I Once Met… Paul Daniels

‘Don’t tell anyone how it’s done.’ It was said so sweetly but with a touch of malice as I left the stage and he was shaking my hand.

Paul Daniels (1938-2016) had just told me how he did his best, most influential magic routine – the Electric Chairs.

It was 20 years ago and I was living part-time in Brighton. Thirty steps from my house was a tiny comedy venue. For one night only, it was hosting Paul Daniels.

The place wasn’t exactly heaving. Daniels was well past his glory days.

The first part of the show was question-and-answer. Paul explained that his wife, Debbie Mcgee, wasn’t well – so he had driven himself to do the show and was feeling a bit lonely.

At the interval, Paul joined the audience in the bar and asked me what I did for a living. I explained that I was a writer. It was all part of the master magician doing his homework and preparing to ask me up on stage in the second half for Electric Chairs.

His strength wasn’t just the magic. It was the patter and rapport he built – effortless and genuine. You genuinely fell under his spell.

I won’t tell you how Electric Chairs works. But it is brilliant. Watch it on the internet and try to work it out – you won’t. It is a masterclass in magic. My wife of 25 years, who was sitting in the audience in the front row, still asks me if Paul hypnotised me. In a way, he did.

Electric Chairs starts with two guests picked ‘at random’ from the audience to go on stage. The chairs then proceed to give the participants electric shocks. I was leaping around, mystified by my ‘demonic’ chair, scared of sitting down.

Once home, I emailed him to say thank you and I got a polite email back; again with the line, ‘Don’t tell anyone how it’s done.’

In the question-and answer-session, Paul said, ‘What I do is not magic. Don’t believe the people who say it is.’ He was a scholar of magic; a kind of tiny magical professor. He knew that magic is really that great moralebuilder – entertainment.

There were no frills; no disappearing Taj

Man with the magic touch

Mahals; no starving yourself for days suspended above the Thames. He was the last great link to the old music-hall days – of approachable magic done by approachable normal people. Before I headed off, I popped my head back into the auditorium. All the lights were on and a theatre-cleaner was picking up beer mugs and crisp packets. With the lights on you realised what a small hall it was – around 150 in capacity. Paul was still there. Maybe he was checking he hadn’t forgotten anything. He didn’t hear me coming in and so I just watched for a while. Eventually he saw me. ‘Oh, hello,’ he said. ‘Have you got a long journey home?’ I asked. ‘No. It’s not too bad,’ he answered. ‘Can I help you with your stuff – to the car?’ ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can get it there. It isn’t too heavy.’ Paul Daniels was magic, even on a wet and miserable night in Brighton – and that’s something.