I like to think I’m known for my rapier wit. But when Bizarre set me the challenge of attempting to swallow swords, I didn’t expect professional performers to laugh in my face.

In my quest to find a steel-slurping tutor, I got turned down more than Michael Barrymore searching for a swimming coach. Initially, I thought their protests – that sword swallowing was far too dangerous, and required too much practice to be taught in an afternoon – were merely pride; that if some pink-bonced, bouncy-bootied madam learned how to shove a blade down her gullet faster than a speeding bullet, then blabbed all about it, the ‘illusion’ of death-defying daring that these performers traded on would be ruined.

Like conjurors in the Magic Circle, I assumed they were unwilling to reveal their ‘tricks’ lest the stunt be spoiled. However, further research revealed I was wrong: there are no real ‘tricks’. They were genuinely scared that I’d bust my guts.

CUT-THROAT INDUSTRY

Sword swallowing was first practiced around 2,000 BC by fakirs in India, part of a multitude of feats intended to demonstrate how devotion to God could make one invulnerable to suffering. Other proofs of commitment included fire walking, sleeping on beds of nails, extreme fasting and snake handling. From India the phenomenon spread worldwide, becoming less about showing commitment to Him Upstairs and more about getting bums on chairs, and pulling in awestruck crowds at festivals and sideshows.

Their craft may have loosened its spiritual roots in the name of entertainment, but sword swallowers would still be wise to maintain a friendly relationship with the Big Guy In The Sky, since they have a higher chance than most of meeting him prematurely. For starters, during a swallow, the blade moves only an eighth of an inch away from major internal organs; one false move and your heart can be skewered like a chipolata on a cocktail stick. Because the oesophagus and stomach are lined richly with blood vessels, just a small nick can cause severe internal bleeding; there are reports of performers nearing death in mere minutes, blood squirting from their mouths like Quint in Jaws, while others tell of an ominous ‘icy-hot burning sensation’ in their chest which signifies that they need to get to ER sharpish to dodge the Grim Reaper.

Perhaps even more scary are the dagger devourers who don’t realise they’ve injured themselves; the throat lining doesn’t contain many nerve endings, or eating would hurt, so sometimes discovering they’ve laid a black log in the crapper is the first clue they get that they’re bleeding inside (whereupon they presumably shit themselves all over again). Then there’s bacterial infection peritonitis, which can enter through even a miniscule perforation and see the Co-Op sizing you up for a mahogany box in only 24 hours.

As I read of blades breaking off in performers’ throats, operations to remove breadknives stuck in stomachs, and neon tubes exploding mid-swallow and filling lungs with liquid and bellies with broken glass, I begin to wonder whether my mission was indeed a step beyond the serrated edge of reason. Even the one pro who’d agreed to consider my proposal for more than 30 seconds – Hannibal Helmerto of travelling freakshow The Circus of Horrors – had himself suffered injuries when a throat infection meant the sphincter between his neck and stomach became inflamed, and his muscles didn’t relax open as he’d trained them to. The result? Hannibal speared himself with a four-foot sabre and was in intensive care for three weeks.

Finally, having convinced him I’d approach the task with seriousness and caution, and had no desire to risk looking like I’d had a run in with a murderous Magimix from the neck down, Hannibal agreed to give me a beginner’s tuition session – exactly one year on from his accident. We’d be slicing and dicing with death. Fuck.

GREASE IS THE (S)WORD

A week prior to our meeting, I was instructed to gargle daily with olive oil, to ‘build up a coat of lubrication’ on my throat, and avoid honey and chocolate as they leave claggy residues. I was also warned not to eat heavily, and to wear old clothes, as there was a high chance I’d throw up on myself. Hannibal told me not to expect to achieve much - it took him a whole year to learn to sword swallow, and a dedicated one at that. “The sensation of swallowing a blade never improves”, he says. “It remains intensely unpleasant, however long you’ve been doing it. That’s why there are only around 50 professional swallowers worldwide. You must keep at it relentlessly, and it’s tempting some days to wake up thinking, ‘I don’t want to make myself gag this morning, I just want a coffee!’” Never mind caffeine – I’m wondering whether I’ll need a coffin.

If I don’t want to kick the bucket, I’ll need to pay attention to how my feet are placed. “Posture is key – you need to make the line from your mouth to the base of your stomach as straight as possible” says my on-guard guardian. This involves tilting my head back far further than I would have imagined from diagrams and books, and is the first of many times I realise the importance of having an experienced teacher; forcing a steel stick from gob to gut is about the least natural thing you can do, so trying to ‘trust your instincts’ leaves you on shakier ground than Michael J Fox in an earthquake. You need to ignore the instincts telling you you’re gagging, that there’s a foreign object in your gullet, but listen to your body’s messages signalling you’re in real pain or danger. Without an expert on hand, distinguishing between the two would be horrifyingly hard.

Satisfied with my stance, Hannibal whips out a wire coat hanger, swipes it with an antibacterial swab, and bends it into a long loop. Just like a stamp, I’ve got to lick it before I stick it; not only to lube it up, but also to bring the metal to body temperature so that my muscles don’t constrict at the cold touch. Some swallowers grease their swords with camellia oil too. He shows me how to rest the tip of the loop on my tongue, and tip my head while bringing my hands up in one smooth motion. I’m focussing on the ceiling to try and keep myself straight, but Hannibal tells me it’s better to look at my hands, so I’m fully aware of the speed and force with which I’m pushing on the metal. Because we’re going down, Mr Tyler…

SWALLOW THAT? F’COUGH!

I’m quite chuffed I don’t retch as soon as the metal touches the back of my throat; pleasuring a nicely endowed boyfriend must have conditioned me to cope with a touch of tonsil tickling. Even Hannibal remarks that I’m doing well for a first-timer. However, as I bear down with the pressure he illustrated by poking my palm, I suddenly sound like I’m being butchered. I’m gagging, and while I just about suppress the chunder, the hanger’s whipped out before you can say ‘Excalibur’. I’m determined to succeed, though, so it’s back in again – chop chop.

Practiced swallowers can inhale and exhale as normal when they’re getting it in the neck, but I struggle not to impulsively hold my breath. Using a hollow wire loop rather than a solid sword literally gives me a bit more breathing space, and eventually I learn to let my lungs do their thing; yet tilting my head back causes saliva to pool in my throat, so I can still only go so long before I choke. My gob tastes like I’ve been tonguing silverware. “Wait until you manage to dip the tip in your stomach acid, it’s foul” grimaces Hannibal. “That’s another reason to clean swords thoroughly – any digestive juice left on the shaft will corrode it.”

GUT FEELING

It’s a nauseating and alien feeling, being touched inside my neck; it doesn’t hurt, but I can feel the hanger probing. The sensation reminds me of the squirmy pulling I felt having stitches under local anaesthetic back when, as a skint student, I donated skin for medical research in exchange for a few quid. After several intensive hours, I’m able to slide the metal a couple of inches down my oesophagus. However, it doesn’t feel like I can go further, as there’s truly a lump in my throat: what seems like a solid wall of flesh that doesn’t yield when I push. I’m frightened to prod it harder in case I burst through the tissue and tear a hole in myself; lord knows how dangerous this would be were I using a blade, and didn’t have Hannibal to guide me. “Sword swallowers don’t actually swallow their weapon of choice”, he explains. “That involves muscles contracting in waves to push food down. Instead, we relax these muscles so the passages are open and the sword slips through. One of the sphincters sealing off your stomach from your throat is probably still closed, or you’ve got the angle wrong.”

By now, strings of white, chunky phlegm coat my looped hanger - I won’t be draping my Sunday best on it any time soon. This doesn’t curb Hannibal’s appetite, though; to demonstrate his muscular control, he slides a fresh loop all the way home, grips it using only his throat, bends forward, and brings it out curved. And then it’s time for my own learning curve to become sharply steeper.

STEEL YOURSELF

When my cutting-edge comrade hands me his sword, I almost tell him to get bent. It’s blunt for training, but damned heavy, and shiny enough to blind Mr Sheen. “I never put it down unless it’s in the protective scabbard”, says Hannibal, “as the tiniest scratch can scrape your insides or hold bacteria.” During my first swallow, I really notice the extra weight; it’s much harder to hold the sword steady above my mouth, and I’m scared that I’ll bash out a tooth, or worse, drop it and pin myself to the floor like a specimen butterfly. The bulk isn’t as bad as I’d expected, and again I manage to ingest a few inches, but at this stage I’m quite Zen and able to breathe slowly. Put me in front of a shrieking audience, and I’m sure my calm would switch to alarm. “I don’t notice the crowd when I swallow” reflects my guru. “I zone out. I just focus on my hands, and the hilt.”

The morning after, my arms and shoulders ache like I’ve been giving Pavarotti a piggyback, and if I press the outside of my throat, it feels bruised about halfway down, giving me a glimmer of pride. Full of zest (and urged on by a strangely eager boyfriend), I continue swallowing the hanger for a week, but then, just as Hannibal predicted, the cappuccinos beckon. Espresso helps me cope with early mornings, and I think my family are relieved to stop worrying about early mournings. I think I’ll leave living on a knife edge to the professionals – for me, at least, the pen is mightier than the sword.

WARNING! Do not attempt this at home. IT’S EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND YOU COULD DIE. We’re not shitting you. It’s lethal. DO NOT TRY IT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Understand? Good.