Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play

by Danny Wallace

  I made a wise face and took a sip of my beer. I looked at the bottle and made a satisfied “Aah” sound. Ian put his head in his hands.

  “I have seen this happen before, my friend. I have seen this happen before and it’s dangerous.”

  “Seen what happen? What’s dangerous?”

  “This. You. Now. Approaching thirty. So-called ‘growing up.’ Buying things no normal man would ever want to buy. Making ‘Aah’ sounds. Using words like ‘flourish.’ It’s happening to you, Dan. You’re becoming one of Them.”

  “One of who?”

  “Them!”

  “The New World Order?”

  “No. The thirty-year-old married man who’s lost all sight of his sense of self! Look around you. Are we in the Royal Inn?”

  “No.”

  “No. We’re not in the Royal Inn, are we? We’re not in the same pub we’ve drunk in for the past who-knows-how-many years. We’re in some weird gastropub in north London with ironic photographs on the wall, drinking Taiwanese lager. Look! Look at that sign! They have a sausage of the week, for Christ’s sake! A sausage of the week! And it’s not even a proper sausage!”

  “Lamb, mint and apricot is not an unusual sausage. It’s very in right now.”

  “How do you even know what sausages are ‘in’ right now?”

  “They do a newsletter.”

  Ian sighed and took a sip of his pint.

  “Do you remember Micky Thomas?” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Exactly. No one remembers Micky Thomas. Because when Micky Thomas hit thirty, he bought a Volkswagen Polo and some premium bonds. You’re Micky Thomas!”

  I was suddenly very frightened indeed.

  “I don’t want to be Micky Thomas!” I said. “I don’t remember Micky Thomas! Why don’t I remember Micky Thomas?!”

  “Actually I’m not sure you ever met him. But the point remains, men like Micky Thomas disappear all the time. They’re good men. Fine men. But they catch this… this disease. This need to wear fancy shoes and discuss congestion charging. They wear jeans with elasticated waists. And then, one day”—he clicked his fingers, theatrically—“they’re gone.”

  “We have to find them!” I said. “We have to find these elasticated men!”

  “Some claim to have seen them,” said Ian, staring into the middle distance. “Some say if you get up at just the right time on a Sunday morning, you can still see these lost souls wandering around IKEA, or in the linen section of John Lewis. But I think those are just stories to frighten the children.”

  “But what if it’s happening to me, Ian? I don’t want to be one of those lost souls! I want to be young and carefree and stick two fingers up at the Establishment! I want to go backpacking and do riots!”

  “It nearly happened to me,” said Ian, heavily, and then, with real gravitas: “I even bought a juicer.”

  I remembered that. He’d drunk nothing but carrot juice for six days and his elbows turned yellow.

  “I managed to pull it back from the brink,” said Ian. “That’s what you have to do. Before you become a Stepford Man.”

  I realized I had to be honest with Ian. Yes, he’d seen the coasters… but the coasters were nothing.

  “What if it’s too late?” I said, panicked and nervy. “What if I’ve already become one of Them? Just the other day… Christ, I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this…”

  Ian closed his eyes again and waved me on.

  “I saw a girl walking through town. I could see her midriff, and…”

  His eyes suddenly opened. He leaned forward, keen to know more, but this was almost too awful to say.

  “… and I tutted, Ian. I bloody tutted!”

  “You tutted?”

  He was outraged. This was worse than he thought.

  “It was cold, Ian!”

  “You tutted at a lady’s midriff!”

  “Magic FM said it was likely to get worse later on in the afternoon. I hoped that my tutting might act as a subtle warning of the forecast ahead.”

  Ian shot back into his seat and put his hands up.

  “Magic FM? You were listening to Magic FM?”

  “They do all the hits from the seventies, eighties, and the best of today, Ian! It’s not my fault, it’s just so feelgood.”

  Ian looked terrified.

  “Bloody hell, Dan—stop talking like this! I was only mucking about!”

  “The other night we had pita and hummus and I even asked for some more hummus!”

  “Dan, you’re scaring me, please…”

  “I can swear in Latvian, Ian! Bezdeet! Bezdeet!”

  “Sssh…”

  “I like my pine nuts lightly toasted, Ian!”

  “Dan…”

  “I ate a herring’s sperm! I ate a herring’s sperm!”

  “Stop talking this way!”

  I slammed my hands over my mouth. I had to stop these demons escaping! Ian was right—this was happening to me! This was happening to me and it wasn’t natural!

  Slowly, I removed my hands from my mouth and we calmed ourselves.

  Ian was first to talk. He had a plan.

  “We’re going to find a proper pub, Dan. A proper one, that serves proper beer, and we’re going to sort this out.”

  I nodded, sadly. Ian drained his Taiwanese lager and banged the glass down, like a man full of life and youth and vibrancy.

  I looked at him.

  “You should use a coaster,” I said. “You’re going to mark the table.”

  “Y’see,” said Ian, opening the Doritos. “The thing about your married, thirty-year-old man, living in north London, is that he’s lost his way. That’s all. Simple as that. He’s let himself be seduced by the Habitat catalogue. He’s probably got ‘Sunday clothes.’ He’s lost sight of the important things in life. By all means have a scatter pillow, Dan, but never forget your roots.”

  “Display cushion. And you’re right, I know. It just all happened so fast. It feels like my twenties have whizzed by. I’ve gone from pound-a-pint nights to christenings, and I have no idea how.”

  “Look at these fellas, here,” he said, pointing around the pub. “That old fella in the corner…”

  He nodded towards an old man with a cap on. He was rolling some tobacco and coughing over his hands.

  “Do you think he’s got any scatter cushions? Do you think he’s popping home for a ciabatta? No. And yet he looks perfectly happy, doesn’t he?”

  We both looked at him. He coughed some more and then started talking to a fly.

  “The point is, he’s stayed true to himself. That’s what you need to do. Stay true to your roots. Otherwise, that…”—we both looked again at the old man talking to the fly—“will only ever be a pipe dream.”

  I was full of gratitude to Ian. He was a good friend. I was lucky with my friends. I had the coolest wife in the world, a wife whose laid-back Australian ways would mean that coasters were a lifestyle choice, not a legal requirement. And then there was Wag—a musician on the verge of greatness. A man with a heart of gold. And Ian—radio presenter and man about town. A man who also had a heart of gold—and elbows to match. A man I’d been through so much with. A man who stood shoulder to shoulder with me, no matter the problem. A man who was always there.

  I relied on these guys. I guess as you get a little older, your social group becomes a little more focused. A little more honed. And with it, a little more reliable. Trusted. Needed. As people drift away, or move off, or get married, have kids, emigrate, or whatever it is they do where you’re from, you’re lucky to hang on to the people you do. I realized this as I looked at Ian.

  “Thanks, Ian. I’ll do as you say. And I’ll talk to Lizzie. I’ll suggest a numerical limit on the amount of scented candles in the house. She’ll understand. Maybe I needn’t rush into adulthood. It’s the World Cup soon. And I’ve made a decision. One that I think will combat all the changes of late.”

  Ian looked quizzical. But I knew I’d
sorted this problem out.

  “Me and you and Wag will watch the World Cup at the Royal Inn. In the East End. As God intended.”

  There was a pause where he should have said “Yes we will!” and then clashed glasses with me and drunk to my health. But he didn’t. He said, “Ah.”

  “Ah?” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. “Yeah. Ah.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”

  “I forgot. My news.”

  “What’s your news?” I said, suddenly nervous. News that begins with an “Ah” is invariably bad news. Like “Ah. I broke it,” or “Ah. I see pirates.” I nodded Ian on.

  “So what is it?”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I’m moving away.”

  I was stunned.

  “You’re… you’re what?”

  “I’m moving away. There comes a time when you have to just… move away.”

  What? This wasn’t possible.

  “This is a bit bloody sudden!”

  “The loss of spontaneity leads to the death of the man.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’m like the Littlest Hobo, Dan—now I’ve sorted out your problem, I’ve got to keep moving on.”

  “But… where to, Ian? Please say it’s round here!”

  Ian smiled, proudly.

  “To Chislehurst.”

  “Chislehurst?”

  Why the hell was he moving to Chislehurst? Who spontaneously moves to Chislehurst?

  “Oh, it’s brilliant in Chislehurst,” said Ian. “I took one look at Chislehurst, and said, right, I’m moving to Chislehurst.”

  “You can’t move to Chislehurst! No one moves to Chislehurst!”

  “I have to move to Chislehurst. In fact, I’m moving to Chislehurst. I put my flat up for sale, someone bought it the next day. I’m moving to Chislehurst!”

  He raised his glass and instinctively I clinked it. But then I realized I didn’t want to and put my glass straight down again.

  “But you said you hated Chislehurst! You had that bad experience there! The one you don’t like to talk about!”

  “I have moved on, Dan. Sometimes, to be at peace with what’s coming up, you have to be in touch with what’s already happened. And I am now at peace with Chislehurst. Plus, London’s just a bit… stabby right now.”

  “Stabby?”

  “Yeah. And… bomby.”

  “But… is this forever?”

  “At least until Christmas, Dan. I will rent in Chislehurst and then I will look once again at the situation and decide whether Chislehurst is indeed the future.”

  “But… but what am I going to do? Chislehurst is miles away!”

  “You’ll be fine. I’ll still be about from time to time. But I’ll mainly be in Chislehurst.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “But there’s nothing to do in Chislehurst!”

  Ian looked offended.

  “They have an Internet café in Chislehurst now.”

  I couldn’t quite take it in. Ian was inexplicably moving to Chislehurst. I tried one last move.

  “But what about all our plans?”

  He frowned.

  “We don’t have any plans.”

  Christ—he was right!

  “Anyway,” he said, “Wag’s only over in Hackney. That’s minutes away. Although I’d be careful, because Hackney is particularly stabby at this time of year. But you can continue your journey of self-rediscovery with him. Just keep away from sausages of the week, okay? That’s when they’ve got you!”

  My head was spinning. There was so much to take in.

  “To Chislehurst!” said Ian, raising his glass. And then he shook his head in wonder. “How’s that for excellent news?”

  “Now, how’s this for excellent news?” said Wag, on the phone. I’d called him for reassurance, and to share the day’s strange events. I was slightly out of breath, having tried to run home with the massive box in my arms.

  “Before you tell me this excellent news,” I said, “please, Wag—tell me you’re not moving to Chislehurst.”

  “What? No one moves to Chislehurst!”

  “I know no one moves to Chislehurst! But Ian’s moving to Chislehurst!”

  “Forever?”

  “At least until Christmas!”

  I took a sip of my tea as Wag did the necessary computations.

  “But… why’s he moving to Chislehurst?”

  Phew. This was what I needed. Someone who shared an appreciation of the lunacy of a situation like someone moving to Chislehurst.

  “It is inexplicable,” I said, shrugging dramatically. “Not even he can explic it.”

  “How do these things happen?” said Wag, and I was full of warmth towards him. Yeah, so we wouldn’t have Ian this summer. But we’d hang out. We’d have fun.

  “So,” I said, sitting down on the box. “It looks like we’ll only need two seats down the Royal Inn for the World Cup…”

  “Yeah,” said Wag, slowly, and then: “Ah…”

  My eyes widened. They were now touching my ears.

  “What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”

  Silence.

  “Wag, Ian said ‘Ah’ just before he told me he was moving to Chislehurst! He said ‘Ah’ just before he told me his excellent news… People say ‘ah’ just before they see pirates, Wag…”

  “Well… and I’m sure you’ll be happy for me about this… we’re going on tour!”

  “Who?” I said, confused. “Me and you?”

  “No—me and the band! It’s going to be brilliant!”

  I tried to remain calm. This was not a problem. This was probably miles off yet. This was probably in the new year, or maybe even the year after…

  “We start next week!”

  “Next week? How… how long for?”

  “Six months! With the possibility that it might be extended!”

  I took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was probably a tour of provincial arts theaters. Or London pubs! It was probably just a tour of London pubs!

  “But you’ll still be around in the evenings, won’t you?”

  “It’s a world tour… Russia, the US, Australia…”

  I was speechless. Wag wasn’t.

  “I’ve gotta go—I’ve got more people to tell!”

  “Wag! Wait! I have to tell you something!”

  I didn’t know what to say. I just didn’t want him to go. He was my pal and now he was going to be gone for six months! Six months at least!

  I had to say something!

  “What is it?”

  Come on, Dan! Convince him that rock and roll is the devil’s music! Convince him the baby Jesus frowns upon his ways!

  But all I could think of to say was…

  “The other day I ate a herring’s sperm.”

  There was a silence. And then Wag sounded truly delighted for me.

  “That is excellent news! It’s all happening, eh? I told you—this is our year! Hey, listen, I’ve got a call on the other line, I think it’s the tour manager…”

  He had a tour manager? When did he get a tour manager? When had all this happened? Was I too busy sitting on display cushions and eating hummus to notice that my two best pals had moved on without me? Were we all, in our own ways, growing up?

  I started to say goodbye, but he’d already hung up.

  I put the phone down and sat on the sofa, heavily. It was all too much to take. In the space of a day I had lost both Ian and Wag for an entire summer. My two pals. Gone. Just like that. With no warning whatsoever. And just when I needed them most. Just when I needed them to keep me on the straight and narrow. To remind me of who I used to be, before lattes and brunches and Latvian swearing.

  I knew I was being selfish. I knew that, for both of them, there could have been no better news. But their happiness made me panic all the more. Wag had probably already bought a tour van and a new guitar pick. And Ian—Ian was probably already at the Chislehurst Arms, making new friends, sneering
at “the rat race” and drinking bitters with names like Old Badger Tits or the Snooty Poodle. He was probably editing the parish newsletter, and writing furious editorials about out-of-town superstores and proposed bypasses, and going foxhunting in a ludicrous top hat. What a wanker. How dare he go foxhunting in a ludicrous top hat?

  And then—an irrational and unwelcome thought hit me. What if this was somehow the end of our friendship? What if we were now destined to grow apart? After all—men who have display cushions can’t be friends with rock stars. And everyone knows once someone moves out of London you never see them again. They turn into Micky Thomases! This could be the end of an era!

  It was not an entirely unfamiliar scenario to me. I’d moved around a lot as a kid. Moved cities, moved schools. Always made a pact with my then best friends that this wouldn’t change anything, that absence meant nothing, that we’d always hang out. But we’d never quite been able to stick to that pact. The damage was always done—people make a habit of moving on. Now I was older, though—living in an era of portable phones and MySpace and YourSpace and electronic messaging services—surely that would make a difference? We were no longer at the mercy of our parents’ jobs, after all. And it wasn’t as if anyone was disappearing anywhere, particularly. Provided Wag’s tour was a crushing failure, he’d be back in the winter. That was something to hope for. And hey—maybe Ian’s house would burn down!

  I got up and mooched around the house. It was all slightly depressing. There was still so much work to do. Boxes to unpack. Sockets to fix. Walls to paint. I stood and stared, transfixed, at a fruit bowl. I shook my head. How did it come to this? How did it come to me owning a fruit bowl?

  But there… there on the wall. A picture. In a brushed-aluminum frame. Lizzie. My wife. I smiled.

  You see? It wasn’t so bad being grown-up. Being grown-up meant I had Lizzie. My one constant. The one reliable thing in my life. She’d be there for me. She wasn’t going to join a rock band, or move to Chislehurst. This could be a special summer for us. Our first summer as a married couple. We could go for walks in the park, or build kites and fly them about a bit. We could borrow a dog. Life would be good. Life would be great. Because I’d be with Lizzie.

  And as if to confirm this, I suddenly heard the keys in the door.

  Lizzie! She was home! I was disproportionately excited.