I start every single performance I deliver with what, on the face of it, sounds like the worst sales pitch in history: I tell everyone that I’m a fake psychic, but one who happens to be honest about the fact that I am a liar, a cheat and a complete fraud. I do this whether I’m entertaining a small group as I mingle at a party, or addressing a crowd of hundreds from the conference stage.
And there’s always a tiny, lovely moment right after that disclaimer.
You can almost feel the double-take. Some people laugh. Some glance at others, as if to look for confirmation that I just said what they think I just said. A few look slightly suspicious, as they wonder if I’m deliberately mocking their sincerely held beliefs in psychics / crystals / dolphin-mind-channelling, etc.
Then they realise, as I continue, that I’m not asking for belief – I’m asking for permission to deceive them for a bit. The atmosphere shifts from polite attention to a curious, playful earnestness. They lean in. They relax. And (this is the best bit) the sceptics stop fighting it, because I’ve already agreed with them.
And, frankly, if that little intro doesn’t immediately make me one of the five most interesting things that has happened to them that day, then they have had one heck of an unusual day.
I then proceed to do exactly the same sorts of things to them that fake psychics have been doing since time immemorial and (somehow) everybody has a great time being amazed by it.
There is, of course, one question that’s almost guaranteed to follow.
“How did you do that?”
This question turns up so reliably that it might as well be on the running order. Sometimes it’s asked with a smile, sometimes with genuine bafflement, but it’s almost always asked. And most of the time it isn’t because they’re going to lose sleep if they don’t know – it’s almost reflexive.
Here’s the interesting bit: most of the time, the question isn’t really about getting an answer. It’s about closure.
In other words, they’re usually not demanding a secret – they’re just trying to satisfy a little mental itch. They want to put the lid back on the box.
It’s the brain saying things like: “Right. I don’t like this,” “I need to know what category this goes in,” “That was fun, I enjoyed it… but I’d also like to feel in control again.”
When we humans bump into something we don’t understand, we feel a little itch. A need to file it away neatly. The “how” question is our brain reaching for the label-maker.
If I dodge the question (which I always do, without fail), what usually happens is a little “committee meeting”.
- Someone announces their theory to the others.
- Someone else will say, “No no, he must have…”
- Then someone else counters with “But it can’t have been that, because otherwise…”
There then follows a further few minutes of group discussion, often assessing a series of increasingly wild theories. Conversations get started. Strangers who weren’t speaking ten minutes ago are suddenly swapping theories like they’ve known each other for years.
They generally agree collectively on “I have no idea”, with each having a sneaking suspicion that their theory is the right one. Apart, of course, from that one person who – as if to show that, unlike the others, they have not been taken in whatsoever – confidently declares to everyone that I must be cheating somehow. I mean, nice one, Einstein. That’s exactly what I told you all I’d be doing, right at the very start. (The others tend to politely let this one slide, though; they all know better than to try and argue with someone who is always right.)
Here’s the funny thing about them not knowing: it doesn’t ruin the experience – it is the experience. Needing to ask the “How?” question is part of the fun.
Then, of course, the event moves on. But the ice has been broken, and people can continue their conversations with further questions like “So why did you draw a bike? Do you cycle…?” And later, when they meet someone else, and the conversation stalls, they have the perfect gambit: “Have you seen the mind reader yet?” If the other person has, they can compare notes. And if not, they’ve got an interesting anecdote about what happened to them ready and waiting.
But the feeling of amazement and astonishment at encountering something they fundamentally didn’t understand sticks around. That’s kind of the point. It’s an entertaining diversion in the moment… and a little bit of mystery that becomes a great anecdote afterwards.
Because the next morning – or on Monday at work it pops up again. Someone mentions it in a WhatsApp group. Someone tries to tell the story and remembers it all wrong, but it still sounds good.
It becomes one of those things people recall from time to time: “Hey, do you remember that time Dawn got completely sideswiped by that mind guy at last year’s conference / party / event? Yeah, he did this thing where…” And every now and then, for years, you get that: “Oh, yeah! Do you remember that guy…?” moment.
That’s why people book me. Not just because I “read minds”, but because I’m a social catalyst: I break the ice, and I give people a shared story, a shared laugh, and a bit of harmless, joyful bafflement that creates a shared memory they’ll discuss for days, weeks, and years to come.
And just so we’re clear: if someone asks me at the event how it’s done, I will never tell them. I just dodge the question – kindly, playfully, and without making them feel silly – because keeping the mystery intact is what makes it work.
Plus it means your event will get talked about for years to come. Which is why people book me. And it gets me a lot of word-of-mouth business. So it’s all win-win.
Hurrah!
To be continued…
At this point, the obvious follow-up is: “OK… but do you ever tell people how you do it?”
And I’ll be very clear: never. But the reasons why are interesting and they split neatly into two other posts, the first of which you’ll find here:
[LINK PLACEHOLDER → Ethics blog]
Anchor text: Why I don’t expose my methods (The Ethics Reason)
Because the truth is: the same methods that create laughter and amazement at an event can also be used to do real harm. And that’s where the ethics comes in.
