25 June 2003
by Linda Dearsley
When Danny Wallace was a boy, his ambition was to be a daredevil archaeologist like Indiana Jones. Failing that, he fancied himself as a stuntman or maybe a professional footballer.
Unfortunately, Danny grew up severely short-sighted - and not at all athletic -- so he decided to become a cult leader instead.
There's not much call for cult leaders these days but, even if there was, bespectacled Danny, wouldn't be the obvious choice. When he stands in the street waving a homemade card with 'Join Me' written on it in felt-tip pen, you expect passers-by to cross the road.
Yet somehow, in just a few short months, this unlikely guru amassed more than 2,500 enthusiastic recruits for his Join Me Karma Army (mission: to perform random acts of kindness to strangers) and the numbers are growing all the time.
Eager followers worldwide contact Danny and he's very big in Belgium. Stranger still, he never set out to start a cult -- it was all a bit of an accident.
'Although, as it turns out, it's actually very nice being a cult leader,' says
Danny, who runs Join Me from his flat in an old match factory in east London.
'I'd recommend it to anyone, but it involves a lot more admin
work than I'd imagined and it's a bit short on flowing robes and adoring women.'
For a long time Danny resisted calling his organisation a cult because of the unpleasant associations with mass suicides and spaceships hidden behind comets. He preferred to say it was a collective, although what he was actually collecting for he hadn't quite decided.
'It all started at the funeral my great-uncle Gallus in Switzerland,' explains
Danny, who's half-Swiss himself. 'I couldn't remember the old boy, but the relatives
sat reminiscing and an extraordinary story emerged. Just after World War II,
Gallus got fed up with small-town life and decided to set up a commune on his
farm. He wanted 100 people to join him, but sadly only three volunteered. He
was so disillusioned that he
abandoned the whole idea and went back to conventional life.'
For reasons he still can't quite explain, Danny was deeply touched by this story. It seemed so sad that Gallus had been unable to fulfill his dream. 'So I decided to do it for him,' says Danny. 'I planned to try and get 100 people for Gallus. The funny thing was, it started off being about my great-uncle and then it turned into something for me.'
One morning, just to see what would happen, Danny -- who works as a film reviewer -- placed a free classified ad in the London edition of Loot. 'Join me,' it said, 'send one passport-sized photo to...' and he added his address.
Deep down, he thought it was unlikely anyone would respond. 'Then a few days later a letter and photo arrived from a man named Christian jones,' says Danny. 'He was intrigued and said he'd like to know what it was all about, but he was ready to join anyway. When I went to meet him for a pint he got his flatmate to join as well.'
Christian, who worked for the charity Help The Aged and knew everything there was to know about giant squid, seemed satisfied with Danny's explanation that he couldn't reveal all just yet -- but he needed to find 100 people.
They placed a second ad in Loot, set up a Join Me website and the campaign snowballed. Enthusiastic volunteers recruited friends and handed out leaflets. Danny was interviewed on TV and he travelled all over Europe spreading the word. Teachers, mechanics, sales reps and two vicars pledged allegiance to the mysterious cause and they started to refer to Danny as 'the leader' -- which thrilled him no end. Yet as the number of members increased, they demanded, not unreasonably, to know what Join Me was for.
'I went back to great-uncle Gallus's letters seeking clues as to what plans he had for his volunteers,' says Danny'and I came across the phrase: "Make happy those gentlemen who are in advance of you in years." Instantly I knew what to do.'
Across the internet the order went out that every Friday would become Good Friday, a day when Join Me Joinees must perform acts of kindness to strangers. The effect was amazing.
'They seemed to enjoy it more than ever,' says Danny. 'There was a lot of carrying of heavy objects and handing out of cakes in the street. Even though I made it clear that my collective had nothing to do with religion, a vicar from Inverness decided to take boxes of chocolates to his local police station.
'Then when we heard about a certain old man who loved peanuts, I asked Join Me members to send him some. A few days later, about 80 packets fell through his letter box. He may have been overjoyed or terrified.'
One newspaper article about Danny referred to his group as the Kindness Collective, which sounded good, but not very hip. Danny found himself saying that it was really a kind of Karma Army -- and the name stuck.
'We also decided to perform kind acts as often as possible, not just on Fridays,' says Danny. 'It was about changing people's lives for the better - even if it was only for a few minutes.
'The odd thing is that when we began I thought it would be the strangers we
helped who'd benefit most. But soon I realised that it's the "joinees"
who reap even greater rewards. They tell me they get so much from
making other people smile.'
Now, with numbers edging up to 3,000 but his bank balance depleted, Danny has taken a job at the BBC. But he has no intention of giving up Join Me.
'I'm completely amazed by what's happened,' he says. 'The members come from all walks of life -- aged from nine to 79 -- and it's too important to me to stop now. Next year I'm hoping to break into the USA.
'I always thought people were basically good. Now I know they are -- they're just a little shy and embarrassed about showing it. Give them an excuse to break through that shyness and it's amazing what happens.'
Linda Dearsley
Join Me by Danny Walloce (Ebury Press, £9.99) is out now
Copyright © 2003 Now