Appendices

1. THE MAGIC CIRCLE HIERARCHY

The President of the Magic Circle

Please be upstanding for Mr President Edmund Pickle!

President Pickle has never had to do a proper day’s work in his life and consequently devotes the hours he’s awake (and sometimes asleep – which can often be very similar!) to magical politics, both national and international. In the 1800s his ancestors were huge landowners, and there’s a rumour going round that you can still walk from London to the West Indies on Pickle-owned land without getting your feet wet.

The Magic Circle Council

These are the wise old magicians who run the organization, and – given that magic is based on the premise of making the impossible possible – you’d think it might be a rather smooth affair. Sadly, NOT A CHANCE! For one is forgetting that a lot of magicians are self-important buffoons who like making rules about how their society should be run and how their art should progress just as much as they like turning a dove into a mess. If not more so.

Council are the boffins behind rules like 4.10.1 (part of clause 108, ‘recently’ – in 1971 – revised under subheading C), which states that one must wear cufflinks when on society premises and that buttoned shirtsleeves are UNACCEPTABLE attire for the modern-day conjuror. CUFFLINKS please! Or the suggestion that – during a society convention – a lady named Beryl should provide the lady partners of magicians with Sussex cream teas, entertaining them with anecdotes about her watercolours and the invention of lipstick while the men go to a lecture on plate-spinning and elephant vanishes.

In short, Council is largely comprised of outdated stuffy stiffs and stiffy stuffs!

Magic Circle Membership

Once you’re in the Magic Circle, there are three tiers of membership that separate magicians like Steve and Jane from the real working pros like Jingles the Jester.

There’s your bog-standard Member of the Magic Circle – or MMC for short (which many magicians choose to cite after their name on fancy business cards, as if to say: Hey, look at My Magnificent Credentials!).

Then there’s an Associate of the Inner Magic Circle or AIMC. This usually means that a magician has achieved a higher level of technical skill and would like other members to know about it. It’s the ‘I’m slightly better than you’ trademark of the magic world, and – although the acronym is meaningless to anyone other than a bunch of petty conjurors (and the Association of Internal Management Consultants, of course, who I’m told are a right laugh!) – gives you access to certain books in the Magic Circle library. Which is handy, even if it means you just pretend to read them while sneering at all the lowly MMCs scrabbling around on the floor looking for old playing cards.

But, HANG ON – who sneers at the AIMCs, in that case? Well, apart from the Holy God of Internal Management Consultants, it’s the Members of the Inner Magic Circle or MIMC. This little clique is reserved for members who boast skills indistinguishable from those of Dumbledore, but who exist in an otherwise normal non-Hogwartsy world.

How one actually becomes a MIMC is still shrouded in mystery. However, rumour has it that the lucky magician is sent a formal A5 letter, printed (using an inkjet printer) on plain white paper in Papyrus font, stating – in no uncertain terms – that they are invited to become a member of the Inner Magic Circle. MYSTERIOUS!

No, that’s just a shrewd guess. It may well be written in Times New Roman or even – heaven forfend – Comic Sans. Anyway, it’s a real privilege. Until you turn the letter over and see the COST of the privilege! (I’m not suggesting that COST is now an acronym, by the way, just that it should be said LOUDLY. Same true for LOUDLY and MYSTERIOUS, etc.!)

Cynics would say that the Magic Circle are desperate for money and that this is merely an easy way of persuading an existing member to part with yet more cash. Others (namely Council) would say that this is just the cost of physically changing MMC into MIMC for correspondence with the particular individual, but this – like most of Council’s logic – is clearly, oh yeah, BONKERS!

By the way, there’s currently no Inner Inner Magic Circle. But given the choice of shape, there’s no reason why they couldn’t just sneak one in and keep going with this idea. Had they chosen a pyramid, there’d be a very obvious end point. But as it currently stands, this Circle could very well spiral out of control and just become a filled-in dot!

Women and the Magic Circle

‘The first lady magician was let into the Magic Circle in 1991 – but only because she needed the toilet!’ once said President Edmund Pickle during a council meeting.

OK, so if you don’t mind, let’s just examine a brief history of the human race.

Let’s start with the wonderful fact that half the planet is female – which is fantastic news. There’s definitely a certain comfort in knowing that, at least metaphorically speaking, for every Santa Claus – say – there’s a Belinda Carlisle.

Anyhow, let’s now take a look at the rather disheartening figures currently boasted by the Magic Circle: in a population of around 1,500, less than 5% is female.

Less than 5%.

This means that if you’re a different species – particularly if you’re an Oryctolagus cuniculus (rabbit) or Columbidae (dove) – then you’re more likely to find yourself in the building than some random XX human chromosome combo. What the deal is for female rabbits and doves I have no idea!

It’s not so much that females are actively discouraged from joining the Magic Circle; more that they might feel as if they’ve gatecrashed the wrong party. And – as if a T. Rex added you as a friend on Facebook – there’s just something not quite right about it.

Now, there are a small handful of ladies within the organization who, it has to be said, adore this male-heavy environment. Sophie evidently isn’t one of them. Sophie wants to be in the Magic Circle because she is a magician. Not a female magician or – worse – a magicienne (YUCK!). She’s here because she deserves to be. Which can’t always be said about the 95% men who frequent these premises, making spells, smells and dreadful puns – marking their territory!

Children and the Magic Circle

‘Under Act 13 of the constitution, children may not join the Magic Circle, nor benefit fully from its facilities, until they come of age,’ says President Edmund Pickle, all the time.

2. THE LEGEND OF DOUGLAS AND ALF RATTLEBAG

There were once two brothers, both born in 1893 (not twins, though). The first was named Douglas after his late great-grandfather (who was also, crucially, called Douglas). The second was named Alf – but only because the name Douglas was now taken.

The two boys couldn’t have been more different – apart from their love of magic. Every day they’d perform for their family, each trying to outdo the other as they learned increasingly complicated tricks, perplexing their parents with pitch-perfect patter, confounding their cousins with cards and coins, annoying their aunts with anything.

As the boys grew, so did their interest in magic – until, on coming of age, they decided to forge a career in the craft.

Deciding that they might be more successful as a double act, the two young men began travelling from town to town as ‘Douglas and Alf’.

However, it soon became clear that Douglas – the more suave and confident of the two – was coming to the fore, with Alf relegated to stagehand as he ran around after his brother.

As the years went by, after countless successful performances, the press began referring to ‘Douglas and Alf’ as simply ‘Douglas!’ – including the exclamation mark. Little did they know that while Douglas was out celebrating after every show, Alf was working tirelessly backstage, perfecting the mechanical devices used in their routines, making sure that everything was set up for the next performance.

One morning Douglas stormed into Alf’s bedroom (at a quaint little inn just outside Kettering), still in a drunken stupor from the previous night, waving a letter and laughing manically.

Alf read the letter, written on thick parchment, with an impressive seal above the heading. It was an invitation for Douglas – and Douglas alone – to become a member of the Inner Magic Circle and to top the bill at the unveiling of the society’s new Grand Theatre.

‘Finally!’ shouted Douglas. ‘Finally I get the recognition I deserve!’

He sneered at Alf, who’d been hoping to catch a mention of himself. ‘It’s like you don’t even exist any more!’ he said, enjoying the crestfallen look on his younger brother’s face.

The two argued well into the night, Alf desperate for his brother to see how self-aggrandizing he’d become, pleading for him to see reason. But Douglas would not be swayed.

The day of the opening arrived. Ever the professional, Alf checked and rechecked the apparatus, determined that his brother should shine.

Douglas paced around backstage, taking swigs from his hip flask, Alf’s words echoing inside his head. Who was his brother to tell him how to behave? What did he know about being a magician? A mere assistant, a shadow … He took another swig, preparing for the performance of his life, eyes blurry, sweating profusely, the doves inside his waistcoat damp.

The curtain rose and the packed auditorium fell silent, the spectators eager to see the famous Douglas!

Douglas walked forward into the spotlight, looking out into the sea of faces and …

Stumbled.

At first the audience thought it was part of the act – a joke; an affectation, perhaps. But they soon realized that this was a man who was currently one part magician to nineteen parts gin.

Douglas staggered on as Alf stood wincing in the wings, the Magic Circle members becoming increasingly restless.

‘We can see how you’re doing it!’ heckled a bespectacled young lad called Ernest in the back of the stalls.

‘Go back to the bar!’ shouted one angry lady, furious not only with the cack-handed display on stage, but with the guy who’d dragged her out on this ‘date’ in the first place.

‘You’re a nobody!’ shouted another mysterious figure in box five.

Alf watched, helpless, as his brother pushed on, fumbling card flourishes, teetering around, eventually dropping the rabbit that had been stowed in his top hat.

All of a sudden Douglas turned to look at his brother in the wings – the crowd now jeering at him savagely, calling him to get off in an amalgamation of boos and shrieks. Douglas threw down the handkerchief he’d been stuffing into his fist, along with the egg he’d been hiding, which had been specially hollowed out to secretly contain the handkerchief once inside the hand but which wouldn’t usually be handled in such a clumsy way.

He stumbled over to the wings, his legs criss-crossing wildly as he approached his brother, his bloodshot eyes full of hate, a touch of regret perhaps, either way with a suitably gin-infused glaze. Grabbing Alf by the collar, he dragged him out on to the stage into the light, the crowd now frantic, appalled to see someone they had once revered so highly self-destruct in such a brazen, exhaustingly pitiful way.

Alf tried to resist, but his brother was too strong. ‘My wondssserful baby brotherrr!’ Douglas slurred.

‘Leave him alone!’ cried the audience.

‘Bring the curtain down!’ someone bayed from the gods.

‘Oi, you – the brother – show us a trick!’ shouted the bespectacled youth at the back of the stalls.

How or why this particular comment got Douglas’s attention amid everything else that was going on, Alf never knew, but before he knew it, Douglas had plonked him centre stage, his arms open wide, in a mocking pose. ‘Be my guest!’ spat Douglas snidely, goading Alf. ‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, little brother!’

The audience fell silent, all eyes now on the diminutive figure of Alf Rattlebag.

He peered out, blinded by the spotlights – though he could sense the eyes on him, watching, waiting. There was an electric hum in the air, an anticipation … Could this possibly be the moment he’d been waiting for all his life? A chance to shine? But how had it come to this?

He blinked, trying to quell his doubts.

Slowly, deliberately, Alf picked up the handkerchief and the egg. He placed the egg in his left fist, and slowly began to push the handkerchief inside the hollowed-out middle. He clicked his fingers, opening his hand – and a dove flew out over the audience, cooing. Everyone remained silent as the bird flew into the upper gallery.

Keep going – keep going, Alf!

He moved to the table and picked up some cards hidden under the mess Douglas had left. Fanning out the cards with one hand, he made a swift upward gesture – the fan vanishing instantly. The audience breathed in. Slowly, one at a time, cards started appearing in Alf’s other hand, creating a new fan, until finally all the cards had swapped over. The audience breathed out, applauding. Instantly Alf crushed the new fan between his palms, the cards falling to the floor, transforming mid-air into a flurry of red rose petals. The audience cheered.

Keep going!

Alf picked up the top hat. He waved Douglas’s wand deftly through the air and produced one, two, three rabbits, a fox, a heron, a stream of multi-coloured silks and – finally – a twelve-foot ladder. The audience had never seen anything like it!

More! More!

Douglas couldn’t bear it. He edged towards the wings, a knot of pain growing in his temples. It was … It was like he didn’t exist. No one was watching; no one cared about him any more. His brother was now producing live goldfish from the end of a cane and placing them kindly in a fish bowl. Everyone was on their feet, whooping and cheering. Where has this guy been hiding? they screamed.

Alf placed a silk scarf over the fish bowl and closed his eyes. Steadily the bowl began to rise up, floating high above the stage and taking on a life of its own, pulling Alf from side to side as he held on to the ends of the scarf. With a final swish, he whipped away the cloth – the bowl had vanished!

He stood there motionless, spent, his eyes filling with tears as the crowd chanted out his name – ‘Alf! Alf! Alf!’ It was thunderous. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was the greatest moment of his life.

Alf took a step back as the curtain began to cascade down from the flies. It touched the floorboards, and for a brief period the chanting was muffled – though it hadn’t stopped.

The curtain rose, and once more Alf basked in the cheers. He watched as the giant piece of cloth dropped once more.

Still the crowd cheered from behind the thick fabric, waiting for another curtain call.

Suddenly, from behind, Douglas’s warm hands groped around Alf’s neck, fingers digging into the flesh, squeezing his windpipe. Alf tried to turn, clawing at the tentacles around his neck, but his older brother had always been stronger.

Tighter and tighter, Alf could feel Douglas’s nails scratching deep inside his skin, burning the lining of his throat. He tried to grab hold of the curtain, to get help, but the audience cheered on from the other side, completely oblivious.

Douglas could feel the pathetic man’s insides begin to squirm as his unyielding grip intensified, Alf’s heart begging for more oxygen, a final attempt at resistance. But his brother’s hold was unrelenting – until, with a pop, Alf’s neck snapped, the sound ringing in his ears … and then … nothing.

The curtain began to rise once again. The audience fell silent at the sight of Alf sprawled across the floor, his head at an impossible angle, eyes bulging.

From the back of the room, the angry lady who was on the date screamed and fainted – her beau catching her in his arms just in time, resulting in their early marriage the following year. Only to lead to a horrific, phenomenally unamicable and spectacularly drawn-out divorce.

And that is the story of Douglas and Alf.

3. HOW TO MAKE THE QUEEN SMILE ON A £5 NOTE!

4. DAVENPORT’S MAGIC STUDIO

So. Davenport’s. Lovely place. Little magic shop located beneath Charing Cross Station which has been open for about a hundred years (not continuously, mind!!!! *laughs so hard is actually physically sick*). It deals in magic tricks and books, and would be idyllic if it weren’t for the constant smell of – there’s no nice way to put this – urine around the place. Fortunately the shop has a thick, airtight door and so – providing no magician deliberately empties his or her bladder mid-shop – the ammonia-rich gas mostly remains outside. Apart from when the door opens, that is. Anyway, Davenport’s is a family-run business. The youngest member (Alton) is a sort of half-magician/half-salesman hybrid, always hovering behind the counter trying to sell you his latest wares (if he can find them) but not quite proficient enough to show them off. It’s fun to pop in and ask Alton for a demonstration of the latest piece of fiddly paraphernalia – to see his jaw drop. In fact, popping in to annoy Alton is arguably a rite of passage for any young magician. So why not pay Alton a visit! DISCLAIMER: Please don’t ever pay Alton a visit – he’s wholly fictitious! The shop, however, is real.

5. ANY CARD AT ANY NUMBER (ACAAN)

Let’s examine this perplexing piece of card magic by imagining it is a question in a GCSE maths paper. WHY NOT?

A magician – let’s call him David Berglas – opens a deck of playing cards and places them on the table. He turns to the person on his left – let’s call her Sharon Baron – and asks her to name any playing card. Sharon names the five of diamonds.

Mr Berglas then turns to his right and asks a stout gentleman to name any number between 1 and 52. The man, who we shall refer to as Tadaaki Ogunyinka, chooses the number 29.

David then counts openly, slowly and fairly to the 29th card in the deck – which has been in full view of Sharon and Tadaaki all the time. He rotates his wrist gradually, revealing that the card in the 29th position is indeed the five of diamonds. Tadaaki bangs his forehead in disbelief as Sharon exclaims in amazement.

David Berglas exits the room, pleased, leaving the cards to be fully examined.

This effect is called Any Card At Any Number (ACAAN) and is arguably the Holy Grail of card magic, mainly because of its limiting conditions. David Berglas insisted that only a normal deck of cards was used, that there were no stooges (so Sharon and Tadaaki are both completely normal) and that their choices of both playing card and position in the deck were completely free – no forces of any kind. And no spurious or fiddly moves – natch!

Of course, it could just be down to pure chance: Mr Berglas could just have got lucky that evening. Even then, the statistics are deceptive. It’s easy to assume that, given there are two independent variables at play (namely the choice of playing card and the choice of position in the deck), this isn’t merely a 1 in 52 problem. That by giving part of the decision to Sharon and then part to Tadaaki, we’re complicating the effect further, making this a 1 in 52 problem multiplied by a 1 in 52 problem (a 1 in 2,704 problem in fact).

However, the truth is that regardless of Sharon and Tadaaki, the five of diamonds can still only lie in 1 of 52 positions in the deck – just as the likelihood of shuffling a deck of cards into an order that goes ace through to king across the suits (making it look rather pretty) is just the same as that of shuffling it into any other specific order.

It’s wholly counter-intuitive, though – and David would often play up (or, more correctly speaking, play down) the fact that this was actually just a 1 in 52 dilemma which – statistically at least – can actually work 1 in 52 times. Which isn’t bad if – like David – you gig a lot. Though hardly failsafe.

Still, there must be a way of increasing the odds, because – somehow – David managed to succeed every single time he performed the effect – which still stumps magicians to this day. How do you meet fair conditions while staying true to the effect? There’s no compromise, there’s no real room for improvement, it’s too pure and straightforward an idea. It’s almost too impossible … Of course countless magicians have since tried to recreate the effect, but none as openly fair as David’s. Perhaps it’s just a thing of myth.