want your money back. They’ll have to make one eventually, and then we can all go and laugh at it, and say, ‘Oh, will that be what it’s like in the year 2000?’ and then it’ll close down and we’ll all feel hugely guilty, and I’ll pretend someone else wrote this bit.
We drove on, and chatted about Join Me, until we arrived and disembarked at Urquhart Castle, one of the local and hugely impressive landmarks. It’s a ruin now, but still boasts a fully working trebuchet. To be honest, I think they were asking for trouble building a castle near a fully working trebuchet. No wonder it was a bloody ruin.
Join Me Page 11