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.