Checkpoint Showtime: The Night I Read a Garda’s Mind

There are certain conversations you expect to have with a Garda at a checkpoint.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

“Yes” or “No”.

Nice and straightforward.

“I’m a professional mind reader” is apparently not one of the recommended answers.

So, I’d just finished performing at a wedding in an unnamed venue. Unnamed mainly because I’d quite like them to book me again.

It had been a great night. Plenty of laughs, plenty of mind reading, and several guests now deeply suspicious of me.

I packed up, got into the car and headed for home.

About thirty seconds later, I saw the familiar sight ahead.

Blue lights.

Garda checkpoint.

Perfect.

I pulled up and lowered the window.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

“No, Garda. I was working at the wedding.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a mind reader.”

Pause.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

“No, seriously. Have you had a drink?”

Fair question, in hindsight.

“No, honestly. I’m a mentalist. I was performing at the wedding back there.”

At this point, I could see him trying to work out whether “mentalist” was my occupation or a confession.

He asked me again if I’d been drinking.

“No. I never drink when I’m performing.”

Then, for reasons that seemed sensible at the time, I added:

“But I can prove the mind-reading bit if you want.”

That changed things.

Suddenly the checkpoint had a new purpose.

He called the other Guards over.

“This fella says he’s a mind reader.”

Nothing puts pressure on a demonstration quite like several members of An Garda Síochána standing around your car while one of them holds a breathalyser.

I asked him to think of his first crush.

A name he hadn’t thought about in years.

I concentrated.

“Siobhan?”

That was it.

The place erupted.

The Guards were laughing, he was completely thrown, and God only knows what the drivers queuing behind me thought was happening.

Imagine sitting four cars back wondering why a routine checkpoint had suddenly turned into Ireland’s Got Talent.

Then we returned to the small matter of whether I was actually sober.

Out came the breathalyser.

I blew into it.

Waited.

“You passed.”

I looked at him.

“Well… that’s what you think.”

More laughter.

Probably not a line I’d recommend using at every Garda checkpoint, but by this stage we’d built a relationship.

Eventually he waved me on.

“Go on. Get outta here.”

And off I went.

I’ve performed mentalism in theatres, hotels, boardrooms and at weddings all over the country, but there’s something particularly satisfying about accidentally doing a show on the side of an Irish road for an audience of Guards.

It’s actually one of the things I love most about what I do.

You never quite know where it’s going to take you.

One minute you’re packing up after a wedding.

Five minutes later you’re revealing a Garda’s first crush while a queue of motorists waits patiently for the encore.

And for the record, I was completely sober.

Although apparently I would say that.