WITH hindsight, I must have been off my head to agree to be “guillotined” before a live audience at a workingmen’s club.

But Darlington Magic Circle was staging its annual “Easter Extravaganza” at the Railway Institute Club and they said they needed “a headline act” to kick off the show.

“Don’t worry, it’s only gone wrong once,” Magic Circle president Ian Wragg assured me when the invitation was made a fortnight before the big night.  It seemed like a good idea at the time – cutting-edge journalism and all that – but, by the time, I arrived at the club, I was starting to have my doubts.

The Railway Institute has a proud history, owing its existence to the thousands of railwaymen once employed at the North Road workshops on the adjacent site, now a Morrison’s supermarket. Let’s me honest, the club’s seen better days, but it does well to survive.

Back-stage, I was introduced to Mr Freak, a sword-swallower, whose real name is Daniel, and given a personal demonstration.

As someone who has trouble swallowing Paracetamol, I was left feeling distinctly queasy by Mr Freak’s stomach-churning skills, but no sooner had his sword reappeared from his throat than the show was underway. By the time I was introduced by President Wragg, and the guillotine was positioned in the centre of the stage, I confess it had crossed my mind to cut and run.

All kinds of anxieties were flooding into the head I was at risk of losing. “Are you absolutely sure this is going to be OK?” I asked, under my breath, as I was told to kneel down while a basket was placed in front of the guillotine. Ominously, there was no reply.  My head had to go in a hole, so my neck was placed on the bottom half of the guillotine while the top half was lowered down and clamped shut. It was only then that President Wragg remembered the contraption was designed for a size 16 neck and I’m size 17. Never mind being beheaded, I was in danger of being choked to death.

“This might pinch a bit,” I heard him say as he struggled to lock me in. Seconds passed while he engaged the audience and I began to turn a shade of blue. Then WHAM! the blade came down in a flash of steel and two carrots either side of my ears were sliced in two.

I’ve had some close shaves in my time but never have I felt so relieved as when I opened my eyes to see that my head wasn’t in that basket...

MERCIFULLY freed from the size 16 neck brace, I returned to my seat, dripping with sweat, to watch some new guinea pigs being called to the stage.

They were to assist with the next piece of magic, performed by a lovely fella called Nick Richmond, who’s made his living as a professional Sean Connery lookalike.

A clever adaptation of Russian roulette  involving cans of spray paint, his trick began with four envelopes, numbered one to four, being placed on a table. With Nick blindfolded, the three volunteers had to choose one each and leave one on the table.

“Have you all got a secret number?” asked the blindfolded magician. The three stooges nodded. “You now have the option to swap your numbers if you wish.”

Nick then addressed the first of the volunteers: “Michael, would you like to swap your number?” he asked.

There followed a comedy moment reminiscent of  Captain Mainwaring’s “Don’t tell him, Pike” instruction in Dad’s Army.

Michael sent the audience into raptures by blurting out: “No, I think I’ll stick with number three.”

As if that wasn’t enough, I was then sold a raffle ticket during the interval by a lady whose tooth actually fell out while she was handing me my change.

OK, so it wasn’t the London Palladium but, in all seriousness, it was a thoroughly entertaining night  with admirable skills on show.

The money raised will be used to bring in lecturers to enhance the skills of the Darlington Magic Circle’s 30 or so members.  “It’s all about advancing the art of magic, and the feedback is that it was the best show we’ve ever done,” said President Wragg in a thank you call a few days later.

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck when he added: “By the way, we’ve got something even better in mind for you next year...and it’s only gone wrong once.”

STILL on showbusiness, Ken Dodd was due to have been on stage at Darlington Hippodrome last night.

What a nice touch by the theatre to have a seat dedicated in his memory.  A fitting tribute but, be warned, whoever sits in it can’t leave the theatre until 2am.

LAST September, I wrote about the experience of being called up for my “bowel scope screening” because I’d hit the age of 55.

“Don’t die of embarrassment” was the headline, aimed at encouraging more people  to have the test.

Too many folk, especially men, ignore the letter inviting them for the test because it involves their bottom. Tragically, the result is a large number of avoidable deaths.

Well, last week, I had a message from an old school friend, who’d read my article andwondered why he hadn’t been called up, despite being the same age as me.

It turns out that it’s because he’s registered with a doctor’s surgery six miles down the road in Middleton St George, which isn’t yet covered by the screening programme for 55-year-olds.

Given that there’s a 97 per cent survival rate if bowel cancer is caught early enough, shouldn’t we all be given the same chances, irrespective of where we happen to live? 

THE last word this week goes to my Mum when she heard I was going to be guillotined by Darlington Magic Circle. It’s what she says whenever I’m due to make a public appearance. “Make sure you have a nice shirt on.”