The Psychic Barber

Gordon Smith hates being called ‘the psychic barber’. It makes his day-to-day life - of cuts and blow dries - a bit of a misery. "People sit down in my barber's shop, in the West End of Glasgow, and say ‘I lost my mother last year'. I say ‘Sorry to hear that, but how much do you want off the top?’ I haven't got the time or the energy to be a spirit messenger 24 hours a day."

But the spirits won't listen. "I was lathering up a man for a shave" says Smith, "when a woman came through. She was so real. But I didn't want to give the man a message from the other side - I had a razor at his neck. When I finished his shave, I said, ‘Do you know a Judy? She says thankyou for the lollipops’. It was his wife. He visited her grave the week before - and the child left three lollipops."

Smith has been called "the most accurate medium in Britain". He earnt the title because, unlike most other spirit messengers, he gives names - often middle names - and addresses. After all, he knows that people need convincing. He still remembers the séance he went to where the medium was passing on messages from Danny La Rue. "And Danny La Rue wasn't even dead. That just makes me laugh."

Mediums have scanned the church register for names and addresses; they have disguised themselves, and then mingled with the congregation to pick up conversational tidbits; and they have planted their own stooges. Mediums have even research the congregation through the details of their credit card bookings. That was Doris Stokes. But the name of Gordon Smith is still trusted.

He is so in demand that he could give up barbering altogether - if he charged for his mediumship. But he refuses to take money. "I want to use my gift to help people. Besides, whenever I need money, it arrives. Like the day I was having trouble with my mortgage repayments? That was the same day I won £3,000 in the casino. It's what I call ‘pennies from heaven'."

Tonight he is performing a demonstration of mediumship at a Christian Spiritualist church in London. And he's expecting a big turnout. Mediumship these days is big business. There are correspondence courses - basic aura analysis and A to Z of ectoplasm - and satellite television is full of it. But Smith is the real deal - a seventh son of a seventh son. That's why the queue is snaking down the road.

As Smith prepares himself in the vestry of the church, he slips a white t-shirt over the red, knotted neckerchief given to him by the holy child of Tibet. The holy child also gave him a vow, in Sanskrit. The vow, which is only to be used when he is about to die, guarantees Smith life after death. That also guarantees he won't give up smoking. One more cigarette, and Smith is ready for his public.

It was frightening enough to grow up in the Gorbals - but then Smith started to see dead people. He remembers seeing Ummy, an old family friend, walking down the road. "He mouthed ‘I'm in Dalbeth'. I went dashing in to tell my mother, but she said ‘Stop imagining things'. I later learnt that Ummy had died, and they had buried him - one week earlier - in Dalbeth cemetery."

As Smith grew, his psychic powers grew with him. One time, late at night, he felt his bed moving. Another time he predicted the content of a letter that arrived in the next day's post. "But mostly I kept quiet about it. I was aware that my mother had seven children - the last thing she needed was some whacko kid saying that ‘so-and-so is here, and he wants to speak to you'. Eventually I shut up altogether."

Until one night - many years later - when he broke his silence. "I saw my friend, Brian, in the bedroom," says Smith. "So I turned to wake my wife. Brian had died, in a fire, the very second I saw his image. His sister asked me to join her at a Spiritualist church and, as soon as I walked in, a woman insisted I was psychic. She said that within five years I would be recognised as a medium. And she was right."

Sometimes it's an advantage - knowing, for instance, when a fight is about to break out. Although, in Glasgow, you don't need to be a medium to know that. Sometimes it's a disadvantage. "I'll be relaxing down the pub, and someone will want a sitting. That's dangerous. With drink in you, you start to gush. So I don't do it any more." As any Scotsman will tell you, never mix your spirits.

"Mediumship requires a sensitivity" says Smith. "Like when people have died a horrendous death. The family always ask ‘Did they feel anything?' Chances are they didn't, but I say no anyway. Some mediums milk a situation like that. They say ‘I can see the car skidding.' But I don't. As a parent myself I would hate for somebody to describe my child's death in that kind of detail."

Sometimes it's possible to leave the family with ‘closure' - but not always. Smith met a couple whose 15-year-old daughter had been stabbed in the school playground. She managed to crawl home. But she bled to death when her father pulled the knife out of her back. "I established contact with the daughter," says Smith, "but the mother was livid. She said ‘How dare you talk to her? When I can't?' It was awful."

Tonight's demonstration of mediumship will, according to Smith, be like psychic bingo - there will be a sea of faces, waiting, excitedly, for the numbers to come up. He knows how it will go. His conscious mind will drift away, his eyes will go out of focus, and sepia will descend over everything. He will look, well, odd. You can see why he would sometimes frighten his Mother.

There's not a lot of deliberating. Smith starts to talk straight away - to himself. Except it's not himself. It's the spirit world. He says it's like people "pulling" at him, and they are all desperate for a word with the congregation. "Really?" says Smith, to the first spirit. "That's interesting. All right. I'll tell her. Bless you. That lady in the front row - someone's telling me you're having terrible trouble with your feet."

That is one of the problems of mediumship - messages from the other side aren't always profound. The spirits rarely seem to convey anything of benefit to us individually (for instance, the winner of the 3.30pm at Redcar) or communally (the secret of life). At best they offer up reassurance and comfort. The message that Smith most often finds himself conveying is, "I want you to know I'm fine."

He would never use the "Don/Ron/John" technique. It's the oldest trick in the book. You know it. "I have someone here - his name is Don." No response. "Maybe it's Ron". No response. "Wait a minute. I can hear now. It's John". Smith's mediumship is a lot more sophisticated. "I'm in the Abbey National" he says. "I'm playing the acoustic guitar." If he doesn't get a reaction, he moves on.

"I'm in.I can't pronounce it, but it ends in gogogoch." A woman in the congregation squeals. Apparently, she's been there. "Ellen sends her love". She squeals again. But otherwise the evening is slow. It's clear why mediumship is jazzed up for television. Anyway, according to ITC guidelines, mediumship is only allowed if it's ‘entertainment'. Which rules out Smith - he isn't interested in ‘entertainment'.

All of a sudden, Smith gets gangrine in his foot - then he gets tuberculosis. A medium feels the pain that the spirits felt themselves before they died. "I can often sense my body becoming paralysed" he says. "I get a numbness for a second. That tells me the spirit suffered a heart attack or a stroke. Or a brain tumour. If I get a pain in my chest, it was usually cancer. It's no surprise that these demonstrations are so tiring."

As his focus returns to normal, Smith indicates the demonstration is over. The congregation give him a round of applause - whatever Smith might say about ‘entertainment', he has given them one hell of a night. And, as they file out the church, they chatter excitedly. One woman turns to another and says, "He's got the gift alright. No-one could argue with what happened tonight."

Which isn't true - lots of people would argue. It's only when a medium speaks directly to you that you're in a position to judge. Even then, it's hard. Smith sees the name ‘Michael' in my eyes. Michael was the name of my father. But, no, I wasn't out of the country when he died. And I don't know an Old Tom. Or an Elizabeth. He runs through a long list, but only two things ring true. He apologises.

He is going to Australia to promote his new book. They love him out there. Last visit, they asked him to predict the sex of six unborn babies. He got every one right. "And I correctly identified a stranger as Michael Hutchence's brother. When I told my son, he said, ‘Yeah Dad, cool. Can I have some money?' Glaswegians are like that. Living in Glasgow, and working as a barber - it's the best way to keep my feet on the ground."



		The Psychic Barber Gordon Smith hates being called ‘the psychic barber’. It makes his day-to-day life - of cuts and blow dries - a bit of a misery. "People sit down in my barber's shop, in the West End of Glasgow, and say ‘I lost my mother last year'. I say ‘Sorry to hear that, but how much do you want off the top?’ I haven't got the time or the energy to be a spirit messenger 24 hours a day." But the spirits won't listen. "I was lathering up a man for a shave" says Smith, "when a woman came through. She was so real. But I didn't want to give the man a message from the other side - I had a razor at his neck. When I finished his shave, I said, ‘Do you know a Judy? She says thankyou for the lollipops’. It was his wife. He visited her grave the week before - and the child left three lollipops." Smith has been called "the most accurate medium in Britain". He earnt the title because, unlike most other spirit messengers, he gives names - often middle names - and addresses. After all, he knows that people need convincing. He still remembers the séance he went to where the medium was passing on messages from Danny La Rue. "And Danny La Rue wasn't even dead. That just makes me laugh." Mediums have scanned the church register for names and addresses; they have disguised themselves, and then mingled with the congregation to pick up conversational tidbits; and they have planted their own stooges. Mediums have even research the congregation through the details of their credit card bookings. That was Doris Stokes. But the name of Gordon Smith is still trusted. He is so in demand that he could give up barbering altogether - if he charged for his mediumship. But he refuses to take money. "I want to use my gift to help people. Besides, whenever I need money, it arrives. Like the day I was having trouble with my mortgage repayments? That was the same day I won £3,000 in the casino. It's what I call ‘pennies from heaven'." Tonight he is performing a demonstration of mediumship at a Christian Spiritualist church in London. And he's expecting a big turnout. Mediumship these days is big business. There are correspondence courses - basic aura analysis and A to Z of ectoplasm - and satellite television is full of it. But Smith is the real deal - a seventh son of a seventh son. That's why the queue is snaking down the road. As Smith prepares himself in the vestry of the church, he slips a white t-shirt over the red, knotted neckerchief given to him by the holy child of Tibet. The holy child also gave him a vow, in Sanskrit. The vow, which is only to be used when he is about to die, guarantees Smith life after death. That also guarantees he won't give up smoking. One more cigarette, and Smith is ready for his public. It was frightening enough to grow up in the Gorbals - but then Smith started to see dead people. He remembers seeing Ummy, an old family friend, walking down the road. "He mouthed ‘I'm in Dalbeth'. I went dashing in to tell my mother, but she said ‘Stop imagining things'. I later learnt that Ummy had died, and they had buried him - one week earlier - in Dalbeth cemetery." As Smith grew, his psychic powers grew with him. One time, late at night, he felt his bed moving. Another time he predicted the content of a letter that arrived in the next day's post. "But mostly I kept quiet about it. I was aware that my mother had seven children - the last thing she needed was some whacko kid saying that ‘so-and-so is here, and he wants to speak to you'. Eventually I shut up altogether." Until one night - many years later - when he broke his silence. "I saw my friend, Brian, in the bedroom," says Smith. "So I turned to wake my wife. Brian had died, in a fire, the very second I saw his image. His sister asked me to join her at a Spiritualist church and, as soon as I walked in, a woman insisted I was psychic. She said that within five years I would be recognised as a medium. And she was right." Sometimes it's an advantage - knowing, for instance, when a fight is about to break out. Although, in Glasgow, you don't need to be a medium to know that. Sometimes it's a disadvantage. "I'll be relaxing down the pub, and someone will want a sitting. That's dangerous. With drink in you, you start to gush. So I don't do it any more." As any Scotsman will tell you, never mix your spirits. "Mediumship requires a sensitivity" says Smith. "Like when people have died a horrendous death. The family always ask ‘Did they feel anything?' Chances are they didn't, but I say no anyway. Some mediums milk a situation like that. They say ‘I can see the car skidding.' But I don't. As a parent myself I would hate for somebody to describe my child's death in that kind of detail." Sometimes it's possible to leave the family with ‘closure' - but not always. Smith met a couple whose 15-year-old daughter had been stabbed in the school playground. She managed to crawl home. But she bled to death when her father pulled the knife out of her back. "I established contact with the daughter," says Smith, "but the mother was livid. She said ‘How dare you talk to her? When I can't?' It was awful." Tonight's demonstration of mediumship will, according to Smith, be like psychic bingo - there will be a sea of faces, waiting, excitedly, for the numbers to come up. He knows how it will go. His conscious mind will drift away, his eyes will go out of focus, and sepia will descend over everything. He will look, well, odd. You can see why he would sometimes frighten his Mother. There's not a lot of deliberating. Smith starts to talk straight away - to himself. Except it's not himself. It's the spirit world. He says it's like people "pulling" at him, and they are all desperate for a word with the congregation. "Really?" says Smith, to the first spirit. "That's interesting. All right. I'll tell her. Bless you. That lady in the front row - someone's telling me you're having terrible trouble with your feet." That is one of the problems of mediumship - messages from the other side aren't always profound. The spirits rarely seem to convey anything of benefit to us individually (for instance, the winner of the 3.30pm at Redcar) or communally (the secret of life). At best they offer up reassurance and comfort. The message that Smith most often finds himself conveying is, "I want you to know I'm fine." He would never use the "Don/Ron/John" technique. It's the oldest trick in the book. You know it. "I have someone here - his name is Don." No response. "Maybe it's Ron". No response. "Wait a minute. I can hear now. It's John". Smith's mediumship is a lot more sophisticated. "I'm in the Abbey National" he says. "I'm playing the acoustic guitar." If he doesn't get a reaction, he moves on. "I'm in.I can't pronounce it, but it ends in gogogoch." A woman in the congregation squeals. Apparently, she's been there. "Ellen sends her love". She squeals again. But otherwise the evening is slow. It's clear why mediumship is jazzed up for television. Anyway, according to ITC guidelines, mediumship is only allowed if it's ‘entertainment'. Which rules out Smith - he isn't interested in ‘entertainment'. All of a sudden, Smith gets gangrine in his foot - then he gets tuberculosis. A medium feels the pain that the spirits felt themselves before they died. "I can often sense my body becoming paralysed" he says. "I get a numbness for a second. That tells me the spirit suffered a heart attack or a stroke. Or a brain tumour. If I get a pain in my chest, it was usually cancer. It's no surprise that these demonstrations are so tiring." As his focus returns to normal, Smith indicates the demonstration is over. The congregation give him a round of applause - whatever Smith might say about ‘entertainment', he has given them one hell of a night. And, as they file out the church, they chatter excitedly. One woman turns to another and says, "He's got the gift alright. No-one could argue with what happened tonight." Which isn't true - lots of people would argue. It's only when a medium speaks directly to you that you're in a position to judge. Even then, it's hard. Smith sees the name ‘Michael' in my eyes. Michael was the name of my father. But, no, I wasn't out of the country when he died. And I don't know an Old Tom. Or an Elizabeth. He runs through a long list, but only two things ring true. He apologises. He is going to Australia to promote his new book. They love him out there. Last visit, they asked him to predict the sex of six unborn babies. He got every one right. "And I correctly identified a stranger as Michael Hutchence's brother. When I told my son, he said, ‘Yeah Dad, cool. Can I have some money?' Glaswegians are like that. Living in Glasgow, and working as a barber - it's the best way to keep my feet on the ground."

		© Richard Johnson 2000 - 2009