Join Me

by Danny Wallace

  ‘Listen,’ I said, standing up. ‘You two guys don’t want to come on holiday with me, do you?’

  Wayne and Christopher looked at each other, then back to me.

  ‘I think we’re quite busy at the moment,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Fair enough. Well, if you change your minds . . .’

  I shook their hands and they gave me one of their Vis à Vis business cards. It had a picture of a smiling guitar being chased by a growling keyboard on it. It was actually slightly disturbing.

  ‘Just in case you ever get married . . .’ said Wayne.

  I heard Hanne calling for me again, slightly sterner this time.

  ‘See you,’ I said, and walked over to my girlfriend.

  * * *

  One week later I was crushed up against the window of an extremely stuffy coach at five in the morning. It was well over thirty degrees outside, and possibly far hotter in the coach. Next to me was my friend Fletcher, asleep despite amazing odds. All around us were young men in novelty T-shirts and baseball caps, on various lads’ holidays. Many of them had already been involved in fights since our plane had landed. Pretty much all of them had somehow managed to become extremely drunk and leery in the one hour we’d been on the coach. And now each and every one of them was singing some incredibly offensive dittie about a young lady who seemed to have a rather dubious moral code. It was not a joyous sound; particularly as each participant seemed to have decided to take part in their own key. I began to slightly resent the fact that Fletcher was sleeping through it. More so when I noticed he’d dribbled on my arm.

  Fletcher, an old friend from childhood days in Loughborough, had been very enthusiastic about going on holiday. Possibly because he still lives in Loughborough. But he thought it was a great idea, and had arranged a week off work in order to come. I’d let him take care of booking it, mainly because he lives a mere minute away from a travel agent. However, I was beginning to realise that from now on I wouldn’t even allow him to take care of booking a taxi, for fear of a clown car turning up in its place.

  ‘We’re going to Malia!’ he’d said, when he phoned up. ‘All booked! Best deal I could get! Really cheap!’

  ‘Great! Where’s Malia?’ I said.

  ‘It’s in Crete. It’s going to be brilliant.’

  I had no doubt that it would. So I rushed out and bought a copy of The Rough Guide to Greece. I soon realised that I should have bought The Guide to Rough Greece.

  I phoned Fletcher back.

  ‘It appears that Malia is not all it’s cracked up to be,’ I said. ‘It says in this book that Malia is famed throughout Greece for its bad food and hooliganism.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fletcher. ‘Whoops.’

  * * *

  I have never made a particularly good ‘lad’. I don’t own an England football shirt, for a start. I have never been at the centre of a group of drunken men at pub closing time, all singing ‘Wonderwall’. I have no desire to hire a tank. And yet here I now was, with a beer in my hand, at midday, in a forty-four degree heat, sitting around a pool populated almost entirely by lads. Proper lads. Lads with tattoos. Lads with gold chains around their necks. Lads with so much gel in their hair that their scalps appeared green and they sweated in thick slimy globules.

  Please understand: I wear glasses. This was no place for a man with glasses.

  Suddenly a small ball rolled over my foot. A couple of the lads batting it about had knocked it over by accident.

  ‘Sorry Professor!’ one of them shouted. And that was that. I had my nickname. I wore glasses. So I was the Professor.

  By day, the lads around the pool merged into one massive group, each one almost entirely indistinguishable from the next. I began to recognise people not by their faces or haircuts, but by their tattoos or bruises. When the clouds obscured the sun, each would pull on their England football shirt. But when that first evening finally came, they separated into their packs and climbed into their special T-shirts. T-shirts they’d had made specifically for their holiday. On the front of each was something along the lines of ‘Boys’ Tour: Malia 2002’. On the back, where a footballer would have his name, they had their nickname. I watched, as various men with monikers like ‘Spacker’ and ‘Knobjockey’ left the pool area, each preparing for yet another big night out. I considered a dip in the pool, but noticed a fine green film across the top of the water. It could only have been hair gel. Had I swam through that vast gel slick and then stood in the sun I have no doubt that it would have hardened on my skin and I would have appeared embalmed for the rest of the holiday.

  Fletcher was still asleep in the flat come five o’clock, so I wandered into town. I found Beach Road; a mile-long stretch of nothing but bars and clubs. At the bottom, just before the beach, was a dusty line-up of clothes shops. One of them was called ‘Moustache: Fashions for Men’. As moustaches have been out of fashion since the late 1940s, I didn’t hold high hopes for the clothing within. I imagine it was probably all deer stalkers and spats.

  The women had it just as bad, mind you. Their main clothes shop was called ‘Fashions by Vera’. And we all know the one main rule of shopping for women is never buy your girlfriend anything from a woman named Vera.

  At six or so I sent Fletcher a text message to see if he was awake yet. Nothing came back so I found a bar called Flares near the top of the street and sat in it. It was rather depressing. It was a 70s bar, with tacky decor and a row of bar staff dressed to the nines in dodgy 70s gear. They really didn’t look like they were enjoying it. As for the clientele, well . . . it was just me and two shaven-headed lads, both with nicknames on their backs. One of them was called CORNFLAKE. The other one was called TITS. So I sat there, with Cornflake and Tits, and had a beer. Fletcher would be up soon. I’d have him meet me here, and we could begin our five days of holiday properly. Five days in which I could clear my mind and forget my joinees.

  A group of seven lads walked in and took a seat at one of the tables near mine. They looked to be in their early twenties and were topless, tanned and relaxed. Cornflake and Tits clearly wanted to be alone, and left moments later.

  ‘Did you see his nickname?’ said one of the boys, in a light Newcastle accent. ‘It was Tits.’

  ‘Quite fitting,’ said another. ‘They looked like a pair of tits.’

  I smiled to myself, and it was noticed by the tallest of the group.

  ‘You’re the Professor, aren’t you?’ he said.

  Jesus. I’d been here less than a day and already word had spread that a man with spectacles had come to Malia.

  ‘We saw you by the pool today, looking a bit uncomfortable.’

  His name was Patrick, he was indeed from Newcastle, and he was here on holiday with his six best mates: Ian, John, Tom, Ryan, Simon and Stephen. They’d known each other since they were tiny, and had spent the summer working together in order to pay for their trip to Greece.

  ‘Danny,’ I said, shaking their hands. ‘I’m here with my mate. But he’s asleep. He likes sleeping.’

  ‘Have you seen much of Malia yet?’ asked John.

  ‘Nope. Just this road. And the pool.’

  ‘That’s actually all there is,’ said Stephen. ‘Well, it’s all we’ve seen.’

  ‘Oh, lads, there they go . . .’

  Tom – the baby-faced member of the group – was pointing at a group of seven girls walking up Beach Road. They were each blonde, glamorous, scantily-clad, and about 18 or so.

  ‘We’ve become completely obsessed with them,’ said Ian. ‘We call them the Magnificent Seven.’

  The Magnificent Seven were from Barnsley. They’d arrived in Malia at the same time as the Newcastle lads, and initially the boys had thought that was perfect – seven brides for seven Geordies. Unfortunately, they hadn’t yet plucked up the courage to speak to them. Night after night, they’d simply stood by the bar, staring intently at the girls while they danced, hoping to God that one of them would suddenly walk up and proposition them. Bizarrely, it was
yet to happen.

  ‘Time’s running out, lads,’ said John. ‘They leave the same day as us. If it’s going to happen, we’d better get a shift on.’

  ‘What are you doing tonight, Danny?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Just hitting the bars, I think,’ I said. ‘I’m here to . . . you know . . . forget.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the lads, looking like they understood.

  ‘Well, we’ll show you round later on, if you fancy it.’

  And I did. I agreed to turn up at eleven with Fletcher and be shown around.

  When I got back to the flat, my friend was just getting up.

  ‘This’ll do you good,’ he said, yawning. ‘Getting away from it all.’

  ‘I know. It’s sad, though. I was genuinely enjoying myself. You know? Join Me had taken over. It was all I thought about.’

  ‘You can still do little acts of kindness for people, though,’ said Fletcher. ‘You shouldn’t stop doing that. For instance, you could buy me a beer.’

  ‘It’s not Friday,’ I said.

  ‘Some chips, then.’

  ‘It’s still not Friday.’

  Fletcher shook his head.

  ‘I think you should bring the Karma Army back, Dan. You’ve turned into a right old tight-arse.’

  * * *

  That night at eleven we were back at Flares awaiting the arrival of the Newcastle boys. Beach Road was a vast sprawling mass of people, still living off the heat of the day. Whereas once I would have seen nothing but potential joinees, now I was beginning to think of people as humans again.

  Dozens of bars spilt hundreds of customers out into the street. Girls in tiny skirts and boys in regulation Ben Sherman shirts, smart black trousers and shiny shoes were everywhere. The group of teenagers at the table next to mine all wore their nicknames on their backs, and it genuinely seemed to work as a pulling technique. It gave them a bizarre confidence that they’d never had while wearing their civilian clothes. It made them part of a group. Part of a club. It was a conversation-starter. They weren’t just ‘Steve’ or ‘Gary’ any more. They were ‘Sickbag’ and ‘Nipples’. And they loved it. And so did the girls.

  ‘See that?’ I said. ‘That’s remarkable. A simple T-shirt turning those lads into love machines. Incredible.’

  I watched as Fletcher – a single man open to almost any offer from almost any girl – considered the vast possibilities. I could see him designing his own T-shirt in his head.

  ‘What would you have on the back of yours?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Probably “Fletcher”.’

  As I said: he’s a single man.

  My friend ordered a round of ‘Rainbows’ – a brightly coloured cocktail complete with sparkler – and moments later the Newcastle boys walked in.

  ‘That’ll help you forget whoever she was,’ said Simon, pointing at the drink.

  ‘Who’s “she”?’ I asked.

  ‘You said earlier you’d come here to forget. I assumed you meant a girl. Oh . . .’

  Simon looked at me, and then at Fletcher, and then at our Rainbow-coloured cocktails.

  ‘Are you two . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Fletcher, firmly. He wasn’t going to allow a rumour like that to scupper his chances. ‘No we are not.’

  ‘So what are you trying to forget?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Tell them,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘No. It’s not important.’

  ‘Tell them. They think we’re together. Tell them now.’

  I sighed. ‘I was involved in something but now I’m not. That’s all. It was a kind of group, but I became disillusioned. That’s it.’

  ‘What kind of group?’ asked Patrick. ‘Sounds like you joined a cult.’

  ‘It wasn’t a cult. It was a collective. And I didn’t join it. People joined me.’

  ‘You had a cult?’ asked John. ‘Your own cult?’

  ‘Collective. And yes, I did. But I stopped it when I found out we were helping criminals.’

  ‘What?’ asked Tom. ‘What criminals? Are you on the run?’

  ‘No. It’s . . . it was a collective based on good deeds. All around the country people did little random acts of kindness. But the first one they ever really did turned out to be for a criminal mastermind who ripped us off, and that kind of undermined the whole point of the thing. So I stopped doing it.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Ian. ‘You used to do good deeds but now you don’t? That’s terrible. What’s happening to all the good deeds?’

  ‘They’re just . . . stopping. That’s all. Anyway, do you want a drink?’

  ‘No,’ said Ian. ‘Well, yes. But hang on – go through all that again . . .’

  And I did.

  * * *

  Two hours later and we were standing in a bar called Factory. The Newcastle lads were talking enthusiastically and non-stop about Join Me. They loved the idea of the Karma Army, and a combination of their excitement and about six pints of Stella had led to me starting to talk quite happily about it again.

  ‘What kind of people joined the cult?’ asked Ryan.

  I pulled out a tatty piece of paper from my wallet.

  ‘My collective,’ I said, taking care to stress the word collective, ‘was approximately 55 per cent male, 45 per cent female, 0 per cent other, 95 per cent straight, and lived with, on average, nearly a third of a child.’

  ‘What a weird bloke,’ said Ryan. About the average joinee, I presume, not about me. ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘It was great fun,’ I said. ‘While it lasted. Hundreds of old men up and down the country were being made happier. Weird little moments of niceness were lighting up people’s days. It was ace.’

  ‘And you stopped because of Raymond Price?’

  ‘I was disillusioned. Raymond bloody Price killed the Karma Army. I suppose what I could do is hand the whole thing over to Joinee Whitby . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Joinee Whitby. My nemesis. Or he was, anyway. My friends always suspected Whitby was out to steal Join Me away from me. Well, if he wants it that badly, he can have it.’

  ‘That’s so stupid,’ slurred Simon. ‘You shouldn’t have stopped just because of Price. It should have spurred you on even more. You can’t just give your joinees away. How many did you get?’

  ‘Three hundred and something. I’d wanted 1000.’

  ‘Well, you can’t stop when you’re not even halfway through, can you?’

  I was about to reply, but Tom suddenly piped up.

  ‘Boys! There they are! The Magnificent Seven!’

  Everyone looked towards the door and in they walked, the seven girls, all dressed in white. The Newcastle lads nearly dropped their pints. At least one of them started to drool.

  ‘Why don’t you just go and talk to them?’ I asked.

  ‘What would we say?’ said Tom, gawping. ‘They’re the Mag Seven! What do you say to the Mag Seven? They’re like angels—’

  ‘Anyway,’ interrupted Simon, ‘as I was saying. You shouldn’t give up on the Karma Army. It sounds like you were doing good. You know? Making things better.’

  ‘I’m not sure. It all got too much for me.’

  ‘I say you reinstate it. Tonight. Here’s to the Karma Army!’

  He raised his glass and the lads did the same.

  ‘The Karma Army!’ they said.

  It was an inspirational moment for me. Standing in a bar in Crete with seven men I’d just met, each of them toasting the Karma Army in an attempt to bring it back from the dead. It may have been drunkenly, but that’s when some of the best things happen, in my experience. And it changed things in a flash. Simon was right. I’d let Raymond Price get the better of me. I’d given up, just at the point when I should have been working even harder.

  ‘If you’re serious about me getting back into this,’ I said, ‘would you fellas consider joining me? It’d be only right . . .’

  ‘Ah. Now. That depends,’ said Ryan, holding up his hands. ‘On what we
have to do.’

  ‘You lot have made me realise I need to work even harder. I’m going to get my thousand joinees. More kind-hearted people, to combat any of the bad apples we might come across. I’m going to do some serious recruiting. I’m going to spread the word throughout Crete.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Fletcher. ‘I thought this was a holiday. I thought you wanted to forget.’

  ‘I’ve done something much more important,’ I said, wisely. ‘I’ve remembered.’

  ‘I’m in,’ said John.

  ‘Me too,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Tom. ‘What’s actually in it for us?’

  I looked towards the dance floor. The lads followed my eye.

  ‘What if I can get you the Magnificent Seven?’ I said.

  * * *

  It was the next day and my plan was simple. I would give the boys the huge boost in confidence they so badly needed. By that evening, they would not only be able to walk straight up to the Magnificent Seven and chat to them without blushing or covering them in excited spittle, but they would leave an impression that would stay with the Barnsley girls for the rest of their natural blonde lives.

  And how would I achieve this?

  With the power of T-shirts.

  I had watched, the previous night, in sheer amazement, as the likes of CORNFLAKE and TITS had strolled through the warm Greek night with an incredible confidence about them. A confidence that I was sure they didn’t normally have. A confidence borne out of belonging to a gang. Of looking like they belonged to a gang. Today, I would do the same for the Newcastle boys. I would turn them into a gang.

  ‘Seven T-shirts, please,’ I said to the lady behind the counter of the print shop.

  ‘What about me?’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Eight, then. Oh, and I’d like you to print this across the front . . .’

  I scribbled the words ‘JOIN US’ on a piece of paper, and the lady nodded to show she’d understood. At eight o’clock that night I would pick up eight Join Us T-shirts and we would hit the streets. We’d find the Magnificent Seven and make them our own. After the Newcastle boys had helped me spread the word throughout Malia, of course.