It’s jogged a fond memory from when I toured Ireland in a punk folk band called Tofu Love Frogs.
One summer’s night after a particularly riotous gig in Dublin I was driving an old VW camper full of ‘colourful characters’ through the city centre. Our drummer in the passenger seat was being very loud and animated with bongos, hanging out of his window and shouting stuff.
We stopped at a red light.
A motorbike drew up along my side.
The Garda officer stood up on it and his helmeted head filled my open window, inching into the van, sniffing.
“Have you been drinking?” he inquired.
“No,” was all I could manage.
“Good,” he said. “If you do, don’t let him sit in the front. He draws attention to you.”
Then he left.