When Robocop met Robopop
I was wondering how long it would last. Garda patience with those White House bucks.
The Garda detectives stationed at the Ballina media centre had spent the whole day screening us and scanning us every time we walked in or out the door. Cheerfully they had manned an airport style security system, inviting us to empty our belongings into trays, bidding us walk through an electronic door frame, opening up our bags, examining the ipad with that damn U2 album that never stops playing — “It’s U2, how bad?” — with weary smiles of apology. It’s not us lads. Ye know yourselves.
A ring of steel was tightened around the town. A pal who sells popcorn and candyfloss at Fleadhs and festivals had been corralled into a yard by the Secret Service and his queue of hungry customers cut off. “They didn’t like the big crowd.” Any trouble? “No, but there might be if those yanks don’t let my customers in,” he said, only half-joking.
After several false departures — itineraries chucked out the window of Marine One — the troupe of Garda detectives and Government officials hanging around us all day, finally jumped on board our press bus around six o’clock to escort us down to a designated media centre on the opposite side of the river to where Mr President would be making his speech. It was finally showtime. Hacks were giddy with anticipation of a glimpse of the big man. Cops were giddy at the thought of getting close to the nuclear codes.
As the bus pulled up, one of the Government officials — let’s call her ‘Mammy’ — channelled her inner 1st class teacher and roared at us to stay seated. Government officials and Gardai were allowed up though and off they hopped. I glanced around expecting my fellow hacks to follow suit anyway, but after three days covering Biden they seemed to have resigned themselves to the role of 7-year-olds in this whole show and stayed put. “Right, you can get off now,” she barked some minutes later, long settled into her new-found power. “But keep together,” she shrieked as we wandered up the street, not holding hands or walking in pairs.
The detectives who had gone on ahead soon directed us towards an alleyway. Nearly there. But hold on. What’s this? It was blocked by a security tent with several stern men in front who were definitely not Gardaí. The oldest Garda detective — let’s call him ‘Daddy’ — seems to be having words with some of them. Loudly. Our eyes swivel and we realise we are face to face with a gang of White House Secret Service agents. The very lads we had been looking for all week.
They didn’t disappoint. Wearing stylish tan trench coats straight off the cover of Vogue, they were tall, freshly shaven, freshly tanned, and freshly under 35. ’Rides’ as one of the sisters might say. The agent taking on Daddy had a tight haircut, beautifully gelled, a deep tan and jaws like toblerones. Let’s call him Maverick.
“They’re not getting in here without being screened,” he spat.
“They’re already screened,” snorted Mammy. “We have a whole bus full,” she threatened.
Water off a duck’s back.
“This was all cleared two hours ago,” chipped in Daddy, seeing Mammy was getting nowhere.
“We came down here ourselves and did a reccie,” he said, his voice raising a few notches.
We grinned around at each other in undisguised delight. Mammy and Daddy were losing their sh*t and we were totally down for the ride. Where was Mick with the popcorn…oh wait.
“They have to be screened again,” Maverick insisted, folding his arms and spreading his legs.
From far away we heard the definite sounds of a camel screaming.
“They were already screened,” came the shrill cry of despair from Mammy.
“They were already screened,” snarled Daddy, his face inching closer to that sharp haircut.
“By WHO?” said Maverick, fully up for it.
“An GARDA SIOCHANA,” bawled Daddy.
Robocop meets Robopop.
There was a millisecond of stunned silence. Maverick’s eyes flickered over in our direction, the dark recesses of his mind finally decking he now had the rapt attention of half a dozen reporters.
“Where?” he said, less certain now. “You gotta guarantee me they’ve been secure all day,” he said, giving himself a way out without losing face. The man had his pride after all.
“At the media centre, they were with us all day,” wailed Mammy, the hysteria mounting.
“OK I’m just doing my job,” he turned to her, anything to get Daddy out of his face.
Sensing victory, Daddy seized the moment to herd us all past the crestfallen yanks with the scanners before they changed their minds.
As we all headed for more tea inside, Daddy was straight over for a strong cuppa, praying he’d be long retired before the next US President darkened our door.
ENDS
