Having performed his little bit, Chris Lloyd stood in the wings at the last night of Darlington Civic Theatre armed with his cameraphone

IT is a cliché, but it is true. At the end of the last night at Darlington Civic, when the standing ovation subsided, there was barely a dry eye in the house as the lights went out one by one on the constituent parts of the theatre.

The Northern Echo:
FULL HOUSE: Theatre director Lynda Winstanley with the house lights on the auditorium

“Audiences throughout the ages,” said theatre director Lynda Winstanley, centre stage in a spotlight. “Goodnight.” The auditorium disappeared into darkness.

“To our wonderful staff,” she said. “Goodnight.” The lights on the crew, many of whom will be seeking new jobs, went out.

“Acts,” said Ms Winstanley, turning to the cast. “Goodnight.” Blackness enveloped the stage so that even Christopher Biggins’ spangly jacket no longer sparkled.

The Northern Echo:
STAR SELFIE: Christopher Biggins in his spangly jacket with Chris Lloyd

A single follow spot was left on the theatre director as she addressed the royal box stage right, in which was illuminated the top hat and white gloves of Signor Rino Pepi, the flamboyant impresario who had founded the theatre in 1907.

“Until we meet again in a new era,” she said, “Signor Pepi, goodnight.”

Her spot cut, leaving Pepi glowing, a ghostly presence in the box he is said to haunt.

Gradually, his light faded away.

The Northern Echo:
FLAMBOYANT FOUNDER: Signor Rino Pepi

After 109 years, the Civic Theatre is going dark.

Bang! An explosion rocked the stage. Biggins put his hand to his heart in theatrically horrified shock. Singer Mari Wilson, in her sinuous red dress, looked ready to faint. The lights, suddenly full up, caught the shimmering cascade of tickertape exploding from the cannon and tumbling from the ceiling.

This was the end of one era, and the start of the next. The Civic is closing – “going dark”, as they say in theatrical circles – but it will reopen next autumn after a £12m refit under a new name: Darlington Hippodrome.

Tuesday night’s gala was a one-off, a send-off to the Civic and a throw forward to the Hip.

Star of the show was Biggins – some, like Kylie, Madonna and Adele, are so famous they need just one name and so Biggins is Biggins – and top of the bill was Mari Wilson and her repertoire of soul classics. But the show stealers were the local singers and dancers – DarlingtonOS, the community choir and ArtsSpark – who raised the roof and roused a real reception.

The Northern Echo:
WAITING HER TURN: Mari Wilson, in her red dress, awaits her moment while magician Matt Edwards performs at the front of the stage

The Northern Echo:
FROM THE WINGS: Darlington Operatic Society perform at the last night of the Civic

And then, bottom of the bill, was me. I’d been asked to give a 15-minute illustrated presentation on the extraordinary life – and afterlife – of Signor Pepi. It is a romantic epic, which climaxes with Pepi booking Anna Pavlova, the greatest ballerina of all time, to perform on his stage on November 17, 1927, finishing her act with her piece de teatre, the Dying Swan from Saint Sains’ Carnival of the Animals.

As she gracefully died on his stage, the lights fading out as her life ebbed away, Pepi himself lay dying of cancer. After a lifetime in theatre, he missed his greatest curtain call.

The Northern Echo:
DYING SWAN: Kate Weston performs Anna Pavlova's famous routine

I was on early in the first half, with Kate Weston, of the Tiffany School of Dance, as my Pavlova. I stood terrified in the wings, waiting my cue, as the ArtsSpark Youth Dance Group cavorted in front of me. A voice in the darkness whispered in my ear telling me not to worry if there were strange noises while I was on.

Opening act Matt Edwards, the panto magician, had made an ocean of salt disappear from the palm of his hand only for it to reappear from his sleeve, and now there were rock crystals strewn everywhere.

The Northern Echo:
Rubber-faced magician Matt Edwards, and his assistant drawn from the crowd

The fear was that poor Kate would slip during her tip-toed pirouette and her goose would be cooked before her swan had died, so there was to be frantic sweeping while I was speaking.

ArtsSpark finished. The stage went dark. The applause broke out. The stage emptied. The applause petered out. My moment had come. The screen came down. My heart was in my mouth. The projector came on.

I stepped from the comfortable lightlessness of the wings towards the limelight – and realised that the image on the screen was wrong. Either my laptop or the projector had fallen asleep, and so instead of my old picture of Pepi, my screensaver was in full view. How fortunate that it was only harmless Holy Island and not something intimately embarrassing.

My mouth shot dry. A cold sweat broke out inside my shirt. I could count the tingling droplets popping out on my spine. Nothing in my nightmares had been as disastrous as this.

I stepped back into the lightlessness, located my laptop, fumbled for my mouse, shut the programme down, thus removing Holy Island from the screen but plunging the whole universe, it seemed, into complete blackness.

I restarted the programme.

Pepi magically appeared before the eyes of 800 people. I could have kissed him. The chill sweat beads became a warm layer of moistness, and I was away, gabbling on.

Fifteen minutes evaporated in a second, Kate died beautifully without being assaulted by the magician’s leftovers, and in my last few moments, I dared to glance up at the gods where even more people were staring down on me.

Then I slipped back into the lightlessness and, nothing to do, hung around in the wings taking pictures on my phone, marvelling at the nerveless poise of the proper performers.

At the end of the evening, after the confetti cannon had rung the curtain down on an era, I collected my laptop and headed out of the stage door onto Parkgate. An ambush of fans lay in wait for the stars, but as they saw me, they shook their heads and turned away. I’ll never be bigger than Biggins.

One kind person, out of sympathy, asked me to autograph their programme.

Thank-you, I said. And goodnight.

Until the next time…