That was all it needed. Norwegian journalists love novelty T-shirts. It’s a fact of life.
‘Right. I will make more space in the newspaper. We need to meet very soon. Are you free at one o’clock?’
I told him I was, and we agreed to meet outside the parliament building, in the middle of town, at 1pm precisely. Job done. I started to wonder what kind of coverage I could get in the Scandinavian territories if only I’d had a special pair of Join Me trousers made, too.
Erik got up about half an hour later and put some coffee on. I sat at the breakfast table and explained my plans for the day.
‘I’m going to go back to basics, Erik. I’m going to spend the morning leafletting and meeting people face-to-face. I’ve only got a few leaflets here but I’ll make them count. At one o’clock I will talk to the Aftenposten, and then it’s back to the streets. And there’s an old friend I want to call, who might be able to help me spread the word. Imagine if I could get 138 joinees by the end of the day! What do you think?’
‘I’d like to help,’ said Erik. ‘What do you need me to do?’
‘I’ll need a big piece of cardboard. A thick marker pen. And a photocopier.’
Erik smiled.
‘Come with me . . .’
* * *
Ninety minutes later and I was sitting in a café in the middle of one of Norway’s biggest shopping streets with 300 photocopied leaflets and a big yellow piece of cardboard, on which I’d inevitably written, ‘JOIN ME, NORWEGIANS’.
And I had my phone out, because in the night I’d remembered something. A man I’d once been introduced to at a barbecue in Brighton had turned out to be a Norwegian newsreader. We’d got on very well, and exchanged phone numbers, and one day in August, out of the blue, he’d phoned me up.
It took me a moment to remember who he was, as this was a year or two later, but there was an urgency in his voice that spoke volumes. This was a man in trouble. A man who needed my help. And quickly.
‘Danny, this is Paal Pedersen . . . I’m phoning from the studios at TV2 in Oslo, Norway, and we’re about to go on air . . . I need to know something . . .’
‘Blimey,’ I’d said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Please tell me . . . are you in Cornwall right now?’
I looked around me. No. I was in a mate’s flat in Edinburgh. I was sitting in my pants on his sofa eating some muesli and watching This Morning with Richard & Judy.
‘Not exactly,’ I said.
‘Shit!’ said Paal.
‘Why?’
‘It’s the full solar eclipse this morning. We’re supposed to have someone over there to report for us live from Cornwall, which is the best place to see it, but we’ve lost them. You’re the only person I know in the UK and I know you’ve done journalism and so on, so I thought maybe you’d be there . . . okay, Danny, never mind, I’ll—’
‘I could always pretend.’
‘What?’
‘I could pretend I’m there. If it’s over the phone, no one needs to know I’m not there.’
Paal considered this, but dismissed it quickly.
‘No. No, we’d need you to describe what’s going on, live, as it happens—’
‘Hang on a second . . .’
I changed channels. There was live coverage on BBC1 of the solar eclipse.
‘I can see what’s happening. It’s on BBC1. I could just describe what’s happening while I watch telly.’
I could hear urgent, raised voices in the background, where Paal was. Then he barked something in Norwegian to someone in his studio, and said, ‘Okay, Danny, we’re going to cross live to you in a minute or two . . . good luck . . .!’
And then the line went completely silent.
I munched away at my muesli and considered what I should say. Then the door to the living room opened and my mate, Big Al, walked in.
‘Morning Danny,’ he said.
‘Morning Big Al,’ I replied. ‘I’m about to report on the solar eclipse live from Cornwall for Norwegian television.’
‘Excellent,’ said Al, walking into the kitchen and putting some toast on.
I turned the sound on the telly up just as Michael Buerk interviewed some members of the public about the encroaching eclipse. An old man described the mood as one of ‘hushed excitement’.
And then I heard Paal’s voice again, on the end of the phone, talking in Norwegian. I swallowed my muesli, turned the telly down, and cleared my throat. He said my name, and then, in English . . .
‘So, Danny, can you describe the scene for us there in Cornwall?’
I looked at the telly, and put on my best BBC reporter voice.
‘The scene, Paal, is one of hushed excitement. For many here, the sun is a daily sight, and a welcome one at that. But in a moment or two, this crowd of maybe . . .’
I waited for a wide shot of the crowd. None came, so I made it up.
‘. . . four thousand people or so . . . will witness something truly spectacular – a once-in-a-lifetime sight – and they know it.’
Suddenly, on my screen, the heavens started to darken. Cornwall was swiftly shrouded in blackness. The sound on the TV was turned right down, but I could still hear the gasps of the crowd.
‘Oh! And there we have it. A full solar eclipse!’
A full solar eclipse that had precisely no effect where I was, in Edinburgh, but had somehow turned Cornwall pitch black.
‘Paal, the atmosphere here is one of astonishment and awe. All around me, camera flashbulbs light up their surroundings as people scrabble to record this most historic of moments . . . the horrifying moment Britain lost its sun . . .’
I probably shouldn’t have said ‘horrifying’, in case I’d given the impression that the people of Cornwall still worship and fear the sun, but I’d got carried away.
‘Danny Wallace, live from Cornwall, reporting for TV2, thank you very much . . .’
‘Thanks, Paal,’ I said, just as Big Al dropped a cup in the kitchen.
I was proud. I had done my bit for the Norwegians. Without me, Norway would never have known that Cornwall had gone a bit dark. And without me, millions of Norwegians would never have witnessed the sound of Big Al dropping a cup. So I like to think that whatever else happens from now on, I’ve at least made a difference in this life.
Paal rang me back half an hour later, when his bulletin was over.
‘Thanks, Danny . . . you really helped us out. Say hello if you’re ever in Oslo . . .’
And that’s exactly what I now planned to do.
I found the number for the TV2 newsroom and dialled it. I asked to be put through to Paal’s extension, and he picked up immediately.
‘Pedersen.’
‘Paal, this is Danny Wallace.’
‘Er . . .’
‘I once reported live from Cornwall from my mate’s house in Edinburgh.’
‘Oh! Yes! Hello! How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks . . . listen, do you remember telling me that if I ever needed a favour in return, I should call you?’
He hadn’t actually said that, but it’s the kind of thing he should have done.
‘Er . . . yes . . .?’
* * *
I informed Erik that at four o’clock that afternoon a reporter and camera crew from TV2 would be meeting me in town in order to talk to me about Join Me for an upcoming news bulletin.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘You see? You are using your time positively. How could Hanne not be impressed by this?’
I hadn’t thought about that until now, but yes – Hanne should be impressed. While some men would crumble after being dumped by their girlfriends, others, like myself, tend to try and dominate the Norwegian media. The next day, when I featured on a news bulletin and in the biggest newspaper in the land, how could she fail to see that she had made a mistake and that I was the man for her? Well, clearly, if I was wearing an oversize ELKS jumper. So I took it off, and, as we wandered towards the centre of town, I handed it to a tramp. T
o be honest, he didn’t look all that impressed with it, but sod him – it was warm, and sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.
Erik and I walked past the grand Domkirke and on towards the parliament building. I’d be meeting Simen the journalist here a little later on, and noticed that I already had competition in the leafletting stakes. Two middle-aged women were handing out green photocopied fliers. As I approached, I was handed one. ‘Jesus vil lose alle dine problemer!’ it said, and, being reasonably intelligent, I worked out that this was probably a Christian message. So I took their leaflet, but said, ‘you’ll have to take one of my leaflets in return.’
I tried to hand one of the ladies a photocopied Join Me flier, but she was having none of it. She waggled her finger in the air, and tried to walk away, but I followed.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘Take my leaflet.’
She didn’t like that, and quickened her pace, hurriedly walking off.
‘An eye for an eye!’ I called out. ‘It applies to leaflets as well!’
Still, I suppose that at least this proves that Christians prefer to give than to receive.
And so I set about leafletting. Erik lent a hand, and together, the two of us tried to stop whoever we could, with our big sign and two even bigger grins. But it was tough going. We were eyed with more suspicion than I dare say any two men who’ve ever stood in the middle of Oslo holding a sign saying ‘JOIN ME NORWEGIANS’ had ever been eyed with before. Maybe you’ve done this yourself. As you’ll know, then, the Norwegians are not the easiest people to strike up a conversation with under these type of circumstances.
I decided to opt for the direct approach.
‘Excuse me, are you Norwegian?’ I said to a clearly Norwegian passer-by who’d apparently decided that eye contact with me would be tantamount to suicide.
‘No,’ he replied, in his very Norwegian accent.
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter if you’re not, because . . .’
‘No,’ he said again, and he was off.
This happened again and again until I was under the impression that not one single person in Oslo was actually from Norway. It was incredible. There are five million Norwegians in the world, and not one of them was home.
I sat down next to two girls on a bench. They seemed to be talking about something a little personal and upsetting, so I left it for a few minutes until I realised time was of the essence, and this might be just the sort of thing that would cheer them up. So I reached over and tapped one of them on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Would you like to join me?’
‘No,’ said the girl, before turning away and mumbling something in Norwegian which sounded something like – though logic tells me it can’t have been – the word ‘wanker’.
‘It’s not working, Erik,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter with you people?’
‘I’m sorry, Danny,’ he said. ‘I really am.’
But I persisted. For another forty minutes I relentlessly tried to stop every single person who walked by. And I received odd look after odd look. But no one seemed at all interested in what I was doing. It was all too much, especially after the night I’d just had.
‘I only need another 138,’ I said. ‘Just another 138! Don’t they understand?’
‘Maybe it’s the wording,’ said Erik. ‘We don’t really know what joining means.’
I looked at the sign. Maybe Erik was right. Maybe it was a bit left-field. So I flipped the piece of card over, got my pen out, and wrote:
WANTED: NORWEGIANS
Incredibly, this seemed to do the trick. All of a sudden, we were raising smiles. People were pointing. And they started to approach me.
‘Excuse me,’ said one elderly chap in a hat, ‘what do you want Norwegians for?’
‘I collect people,’ I explained. ‘Like stamps. I already have lots of Belgians and French and Greek and so on . . . but Norwegians are rarer.’
‘What a nice idea,’ he said. ‘People as if they are stamps. Okay, you can collect me.’
It was brilliant. The man and his wife both took a leaflet and after I’d explained the proper purpose of things, they promised to send me their passport photos and start doing their good deeds each and every Good Friday.
Erik left soon after – I suspect out of embarrassment – but that was okay, because I was now never alone for more than a minute. The words ‘Wanted: Norwegians’ had struck a chord with the Scandinavians, and I was now chatting happily with scores of them, each taking leaflets and promising to sign up. It was looking good. Maybe I would get my 138 joinees out of this after all. I was certainly attracting enough interest. At one point, two drunk men leant out the back of a van. One had a moustache, ponytail and an American accent and wanted to know if I was casting for a porn film. I told him if I was, he’d got the part. His friend, a Norwegian, stumbled out of the van – which, for no apparent reason, was marked ‘The Karaoke Van’ – and told me that if I was asking people to do good deeds, I was ten years too late for Oslo.
‘It’s all drug addicts now, man,’ he said. ‘Look around you.’
I had a look around. It looked quite nice. There was a lady selling chestnuts and a boy with a balloon.
‘The place is a mess. Destroyed. Drugs and gangs. You’re too late.’
I told him it’s never too late. I told him that for his first good deed, he should run for office somewhere in Oslo, as a random act of kindness towards his fellow citizens. His face lit up, like I’d just told him he was Superman. He promised he would run for office next chance he got. If he did, and he was elected, then the people of Oslo have my most sincere apologies.
Next, I talked to a lady from Sweden who told me she already undertakes random acts of kindness, by taking flowers to old people’s homes, and giving pet food away to stray dogs. I asked her if she’d ever got the two confused, and she said no, why would she give pet food to old people, and I said I was just joking, and she got all offended and walked off.
‘You seem to be doing very well!’ said a voice behind me, all of a sudden. It was Simen. He’d brought a photographer with him, who, without my knowing, had been taking various pictures from a distance for quite some time.
And so I sat down with Simen and explained exactly what I was doing, gave him the averages so far (thirty-one years of age, fifty-three per cent male, ninety-eight per cent straight, most popular personal motto: ‘Shit happens!’) and he told me that to really get a feel for Join Me, he wanted to see me in action. So back to the streets we went, and I campaigned hard, while Simen stood slightly to my right, scribbling into a notepad.
Outside the parliament building I met a lovely couple, Steinar and Johanne, who decided that Join Me was just what they’d been missing all their lives.
‘We will join you,’ said Steinar. ‘And we promise we will do our good deeds.’
‘It’s something we should always do anyway,’ said Johanne. ‘Like, maybe we could invite a homeless man into our house for a night.’
Simen looked shocked at what Johanne had said. Not as shocked as her boyfriend Steinar, but very shocked nevertheless.
‘It’s amazing,’ said Simen, ‘that people would be considering acts of such a grand scale after only reading a . . . well . . .’
‘A slightly tatty leaflet?’ I said.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Those two there are essentially very kind people. They just need an excuse to do something kind.’
And on and on I went.
‘Okay, Danny,’ said Simen, half an hour later. ‘I think we have enough there. The article will be out in the next couple of days. I got enough for a whole page here, so I hope that more Norwegians join you as a result. Oh, and here . . .’
He handed me one of the two coffees that had appeared in his hands in the last few minutes.
‘. . . my first random act of kindness. Have a coffee on me. You look very cold.’
And I was. I bid Simen and his photographer goodbye, and met up with Eri
k.
‘You must have got your 138 joinees today!’ he said. ‘Well done!’
‘Well, we’ll see. It’s no good them just saying they’ll join. I need the passport photo. It’s like proof that they’re committed. I won’t know until I get home and check my post whether or not anyone actually joined today.’
‘Well, I did,’ he said, taking from his wallet a shiny new passport photo and handing it to me. Apparently, he’d been worried, when he’d left, that the day was going to be a disaster, so he’d popped off to get one done. ‘I wanted you to get at least one new joinee today,’ he said, and I was touched.
But as it turned out, I was to get three more passport photos within just twenty minutes. The TV2 camera crew and Paal Pedersen arrived and, while they were setting up their equipment on the street, each handed me a passport photo.
‘We’ll join!’ said Paal. ‘The least we can do seeing as . . . you know . . .’ He winked.
Apparently his colleagues still didn’t know the full story behind our little solar eclipse arrangement.
‘Say no more,’ I said, returning the wink. ‘Your secret’s safe with me . . .’
Oh, and now with you, the reader, as well.
* * *
That night, on the plane home, I was a strange little mess of emotions.
It had been a good day, despite all the odds. I’d spread the word in Norway, secured a few joinees, been interviewed by their biggest newspaper and even made an appearance on that night’s TV news . . . and all when, by rights, I should have been sitting in a darkened room, deeply depressed, drinking cups of tea and listening to sad songs.
Four hours later, back in London, I was doing just that.
But I knew one thing.
I had to complete my journey. This had to be worth it. I had to make it to 1000. I couldn’t quit now. Not now I’d come so far. If I did, I’d be setting a precedent for my life that maybe I’d never come out of; that maybe Gallus had never come out of. This had started out as something for him. Now it was something for me.
I had to start the final push.
I had to finish this.
CHAPTER 26
4. And Sophie of Bruges offered Daniel a cup filled with tea.
Join Me Page 33