SEDUCED BY A SAUSAGE ROLL

But at least it wasn’t a cult

I’m not a Buddhist, partly because of the robes and vegetarianism, but mainly because of all the sitting down. Once you’re over the age of fifty, there is no comfortable way to sit on the floor, and that’s just a fact. In my experience, anyone who tells you they can sit in the lotus position for an hour, opening their third eye and breathing out of their chakras, is more likely to be a diagnosed narcissist than an enlightened guru.

Many people will tell you that you can learn to sit on the floor at any age, but most of these people are trying to induct you into cults. And I would know, because I once nearly joined a cult by accident when I took part in a free sitting on the floor meditation class. The meditation itself was actually quite enjoyable, which should have been my first clue that something was up. The second clue was the invitation to lovingly admire an enormous gilded painting of a wall-eyed lady in robes, whose relevance to the proceedings was somewhat obscure. The penny finally dropped when the person running the meditation class encouraged people to experience their consciousness leaving through the crown of their skull. This is a classic cult tactic. It’s a known fact that once your consciousness has departed into the etheric realms, your body is more willing to part with its money.

Of course, it’s not only about money. It’s also about belonging. I know this because when I was seventeen, I was briefly in a band called Vagabon Fayre. (Yes, ‘vagabon.’ And yes, also, ‘fayre.’ I know.) I’m not sure how in the band I actually was, to be honest. I’d been recruited along with Clive, a drama student, to perform what our lead singer Phil called a ‘psychodrama’ -- an entirely uncalled-for and frankly embarrassing piece of musical theatre. Anyway, we were unfathomably popular for a while and had a few gigs around the West Mids. One time we were even on the same bill as the psychedelic space-jazz band Gong. (This is still my biggest claim to fame.)

Phil had a girlfriend called Becky, and the two of them lived together in a caravan at the back of Becky’s mum’s house. This made Phil and Becky the most adult and interesting people in our group of friends – or rather, it made them the most capable of throwing stupid parties without anyone’s parents getting involved.

Side note: I once went to a party at Clive-the-drama-student’s house. My friend and I decided that our contribution to the party would be to sit cross-legged on the living room floor (we were seventeen, so this was not a problem) and solemnly chant “This is a stinky stonky stoo stoo… Om,” until someone gave us a splif to make us stop. This worked well, and some time later we were sitting at the top of Clive’s stairs, watching in helpless hysterics as Clive rushed around the house sprinkling Shake ‘n’ Vac powder over everything and pleading, “No more drugs, guys. No more drugs, please!”

Clive’s party was also the one where I renounced my three-year-long journey of vegetarianism after being seduced by a sausage roll. But Phil and Becky’s parties were even messier than that. I recall one in particular where someone fell off a ladder and into a manhole. He broke his leg, and his girlfriend was so disgusted that she dumped him while they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Anyway, it was shortly after this party that Phil ditched Vagabon Fayre and ran away with the Hare Krishnas.

We used to hang out with the Hare Krishnas quite a bit in those days, mainly because they fed us. Every Saturday lunchtime, they would put on a huge meal in a community centre in Birmingham city centre. We would turn up hungry and hungover, eat their food, and then spend a bit of time dancing around in a circle singing the Hare Krishna song before heading back to the pub. I thought it was a fun way to get a free lentil curry. I didn't realise Phil was taking it seriously until he stopped turning up for band rehearsals. Next thing I heard, he’d chucked his girlfriend, shaved his head, changed his name, renounced his worldly goods, and moved into George Harrison’s temple in Watford where he was taking turns mucking out the resident holy cow.

In my opinion, the best protection against being inveigled into a cult is to not really want to join a cult in the first place. Phil absolutely wanted to join a cult. Phil’s letters to his now-ex-girlfriend Becky were mostly focused on the apparently wonderful cow, but there was also quite a bit of talk about how great it was to be part of something; to transcend the shackles of society and to embrace the path of enlightenment. In other words, it was better than dealing with your own family and getting an actual job. Plus: magic cow!

Young people are more vulnerable to cults because they're looking for ways to rebel. But also because they’re able to sit on the floor for long periods of time without noticing their knees. When you get older, you are naturally more in touch with your body, by which I mean, everything hurts all the time, and sitting on the floor is a literal pain in the arse. This is nature’s way of preventing you from handing over your life savings to a dodgy bloke in a robe or an apparently humble wall-eyed lady guru with an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands.

Because of these experiences, I now only trust spiritual teachers who don’t have a firm opinion on how you’re allowed to sit during meditation. This applies to all spiritual traditions, including Buddhism. Even if it’s not a cult, but rather a 2,500-year-old spiritual practice, that’s still no reason for them not to give you a chair.

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