Back in the day, it was common, whilst travelling, to write postcards to your friends and family. It was a bit of a chore though, to be honest. Who could be bothered to take time out of their holiday and think of something to write on the back of a postcard? And who are you going to write to? Everyone wants one. Everyone loves the surprise of finding a postcard in the mailbox. So, who? Your parents? Siblings? Friends? Colleagues from work? What about a complete stranger?
In August of 2002, my mate Crazy Horse and I were in Dublin for the weekend and enjoying a pint in the pub. We’d bought some postcards but had no idea who to write to. We borrowed the Dublin white pages from behind the bar: we opened the book up to a random page, pointed blindly at the list of names, and came up with Brian Oliver.
We, actually, chose four random names: Brian Oliver, William Halpin, Andrew Pye and Thomas Foley. Of the four we chose, Brian Oliver was the only one we wrote more than a few words to. On the other cards, we just drew noughts and crosses games. So, we started writing to Brian as if we were his best friends and had known him for years. We never made anything up. We told the truth about our travels and proceeded to send a postcard from each place we travelled to. But, and here’s the best bit, we never revealed our last names or gave a return address and definitely didn’t mention he was chosen randomly. We had no way of knowing who we were writing to and this poor confused man was probably wondering why he couldn’t remember who these friends of his were.
Months later, Crazy Horse phoned the Oliver household pretending to be from the bank, selling insurance. Brian wasn’t home but Crazy spoke to Brian’s wife. From the call, we gathered he was in his 50s and we now knew he was married. Knowing that we weren’t writing to an old senile man, that was all the encouragement we needed and we told others to write to him as well, when travelling. From what I understood, Brian Oliver quickly racked up a collection of postcards from people he didn’t know, from Ireland, the United Kingdom, Spain, Germany, the Czech Republic, Hungary, the United States, Canada, Mexico, South Africa, Hong Kong and Australia. We first started that day in August 2002 and over three years later we were still doing it.
Whilst in Europe for a wedding in October of 2005, I knew I’d be going over to Dublin at some stage to visit a friend from Canberra. So, I was contemplating the idea of finally meeting up with Brian. I didn’t expect to be in that part of the world again anytime soon, so this was maybe my only chance to meet him. Meeting up would answer so many questions that we’d pondered over for years: What’s he like? What’s his family like, if any? What’s his life story? Does he read the cards? What does he think about it all? Does he keep them? Does he share them with his mates down the pub?
Then there was the downside to meeting up. If we were to meet, the joke would be over. No doubt I’d tell him about being chosen randomly to get the answers to our questions but what fun would it be writing another boring old postcard to someone you know?
For three years, I’d become so used to experiencing something and thinking, “I must tell Brian about this,” e.g. It was my first thought after a male train attendant made a move on me and grabbed my crotch whilst on a train to Chicago. It’s so easy to write to a stranger. You just write as if it’s your diary and then make a joke that hints at the fact you’ve never met, e.g. “I had my head shaved today. You wouldn’t recognise me,” or “I went out drinking with my mate, Kenny. I don’t think you’ve met Kenny.”
After much thought and with a lot of encouragement from friends, I decided to give Brian a call and see what would happen. I rang on the only night I was free to see him and his wife answered the phone. I asked for Brian and was told he was at work and asked if I wanted to leave a message. I asked her could she please let Brian know that his mate, Spaceman, called. After saying that, I was expecting the Spanish Inquisition. “Spaceman? You’re that fucker that keeps sending postcards and we don’t even know who the fuck you are!” But there was none of that. She took my number and then the call was over.
I later realised I couldn’t receive incoming calls on my mobile so I’d have to phone back. I spoke to Mrs Oliver again and found out that Brian would be home at 7pm. After a few more pints in the pub, I phoned at 7:30 and this time Brian answered. “This will be interesting,” I thought. Crazy Horse had rung a few times in the past as Abdul Al Halleel, pretending to sell insurance, to try and get some idea of what kind of person Brian was. But here I was ringing, revealing my true identity.
“Hi, is that Brian?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, hi. It’s Spaceman.”
Now, surely, I would get the third degree, but no. Brian asked, “How are you?” as if I was some long-time friend. I explained that I was in town for the night and asked if he wanted to catch up for a pint. We arranged to meet up and he gave me the bus number to Coolock – his part of town – and we arranged to meet at the bus stop where I was to get off. I’d know to get off because the stop was in front of a church.
I was a bit lazy and didn’t feel like catching a bus so I caught a cab and asked the driver to take me to Coolock. On the way, he asked me where in Coolock I wanted. “Oh, just in front of the church, please mate.”
“But there’s a church on every second corner in Dublin.”
Not to worry, we worked out which was the correct church and, because I caught a cab, I’d arrived early. I sat at the bus stop waiting for Brian. Unbeknownst to me, he had arrived and was standing behind me, thinking I was someone waiting for the bus. After a while, I noticed a guy standing behind the bus stop. Was this Brian? God, he’s older than I thought. Well, let’s find out.
I went over and asked, “Are you Brian?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, I’m Spaceman.”
I put my hand out to shake his. The moment of truth. Face to face with Brian Oliver. A man I knew only by address. The man who, for the last three years and three months, had been bombarded with postcards from all over the world, from people he didn’t know, and I had been a major player. Was Brian going to shake my hand or punch me in the face? We shook hands.
“Let’s get in out of the cold,” he said.
We walked together to the pub a few hundred metres down the road. We made small talk as we went, once again as if we were old friends catching up. Did Brian think that we were, indeed, friends but couldn’t remember from where and was too embarrassed to say? But only minutes earlier, I had to ask him if he was Brian Oliver. Surely, he realised we were meeting for the first time.
We arrived at the pub and Brian got the first round in. We sat at the bar, said cheers and took a sip from our beer. And then it came, the first acknowledgement from Brian of the last three years.
“So,” then a brief pause, “what’s the story with all the postcards?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. After that we both told each other our sides of the story. Brian was a nice guy and appreciated the humour behind the cards. Brian, I’m guessing, was in his fifties, about 5’7”, had short dark grey hair, wore glasses and had a grey moustache. He is a Dubliner born and bred. He is married with four grownup sons and works as a computer technician.
Brian explained that, when the first cards started coming, he threw them out thinking we had the wrong person. But when they kept coming, he suspected something was going on and started to keep them all. It was a big thing in the Oliver household when a new card arrived. It was Brian and his youngest son Dave who tried to get to the bottom of it all. They looked for any clues as to how they might track us down.
The closest they came was when our friend, Jane, in Virginia, US, left an address on a card of a riding school she went to. But after tracking down the school phone number, the Oliver lads thought it was a bit absurd to ring up asking for someone called Jane who knows a Spaceman and Crazy Horse. Brian didn’t believe we used our real names. Otherwise, if he’d put our names in a Google search he would have found us. We also once let slip that we drank in The Royal Bar, in Belfast, but he never called the pub.
After a few rounds, Brian’s son Dave came and joined us. He was a good guy as well and introduced me to Fat Frogs (Blue Wicked, Orange Cruiser and Bacardi Breezer; all mixed together to create a green lemonade tasting drink that goes down so smoothly). Another son, Keith, also dropped in on his way to the theatre and brought with him a pile of postcards. Brian and I counted 120 postcards in just this one pile. Brian said he had more at home and then there were the ones he’d thrown out. I sat there looking through them. I could have sat there for hours reading them but it would have been a bit anti-social. I just glanced through them and saw postcards from people who I had no idea who they were. Crazy Horse and I never made copies of the cards we sent, so it was a good trip down memory lane reading some of them again. We spent the night chatting and getting very drunk. I was on such a high when we called it a night.
All in all, Brian took the whole experience in the good humour in which it was intended. None of the postcards were ever rude or vindictive in any way. So, the joke was over now but I had made a new friend. Well, actually, we’d been friends for years, but now we knew who each other was.
P.S. I've cooked up a catchy tune inspired by this wild adventure! Give it a spin right here and join the fun!
https://hypeddit.com/spacemanafricathemusical/iknowwhereyoulive
