Join Me [Paperback]

How could you refuse the polite invitation of begoggled Danny Wallace in Join Me? You don't know what you could be missing out on. It's all about living for the moment in this quirky, seemingly pointless yet addictive narrative. Finding himself with too much time on his hands after quitting his BBC job, Danny revels in "sitting around in his pants" and generally taking a break from the responsibilities of working life. Danny attends the funeral of his great uncle Gallus and finds out that he had set up a commune of like-minded people to escape Swiss small town small-mindedness in the 1940s. Intrigued by this idea, on his return to London Danny places a cryptic advert in the classified ads paper Loot and gets some surprising results.

His Norwegian radio-producer girlfriend Hanne is bemused and infuriated that this has become more than a transient interest; it takes over his life--and hers. The number of "joinees"--people replying to his ad--escalates as word gets out about this new "happy cult", but without a clue about what he wants to achieve, or do with all his newfound friends, Danny has to think fast as dissent rises in the ranks. Now the reluctant leader of a troop of random hopefuls, he maintains their interest with obscure e-mails and watches as his joinees meet and bond.

Whatever he had created, it was bigger than he had anticipated. From an initially puerile idea, it had grown into something of a social experiment--why were people willing to take the risk? What was lacking in their lives that they thought they might get out of contacting a stranger? Taking risks, no matter how big or small, is the essential crux of the matter here and of course, nothing ventured, nothing gained. --Angela Boodoo

Danny Wallace does things few people would and writes about them in ways that few people could. He’s as funny as Bill Bryson used to be.

"brilliant"

One of Britain’s most respected journalists.

"consistantly witty and enjoyable"

"an extremely enjoyable read."

"one cannot help but wondering whether he has stumbled upon the future shape of spirituatlity."

'Join Me is the kind of book I love: effortlessly funny, painfully accurate and entertaining to the very end. Brilliant.'

They didn't know what they were joining...they didn't know why they were joining it...but joining they were. Danny Wallace was bored. Just to see what would happen, he placed a whimsical small ad in a local London paper. It said, simply, "Join Me". Within a month he was receiving letters and emails from intrigued strangers all over the country, eager to sign up. Teachers, mechanics, sales reps, vicars, schoolchildren, pensioners - all pledged allegiance to his cause. None knew what his cause was. Soon he was proclaimed 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? A modern-day Pied Piper, he travelled the world. From Inverness to Amsterdam, Swindon to Singapore, Paris, Zurich, Crete and Oslo. He became a minor celebrity in Belgium. He had a brush with a criminal mastermind in Devon. He made hundreds of old men all over the world very happy. A book about dreams, ambition and the responsibility that comes with power, this is the true story of a man who created a cult by accident and is proof that while some men were born to lead, others really haven't got a clue.

They didn't know what they were joining... They didn't know why they were joining it... But joining they were.

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?

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.

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.