Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (51 page)

“Your wife’s been pestering me to show up,” he said. “Email after email. A quite considerable marketing campaign. So I showed
up… how are you, Dan?”

I looked at Lizzie. Because this wasn’t about meeting Tom again, as nice as it was. It was about what she’d done for me. What
this
meant
to me. She’d joined in. Seen something that was wrong. Made it
right.

“It’s really good to see you, Tom…” I said. “
Really
good.”

Another address updated. Not counting Michael Jackson, that was ten out of twelve. That wasn’t an A anymore. That was
first-class honors.

And then Tom and I began to talk about the old days. And I introduced him to Cameron, and to Anil, and to Mikey.

“One thing, though, Tom—your dad
didn’t
invent the Sprite logo,
did
he?”

“No,” said Tom, shaking his head. “Of course he bloody didn’t.”

And we all raised our glasses and laughed. And just like that, we were a gang again.

“That was the best present
ever,
” I said, to Lizzie, a little later on.

“That? That wasn’t your present. That was just me harassing a man and convincing him you weren’t a gay stalker
or
after his money. I told him everything you’d been doing. He was actually rather sweet about the whole thing…”

“So what’s my
real
present?” I asked, confused.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a slip of paper.

“This…” she said.

I looked at it, unsurely, and then unfolded it.

It was an address.

It was
Chris Guirrean
’s address.

“But…
how?
I tried
everything!
”

“I phoned your mum. We spent an age trying to find Chris’s dad’s address. Turned out he still works up in Scotland. We found
an email address for him, and when she was spelling it out on the phone to me, it turned out that he wasn’t a Guirrean.”

“How do you mean? He’d changed his name?”

Was this common? Was that little Russian kid grown up to become “Ben Berlin” just one of
many?

“No… I mean he was a Guirron. Not a Guirrean.”

“A Guirron? But he’s a
Guirrean.
That’s what it says in the Book…”

“Yeah. And when did you write his name in the Book?”

“When I was… six.”

Lizzie just looked at me.

“But I was an
excellent
speller!” I said.

“So anyway, I didn’t email his dad. I used the information to find Christopher’s address, instead.”

“Well… where is he?” I said, looking at the slip of paper.

“He’s still in Dundee,” she said. “I haven’t made contact. You can go and meet him. I reckon we can extend this past your
birthday, seeing as he’s your best friend, and all…”

And I looked at Lizzie.

And I was filled with warmth and love.

And I said, “No, he isn’t,” and she looked at me, confused.

“
You’re
my best friend,” I said.

And the next day, when the party had long finished, and before the sun had even risen, I got up, and I wandered into the spare
room, and I
finally
mended that broken socket.

W
ell, there you go.

The story of a summer turning into a winter. And, in some ways, of a winter turning into a summer.

I didn’t manage to meet all twelve of the Twelve by November 16th, 2006. Bearing in mind I only got Chris’s address at around
10 p.m. that night, it would have been a bit of a tall order. But, and I hope this still counts, in January of 2007, on a
dark and brooding Scottish evening, I did indeed manage to finally meet up with him, in Dundee, after nearly twenty-five years
apart.

It was excellent.

Chris is in insurance now, and we spent a long and warm evening talking about days gone by, and walking around Dundee. We
happened past our old school, Park Place Primary, where we’d first met, in 1980, and where he was surprised to hear I had
vomited on Scott Butcher’s lap. To make it even better, with us was Jamie Maddox—now
Dr.
Jamie Maddox—another great friend from those years gone by, and the three of us agreed never to lose touch again.

And so far, we haven’t.

Later that year, I traveled to the small town of Teplice in the Czech Republic, to watch my old friend Michael Amodio get
married to the bellydancing granddaughter of a witch. It was a lovely day, attended by more old friends I’d lost touch with
over the years.

Michael’s brother—formerly of dance troupe Natural Born Thrillers—was also there, but managed to avoid any belly dancing.

Anil Tailor is about to finish his final exams before becoming a fully fledged architect. He never again saw the mysterious
stranger he saw that day in his car… but it did make him think. He’s currently deciding where in the world he’d like to go.
He still thinks he might give Peter a call.

Simon Gibson has made no new scientific discoveries this year, but
has
just opened up a new Toby Carvery in Banbury. Check it out. You will love the adequate parking facilities, though you will
find it annoying that you can’t go back for seconds.

A builder called Greg has now replaced the guttering (despite being a man now, that was still a little too much for me). Plus,
it took him about an hour, on the exact day he said he’d turn up. The canopy fell off during particularly high winds in April
2007. I have realized I have no use for a canopy. That socket broke again. But I fixed it straight away. It made me feel like
a
man.

In September of 2007, Lizzie and I traveled back to Berlin, where we met up with Tarek, his wife Anna (also a rapper) and
their small daughter Naliyah (who does not rap). Tarek continues to produce some of Germany’s finest hip-hop, and is an adoring
and doting father.

BRD is, by all accounts,
still
the Bester Rapper Deutschlands. Papo is still demolishing whole concert halls with the strength of a hurricane.

Lauren is very worried you’ll find her boring. I’ve told her you won’t. She’s also worried you’ll find her odd. I’ve told
her you will.

Akira, Tom and Ben are all doing very well indeed, and all say hello.

Cameron doesn’t—he says “Potatoo!”

But that’s Cameron for you.

Peter Gibson returned from Australia after 357 hugely enjoyable days. He’s back in London now, and I was finally able to have
that pint with him in Tooting. He’s expecting Anil’s call any day now…

Michael Jackson recently bought a twenty-acre estate in County Wicklow, Ireland, and is currently working on a new comeback
album, which is as yet untitled.

Hanne recently met up with an old friend she’d made contact with through Facebook. She grudgingly admitted, “It was pretty
great, actually,” and hasn’t ruled out doing it again. Although she wants you to know that she sees it as a business utility,
first and foremost.

Ian has joined the Neighborhood Watch scheme in Chislehurst. He says it has given him a “real sense of purpose about life.”
He no longer wears that shirt, as he feels it does not fit in with the “image of authority” that the Neighborhood Watch requires
of him.

I have suggested he roam the streets dressed as a bear, as if there’s one thing that’s bound to put burglars off, it’s a burly,
roaming bear.

Ian says I’m a tit for thinking this.

Wag is on tour again, with a second album in the shops, and I am now so good at Call of Duty 2 that the Bald Assassin refuses
to play against me.

*   *   *

Ben Ives and I had a Christmas drink in Bath.

He turned up wearing a small dog mask on his head.

I wasn’t tricked for a
second.

Therefore I
win.

Bad Mutha!
is yet to hit cinemas anywhere.

Weirdly, ten days after my thirtieth birthday, the 1980s and early 1990s began to tap on my shoulder.

By Christmas, Take That had reformed and enjoyed their first number one in ten years. The Spice Girls weren’t far behind.
Even A-ha got in on the act. And Dirk Benedict from
The A-Team
went on
Celebrity Big Brother,
meaning that, thanks to Lizzie and her reality TV connections, I got to say hello.

Apparently, he never
got
my
Jim’ll Fix It
letter.

A few months later, defying Mr. Williams’s ban, Cadbury announced the return of the Wispa bar. As if in reaction to this,
the Police announced they would be reforming.

Soon after
Transformers: The Movie
became Britain’s number one film, and
Indiana Jones 4
made us all feel so happy, Steven Spielberg declared production on the film of
The Goonies 2
would finally begin this year. It is not known whether Tarek will be involved in the German version.

Plus, marvelously, in October of 2007, I was asked to appear on BBC1’s
Mastermind.
My specialist chosen subject?

Ghostbusters.

Man Points are now a thing of the past.

Thank God.

I still see all the friends in the Book on a regular basis. Just last night, I stood in a fancy London bar, surrounded by
them… Mikey, Anil, Simon, Cameron, Peter… and even Timothy Sismey, conker champion of Loughborough. You will be pleased to
hear that the
Loughborough Echo
recently printed a correction in its pages (next to a story with the brilliant headline “Woman Falls Off Bike”) and finally
set the record straight about who won that fateful day at school. I can, at last, sleep easy.

I returned to Dundee towards the end of 2007 to attend the wedding of Christopher Guirron to his new wife Louise. I was the
only man not in a kilt. They were married at a church in Broughty Ferry, and the reception was held on the River Tay, with
the same view as I’d grown up seeing every single day without any thought as to how lucky I was.

It’s funny, sometimes, how life works out, if you give it the chance.

I haven’t stopped, either, by the way. Just because I’m thirty doesn’t mean I can’t still have fun. It just means I have to
have display cushions.

Give it a go.

Look someone up.

My friends. Ian. Hanne. Wag.

Anil Tailor. Michael Amodio. Simon Gibson. Cameron Dewa. Tarek Helmy. Lauren “Not Boring” Medcalfe. Tom Bain. Ben Ives. Akira
Matsui. Peter Gibson. Chris Guirron. And Andy Clements.

Massive, massive thanks to Jake Lingwood, to Simon Trewin, to Jago Irwin, to Lisa Thomas, and, in advance, to Ed Griffiths.

An American-style high-five to John Parsley and everyone at Little, Brown, for doing such a lovely job with the copy of the
book you’re holding in your hands now. I hope you didn’t mind that I said you’re always holding someone’s rye or shouting
“Ass you!”

Huge thanks to Tokyo Bob, Tomoko, Kyohei and Jamie Maddox. Stefan and Georgia, my goddaughter Poppy (is that her name?) and
near-goddaughter Daisy.

Thanks to Peter McInnes, Nadine Beatty and Zairul (the kid who lived at number 3, Malaysia) for randomly getting in touch
before the publication of this book and just before their thirtieth birthdays—after twenty-five years apart. Here’s to meeting
up. And to Elliot, who I hadn’t seen in just as long, and who turned out, bizarrely, to be living in the building opposite
my old flat.

Thanks to close friends from kidulthood who for whatever random reason weren’t mentioned in the Book… Amy, Josh, Brian, Espen,
Erik, Jonas, Ian, Helen, Anna, Ross, Alec (thanks for the wedding!) and everyone else.

Thanks to the waiter at Desperados who gave Lizzie and me free beer when we explained that we’d started an entire pact in
his place of work.

Well done and thanks to Rich Glover and Natalie Byfield. To Ben Frost, Ken Barlow, Karl Pilkington, Mike Gayle, Phil Hilton,
the Friday Fun Club’s Richard Bacon and Marc Haynes, Mrs. Tailor and conker champion Tim Sismey. Bald Assassin—you suck. And
no thanks to Paul the builder (but no hard feelings, either… plus, I still have your ladder).