I had my own inventions, of course, mostly based around the game Twister. There was Travel Twister, for starters, but later I’d taken this one step further and invented the Twister bedspread. I was sure that this would be a surefire hit with male students, at last giving them a valid excuse to invite girls back to their rooms. But I was heartbroken when, a year later, I discovered in a Sunday supplement that someone else had had the exact same idea but had actually gone to the trouble of patenting and marketing it. Damn the organised and resourceful! Well, I wasn’t going to get caught out like that again. Not since I now had the ear of the Patent & Trademark Institute of America.
But I did still have one little trick left up my sleeve: the electric toilet-seat lifter! Never again would men have to stoop down to lift up the toilet seat. Never again would men have to ask themselves that universal and age-old question: Why do women always leave the toilet seat down?
Now, thanks to me, couples all across the country would have one less thing to argue about. Divorces would decrease, families would stay together, toilet seats would have to be cleaned less. Because I, Danny Wallace, was an inventor!
I threw some cereal into a bowl and began to devour the information pack sent to me by my new friends at the institute, looking for more hints and tips on what they were after, just in case my fallback idea somehow wasn’t right. But that was the thing—there were no hints on what they were after. Just what they weren’t:
RESTRICTED IDEAS NOT TO BE SUBMITTED
Perpetual motion devices
Military weapons
Bollocks. My first two obvious ports-of-call, ripped from my hands by the invention fascists. I love inventing perpetual motion devices.
Pornographic devices
A pornographic device? How many pornographic devices were they getting? And what is a pornographic device, anyway?
Untested or unproved chemical formulas or cures for illnesses.
Well, that wasn’t fair. Now I couldn’t send them untested or unproved cures for illnesses. I had loads of them! I’d have to actually test them out on my mates first.
Products based on unrealistic levels of technology
Bang goes the time machine. This was getting harder by the minute.
Literary or musical works
Right. So I couldn’t invent a poem or a new musical note. Which, if you’ve ever heard me sing, is all I seem to do.
Toilet-seat lifters
What?!
But mine’s electric!
Well, that was fine, I suppose. This would obviously just take a little more work on my part. I sat down to think about what I should invent.
I looked around the flat for inspiration.
The mug. Invented.
The chair. Invented.
Shoes. Done.
Blimey. How do you go about inventing things?
The door. Invented.
Stairs. Invented.
The telly. Invented.
It was all very frustrating. Why was everything in my flat already invented? I was severely vexed, I don’t mind telling you. I had to admit that maybe development just wasn’t my thing.
I put on my jacket and grumpily prepared myself for the development meeting at the BBC.
I walked into BBC Television Centre to be met by a man named Tom.
“So you’ve worked in television before, haven’t you, Danny?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “But not very much. I prefer radio.”
“Ah, why’s that? Because the pictures are better on the radio? Because there are less people involved, and your vision can become a reality?”
“Um, yes. And also the radio department is a lot closer to my flat.”
We walked through the vast, shiny corridors of power toward the lifts that would take us to our meeting. Television Centre is rather different from Broadcasting House. On the whole the latter is rather tatty with musty carpets and lightbulbs that have needed changing since the Second World War. Television Centre, on the other hand, is a vision of the future with huge, glassed-in newsrooms, and reception areas that look like they’ve been hit by some kind of pastel bomb, and even areas for producer relaxation that have been dubbed “ThinkPods.” I’d love to work somewhere that had a ThinkPod. I’d probably get a lot more thinking done. And I’ve always liked pods.
We arrived at the development meeting, and I took a seat.
“Okay, everyone, this is Danny. He’s joining us today from the radio department in order to give us a different perspective on things.”
I smiled eagerly and waved to my TV colleagues. One of them waved back. Another managed a weary smile. Two of them hardly looked up from their pads.
“Danny, do you want to just tell us a couple of the things that you’re working on right now?”
Hmm. Tricky. Should I mention the inventions?
“I’m working on some new radio show ideas,” I said, before adding by way of taking up a bit more time, “which I am working on.”
This seemed enough for everyone, and we cracked on with the meeting.
“Right then,” said Tom cheerily. “The first thing we need to do is decide whether or not to continue developing this chat-show format.”
“No,” said a man opposite me, dismissively. He was wearing designer spectacles and a T-shirt with an ironic saying on it, so he certainly looked like he knew what he was doing.
“I agree,” said the girl next to him. “Kill it. It’s going nowhere.”
“Danny? What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t really know anything about it,” I said.
And so they filled me in.
And to be honest it didn’t sound like a bad show. I’m not allowed to tell you much about it, but it involved a pretty big concept, a host like Johnny Vaughan and a guest like Delia Smith. I didn’t know that much about development work, but I was sure they could probably get something out of it.
“So bin it or keep it?” said Tom, and there were a few murmurs of “bin it.”
“Danny? Would you watch that show if it was on?”
I thought about it. Was that an invitation? A suggestion?
“Yes, probably,” I said. “I suppose it depends upon the trailer.”
“Hmm,” someone said quite loudly.
“Really?” said the man in the T-shirt, smirking. “The trailer?”
“Well, yes,” I said, standing my ground. “I mean, you know, if it looked … inviting.”
“I see what you’re saying, Danny,” said Tom. “It’s crucial that this show feels inclusive.”
Phew.
“That is definitely what I was saying just then,” I said.
“Good,” said Tom. “I think it’s got potential, too.”
Hey!
The man in the T-shirt was quick to backtrack.
“Yes, well, obviously, with a bit of development and the right kind of—”
“So,” said Tom, cutting him off, “who wants to take the idea on? Do a bit more work on it?”
No one said anything.
“Danny? How about you?”
“Me?”
“Well, I mean, there’s no pressure. Just to see how you get on?”
“I’ll do it,” the T-shirt man said immediately.
Tom ignored him.
“Danny?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“Good.”
No, not good. Bad. What the hell was I doing? I knew nothing about this idea except that it had Delia Smith in it. And now here I was taking responsibility for it! What was I supposed to do with it? And now Tom was moving his way through the agenda, and everyone was saying no, we should drop this idea, or no, that idea is going nowhere, and here I am saying yes, I’ll do a little work on that idea, or yes, I don’t mind doing a bit of development on this one. I watched in horror as more and more documents and show outlines and pieces of paper were put in front of me. All this work! I was actively volunteering for all this work! This wasn’t like me at all!
“Arse,”
said Tom. “Look at the time. I’m late. Right, so … who’s doing what for the next meeting?”
Everyone looked at me.
“I think Danny’s doing, well, everything,” said Sam.
“Oh. Right. Well. Danny,” said Tom, “do you want to come to the next meeting on Friday and let us know how you got on? I’ll clear it with your radio people.”
“Yes,” I said, slightly heavily. “That would be excellent.”
“And in the meantime, I’d like everyone to come up with three new ideas for Saturday night entertainment shows. Okay? Good. See you Friday.”
“This is terrible, Ian,” I said, walking away from Television Centre, mobile in hand. “I’m in over my head. I just kept saying yes every time they asked me to do something.”
“Oh, come on! You’re a producer! You can produce!”
“No … I’m a radio producer. In Light Entertainment. We are unique. We are a different breed. We were born to get to work a bit late and spend the morning eating bananas and surfing the Internet, and then head for the pub in the afternoon. We are not like television producers. Television producers are hungry for success, and they get up early, and they eat cocaine, and they dress like people out of magazines, and they know people like David Beckham and Ant ‘n’ Dec. Who do I know? Brian Perkins.”
“Well, so what? You’ve said yes to the work, so do it, and then just forget about it. I’ve a feeling that once they see what you’re capable of, you won’t have to worry about being asked back.”
“But they’re expecting success! And Tom wants another three ideas on his desk by Friday.”
“What kind of ideas?”
“Just … ideas. Ideas for entertainment shows.”
“Oh …,” said Ian.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that, well …”
“What?”
“I’ve got some ideas.”
“Meet me in the pub in half an hour.”
“No, Ian.”
“Why not? It’s a perfectly good idea.”
“How to Get Fat is not a perfectly good idea. Who’s going to want to watch a show that tells them how to get fat?”
“Skinny people.”
“No.”
“This one, then,” he said, sliding another piece of paper across the pub table.
“What Do Moles Mean?”
“You know … What does it mean if you’ve got a mole on your cheek? Is it different from having one on your ear?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know. I’m saying no to the idea. It’s rubbish.”
“There is no such thing as a bad idea, Dan!”
“What?”
“I saw a lady on telly saying that. ‘There’s no such thing as a bad idea,’ she said. ‘And even a bad idea can lead to a good one.’”
“But I thought that no idea was a bad idea,” I said, confused.
“Exactly. No idea is a bad idea. Exactly.”
“But if there are no bad ideas, how can we get from a bad idea to a good one?”
“Exactly, my friend. No idea is a bad idea. There are only … ideas. How abouti Toddler’s Guide to Wart?”
“That’s a bad idea.”
“Yes, true enough. My Philosophies and Beliefs?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s just a show about my philosophies and beliefs. Each week Ian Collins takes a sideways glance at—”
“No.”
Ian looked at me, coldly.
“You say no a lot these days….”
I left the pub, and with a slightly grumpy face, headed off to do my homework.
Once home I flicked on my computer and prepared to come up with some Saturday night entertainment brilliance.
How to Get Fat.
Maybe there was something to it.
I typed the tide onto an otherwise blank document and stared at it for a little while.
But then there was a bing-bong. An e-mail had arrived.
From Omar.
DEAR BROTHER danny
THANK YOU FOR YOUR LAST NOTE YOU SENT ME. BUT WE MUST MOVE QUICKLY. I MUST HAVE YOUR BANK DETAILS RIGHT NOW. SEND THEM TO ME.
ARE YOU ALSO FREE TO TRAVEL TO HOLLAND, NETHERLAND. YOU NEED TO BRING CASH GIFTS TO ASSOCIATES OF MY FATHER, WHO HELP US MOVE THE MILLIONS OF DOLLAR.
Eh?! He’d never mentioned that I’d have to travel to Holland before! And what was all this about bringing cash gifts?
I KNOW IT IS MUCH TO ASK7 I AM TAKING A BIG RISK IN CONTACTING YOU.
PLEASE SIR WE MUST MOVE NOW. IT IS GOD’S WILL. SEND ME YOU DETAILS.
OMAR
I’ll be honest: In the two days since I’d last heard from Omar, my feelings toward him had cooled slightly. And paranoia had set in. What if he wasn’t really the son of a murdered sultan? What if he was just after my bank account details? Neither did I like this fresh talk of international travel and gifts for mysterious strangers. Omar was moving a bit too quickly for my liking. It felt like next he’d be telling me I had pretty hair, and could I please look into marriage visas.
Dear Omar,
Is it really necessary for me to travel to Holland with cash gifts for your father’s associates? I mean, I’m essentially saying yes, but could you perhaps loan me a million or so for the time being and take it out of my final cut? I’ll pay for the flight and stuff and keep the receipts in a special envelope.
Cheers !
Danny
I pressed Send and hoped that my e-mail would at least find Omar well. He was probably just excited, poor chap. After all, he’d be moving house soon, and that’s quite an exciting thing. I suppose if worse came to worse, I could stump up for the cash gifts. I had a few grand I’d managed to save up due to basically never leaving the house, and I could always use that. So long as it didn’t turn out to be one of those Nigerian e-mail scams you hear so much about.
Nah. I was just being cynical. And Yes was about not being that way.
The following morning there was no word from Omar. I decided not to worry about it. I had a few chores to do in town and so set off for the shops.
Now, you’d think that this would be quite a risky business, when you’ve decided to say yes to invitations, offers, and suggestions, but I’m pleased to tell you that the modern-day advertiser has missed a vital trick. It seems the more “sophisticated” they think they’ve gotten, the less direct questions they ask, and the fewer direct suggestions they make. In the old days, of course, I’d have been utterly surrounded by easy-to-follow instructions, such as “Drink milk” or “Buy bread,” and would have spent my days both drinking milk and buying bread. But nowadays, with their aspirational photo shoots and subliminal messages, they were missing out on the simpleton market—the people like me, who’d do as they say, if only they said it.
Ha. They’d never get me now, I thought as I walked out of the Virgin Megastore with my BUY 2 GET 1 FREE bag of DVDs, and started to cross the road toward Picadilly Circus.
I fancied another walk around London today, seeing where the wind took me and letting life lead the way. I crossed the road as a stiff wind cleaned the streets and battered the tourists, and noticed that up ahead of me there appeared to be a small group of leafletters. I suddenly felt a little wary; I’d already adopted two grannies. I didn’t need any more—unless I was thinking of starting up some kind of pensioner-creche facility. But nevertheless I continued to walk toward them, and, once I noted a total absence of green bibs or clipboards, took a leaflet from a girl in a summery dress and auburn hair.
SAY YES TO PEACE
I read it again. It still read, SAY YES TO PEACE. It seemed oddly appropriate. Like it was a sign of some kind. A sign that saying yes was the way ahead.
Come together now! Greet someone new today—smile, say hello, shake their hand, and let the peace begin….
* * *
Well, that was nice. And so I did what it said. I walked straight up to the person who had
given it to me, I smiled, I said hello, I shook their hand, and I waited for the peace to begin.
“I’m Katherine,” she said.
“Danny,” I said.
And then I let life lead the way.
Katherine, Josh, and Mike are three people who share a love of peace.
“It’s all about making connections with people,” said Katherine. “If you can make people understand peace, you are quite literally giving them the world.”
Katherine is also someone who says “quite literally” a lot.
“It quite literally gets up my nose that people just walk around, when they could be making a difference.”
If they were quite literally getting up her nose when they were walking around, then I would suggest she’s probably standing a little too close to them.
“We believe in something called ‘social acupuncture,’” said Mike, the tallest of the three, and the man who’d printed out the leaflets. “You can make a difference with a single conversation.”
“It’s all about spreading a message,” added Josh, who was wearing quite a smart baseball cap and a Nike top and didn’t really look like he belonged there. “You can give people hope, if they know you can create peace.”
Katherine nodded. I got the sense that she was the driving force behind the team. We were standing near the Eros statue in the middle of Picadilly Circus, and I didn’t really know where things were heading. But I liked the three of them. They seemed genuinely committed to spreading peace through the considerate use of leaflets.
“What do you think of the war in Iraq?” said Josh, clearly testing me.
“Well … war is bad,” I said, and he and Mike nodded.
“Sometimes a simple message like that can be the most powerful,” said Katherine.
“Feel free to use it,” I said, hoping perhaps that “War Is Bad” might be the next “in” slogan.
“Thanks,” said Josh, and I realised that maybe it could.
“Would you be interested in helping us spread that message?”
Yes Man Page 10