Join Me: The True Story Of A Man Who Started A Cult By Accident

  • ISBN: 0091895820
  • Author: Danny Wallace
  • Description:
    Danny Wallace was bored. Just to see what would happen, he placed a whimsical ad in a local London paper. It said, simply, 'Join Me'. Within a month, he was receiving letters and emails from teachers, mechanics, sales reps, vicars, schoolchildren and pensioners - all pledging allegiance to his cause. But no one knew what his cause was. Soon he was proclaimed Leader. Increasingly obsessed and possibly power-crazed Danny risked losing his sanity and his loyal girlfriend. But who could deny the attraction of a global following of devoted joinees? A book about dreams, ambition and the responsibility that comes with power, Join Me is the true story of a man who created a cult by accident, and is proof that whilst some men were born to lead, others really haven't got a clue. From the Publisher 'The hilarious true story of a bunch of strangers being swept up in a bored man's experiment' Heat From the Back Cover Danny Wallace was bored. Just to see what would happen, he placed a whimsical ad in a local London paper. It said, simply, 'Join Me'. Within a month, he was receiving letters and e-mails from intrigued strangers all over the country, eager to sign up. Teachers, mechanics, sales reps, vicars, school children, pensioners - all pledged allegiance to his cause. None knew what this cause was. Soon he was proclaimed the Leader. Increasingly obsessed and possibly power-crazed he risked losing his sanity and his loyal girlfriend. But who could deny the attraction of a global following of devoted joinees? --This text refers to the Paperback edition. About the Author Award-winning journalist and producer Danny writes for many publications, including The Independent and The Guardian. Part of the original team behind the British Comedy Award-winning Dead Ringers, also produced the acclaimed cult hit The Boosh, for Radio 4. BBC America recently and bizarrely dubbed him 'one of Britain's most respected journalists', but they were clearly mistaken. He's 25, and lives in an old match factory in Bow. Excerpted from Join Me: The True Story of a Man Who Started a Cult by Accident by Danny Wallace. Copyright © 2004. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 1. In the beginning was the Word. 2. And the word was There. There is a man who lives in Camden, North London, who once made me very happy. He'd written me a letter. This is what it said: To whom it may concern, As requested, here is my passport photo. I have also troubled myself to include our local Indian restaurant menu, and can recommend the Chicken Dansak if you're ever in the area and feeling hungry. I look forward to hearing about the next step in our endeavours. Cheers Christian Jones London NW1 I'd opened it immediately and excitedly, and then read it over and over again. I found it one of the most incredible letters I'd ever received. Why? Because it was a reply to my advert. The advert I'd placed on a whim. And it contained a passport photo of Christian, smiling. Smiling at me; the bloke he'd joined. 'Wow,' I'd said to myself. 'Someone actually did it ...' I was overawed. I had my first joinee. A new best friend, of sorts. I mean ... imagine it. From now on, whatever happened, I would always have this; I would always have Christian Jones of London NW1. Even if no one else ever deemed me worthy of joining in the future ... even if no one in the entire world ever wanted to accept my offer again ... Chris Jones was mine, and mine alone. My friend. My mate. My cheeky-faced pal. Granted, we hadn't actually met yet, and if it came down to it and the whole world treated me with disinterest and scorn, why would he feel any different? But I had a hunch Jonesy wouldn't desert me. We'd come this far, me and him, and besides, I was already calling him 'Jonesy'. ... I should probably explain. You see, like all good books, this one takes place just after the death of an old Swiss man. And, like all good books - modern classics, you might say - this one unwittingly began life in spring, on a farm, in a village, in a Switzerland sprinkled with sunlight and dew. It's early afternoon, and the old Swiss man is tired. He's not as young as he used to be - because he's old - and the farm he once ran with tireless efficiency has got the better of him, as it does every day now. He hasn't many animals, nor many crops, but he still tries to clean out the cowshed and find fresh hay for the goats and keep up with the weeds, which never seem to tire as he does, the weedy green bastards. He is ninety. His wife died some years before, leaving the old man to cook himself some lonely and basic meals of potato and ham, and it's some time after lunch, when the day is already nine hours old for him, that he decides to head back to the untidy wooden house to take his afternoon rest. There are still things to do, but they can wait, they can wait, because he must rest, he must rest. He washes his face and hands with one of the lavender soaps his wife had collected but rarely used, lies on his bed, closes his eyes, and exhales. The sun is draped around the room, sneaking through the dark slats of the window, dousing the place in muted amber. The only sound is the distant clank of a dozen cow bells on the hillside, and the whistley wheeze of this old, tired man. He falls into the deepest of sleeps, the last one he'll ever need, the last he'll ever be given. And the old Swiss man pops his old Swiss clogs. If indeed the Swiss have clogs. I don't know. I'm only half-Swiss. And it's not even my best half. I'm still at home in London, probably playing on my PlayStation, or staring at my feet, unaware that any of this has even happened. I soon would be. And how. ... I studied the menu Chris had enclosed with his letter. 'The Madras Valley ... 123 Castlehaven Road, northwest London'. It looked great. Maybe I was romanticising it slightly because of the mood I was in, but I don't think that any restaurant has ever seemed so appealing as the Madras Valley did at that moment. 'We are proud of our chefs and our management,' it read. 'We are proud that you the customer choose us to satisfy your appetite'. Well, that was lovely. They hadn't needed to write that, but they'd done it anyway. What a great world my joinee lived in. A friendly world, where restaurants are proud of themselves, and you get a free bottle of Coke with every takeaway order over £15. And this sealed it for me: 'Our chef has twenty years experience as a chef.' Oh, Jonesy knew his stuff when it came to restaurants, alright. He was a man of taste. A man of quality. A man I knew I should know. I imagined our shared future. I imagined our summers in the park, drinking cool beers and kicking a battered old football around, laughing like ladies in the afternoon sun. I imagined us marrying twins, and living next door to each other, and going halves on a caravan we'd take to the Lake District twice a year. I imagined growing old with him, maybe by now having to share just the one twin wife, trading in the caravan for a timeshare on the coast ... and you know what? Life would be good. Life would be great. Because Jonesy would be there. 'Who is that a picture of and why are you staring at it?' said Hanne, my girlfriend, suddenly there, interrupting my dreams of what might be. She was drying her hair and smelled of coconuts. 'It's Jonesy,' I said. 'Who is Jonesy?' she said, moving closer to take a look. 'And why are you grinning like that?'
  • Pages: 397
  • Format: Paperback
  • Genre: General
  • Rating: Not yet rated

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