journalists miss the story,” says Nicky. “Lots of journalists miss the story. But you haven’t. You’ve got the story. I knew it from the beginning.”
“What
is
the story?” I ask Nicky.
“That something amazing is happening,” he says. “Something incredible. All over the world. In a hundred and sixteen countries.”
“I thought it was a hundred and twelve countries,” I say.
“That was a month ago,” says Nicky. “Now it’s a hundred and sixteen countries.” We laugh. “I would feel absolutely awful about Alice,” he says, “but I feel completely free from responsibility.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“I’m not hypnotizing anybody,” he says. “I don’t know anything about hypnosis.”
It is getting late. Tomorrow is the start of the Alpha international conference. There will be much good news to report. Alpha is up 156 percent in New Zealand; one-third of all churches there now run the course. My personal experience with Alpha finishes here. I miss the last few weeks because I have to travel to America. In my group, of those who lasted the course, about 70 percent were won over.
Alice leaves some messages on my answering machine. She says I have missed some incredible things. I call her and ask what happened.
“It was just amazing,” she says. “Nicky did a session on healing.”
“Healing?”
“Healing by prayer. He started saying, ‘I sense someone here has a lump on their left breast that they’re very concerned about.’ There were maybe twenty-five of these, and he got it right every time. People were standing up and everyone prayed for them. And then I asked them to pray for my horse, who’s ill, and the horse got better. And I had a terrible pain in my left side and I didn’t mention it, but Nicky said he sensed it and everyone prayed for me and now the pain is gone.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Nicky was gutted that you missed it,” says Alice.
“You sound like you’ve changed your mind again,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Alice. “All I can say is that my horse got better and the pain has gone from my left side.” She pauses. “For all my problems with Kidderminster, I’ve got to say that Nicky is quite brilliant. He’s wonderful.”
And I have to admit that, for all my problems with Kidderminster, I can only agree with her.
PART TWO
HIGH-FLYING LIVES
“Their eyes met and exchanged a flurry of masculine/feminine master/slave signals.”
—Ian Fleming, Goldfinger
The Name’s Ronson, Jon Ronson
T his is the centenary month of Ian Fleming’s birth. There’s an exhibition at the Imperial War Museum dedicated to Bond aesthetics. It’s all a mystery to me. His expensive cars and elegant suits leave me cold. In fact, I’ve only ever been in a Bond-type car once, many years ago. It was a Porsche. The owner—the comedian Steve Coogan—pointed at a button. “Press that,” he said. I did. The lid of the ashtray whirred gracefully open. “Did you see the smoothness of that action? Do you see how the ashtray just opened?” I looked mystified at him and at the ashtray.
Am I missing out on something? I hate not understanding things.
I phone Zoe Watkins at Ian Fleming Publications Ltd, the literary estate. She’s known within Bond circles for having an encyclopedic knowledge of the books.
“I want to re-create a great Bond journey,” I say. “I want to take a passage from one of the novels and assiduously match Bond, car for car, road for road, meal for meal, drink for drink, hotel for hotel.”
“What a wonderful idea,” she says. “But which journey do you want to re-create?”
“I dunno,” I shrug. “One in
Moonraker
?”
“
Moonraker
is basically a drive from London to Margate,” Zoe says. “Fleming’s fans were disappointed by the absence of exotic locations.”
“Goldfinger?”
I say.
“Well,” Zoe says, “in
Goldfinger
, Bond drove an Aston Martin DB3 from London to Geneva. He stopped at the Hôtel de la Gare in
“What
is
the story?” I ask Nicky.
“That something amazing is happening,” he says. “Something incredible. All over the world. In a hundred and sixteen countries.”
“I thought it was a hundred and twelve countries,” I say.
“That was a month ago,” says Nicky. “Now it’s a hundred and sixteen countries.” We laugh. “I would feel absolutely awful about Alice,” he says, “but I feel completely free from responsibility.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“I’m not hypnotizing anybody,” he says. “I don’t know anything about hypnosis.”
It is getting late. Tomorrow is the start of the Alpha international conference. There will be much good news to report. Alpha is up 156 percent in New Zealand; one-third of all churches there now run the course. My personal experience with Alpha finishes here. I miss the last few weeks because I have to travel to America. In my group, of those who lasted the course, about 70 percent were won over.
Alice leaves some messages on my answering machine. She says I have missed some incredible things. I call her and ask what happened.
“It was just amazing,” she says. “Nicky did a session on healing.”
“Healing?”
“Healing by prayer. He started saying, ‘I sense someone here has a lump on their left breast that they’re very concerned about.’ There were maybe twenty-five of these, and he got it right every time. People were standing up and everyone prayed for them. And then I asked them to pray for my horse, who’s ill, and the horse got better. And I had a terrible pain in my left side and I didn’t mention it, but Nicky said he sensed it and everyone prayed for me and now the pain is gone.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Nicky was gutted that you missed it,” says Alice.
“You sound like you’ve changed your mind again,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Alice. “All I can say is that my horse got better and the pain has gone from my left side.” She pauses. “For all my problems with Kidderminster, I’ve got to say that Nicky is quite brilliant. He’s wonderful.”
And I have to admit that, for all my problems with Kidderminster, I can only agree with her.
PART TWO
HIGH-FLYING LIVES
“Their eyes met and exchanged a flurry of masculine/feminine master/slave signals.”
—Ian Fleming, Goldfinger
The Name’s Ronson, Jon Ronson
T his is the centenary month of Ian Fleming’s birth. There’s an exhibition at the Imperial War Museum dedicated to Bond aesthetics. It’s all a mystery to me. His expensive cars and elegant suits leave me cold. In fact, I’ve only ever been in a Bond-type car once, many years ago. It was a Porsche. The owner—the comedian Steve Coogan—pointed at a button. “Press that,” he said. I did. The lid of the ashtray whirred gracefully open. “Did you see the smoothness of that action? Do you see how the ashtray just opened?” I looked mystified at him and at the ashtray.
Am I missing out on something? I hate not understanding things.
I phone Zoe Watkins at Ian Fleming Publications Ltd, the literary estate. She’s known within Bond circles for having an encyclopedic knowledge of the books.
“I want to re-create a great Bond journey,” I say. “I want to take a passage from one of the novels and assiduously match Bond, car for car, road for road, meal for meal, drink for drink, hotel for hotel.”
“What a wonderful idea,” she says. “But which journey do you want to re-create?”
“I dunno,” I shrug. “One in
Moonraker
?”
“
Moonraker
is basically a drive from London to Margate,” Zoe says. “Fleming’s fans were disappointed by the absence of exotic locations.”
“Goldfinger?”
I say.
“Well,” Zoe says, “in
Goldfinger
, Bond drove an Aston Martin DB3 from London to Geneva. He stopped at the Hôtel de la Gare in
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