I spat my first fireball on the shore of Warwick's Leslie Dam over half a century ago. That freaky moment was the flashpoint for a short but spectacular career as a professional fire breather. It gave me money and notoriety, but it very nearly killed me.

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God only knows why I put that first match to my mouth. I probably wanted to impress someone, and I was definitely drunk on Bundaberg rum. The kerosene filled my gullet then there was a hot orange blast. For a long second the night sky glowed. Scary bikers and town gangsters gasped and jumped backward. In an instant this shy 17 year old became a local legend.

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Keep in mind there was no internet. People didn't get to see this stuff. When I ignited that fluid in my mouth I had no clue what may happen. The risks were utterly unknown.

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Sure, we all knew someone who knew someone who had actually witnessed fire breathing, but none of us had first-hand experience. None of us had felt the heat of the blast and smelled the singed hair. This was all new and exciting.

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By the time I settled in Sydney a couple of years later my technique had spectacularly improved. I learned how to spit fire like a machine gun. I created meteor trails and grenade explosions. I played with the fire-holding in the air for ages without it burning my lungs. I made it dance and I made it roar. Gods and demons dwell in fire, and so did I.

My brilliant career began when my lovely neighbour in Cremorne offered me a case of VB to perform at his daughter's party. Within a month the word had spread. The case of beer became a hundred bucks. Then, five hundred. In the Theatre Royal I played to the public gallery, dressing in black and silver and putting on a spectacular show like David Copperfield or Penn and Teller. People who only the previous year would never have talked to me suddenly glorified me as the ultra-cool showman.

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I remember one very posh North Shore party where a quite famous TV celebrity got me on to the big money events circuit. So at the age of 20 I ended up earning the modern day equivalent of $5000 a week.

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I had become a sort of demigod, and I knew it. Women, for the first time in my life, wanted me. Men wanted to be me.

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Like Harry Houdini I took greater and greater risks. My mouth muscles were as well developed as a pro trumpet player. I took the fluid deep down into my throat and I ignited it right inside my mouth – not two feet away like some coward amateur.

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The shows were spectacular and dangerous, but the impact of kerosene was limited – hot as hell but boring. I wanted an explosion, so I stupidly started playing with petrol.

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The result was mind-blowing. The blast fanned out and roared like a grenade. I must have toasted more insects than the entire population of Thailand. Then one day it all went horribly wrong.

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All fire breathers end up dead or injured, and so it was with me. An unexpected wind gust blew the fire back into my face and I gasped, gulping the fire into my throat.

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The ambulance delivered me to the A&E with my face and lips blistered and bubbling from the heat. Fortunately the injuries were (sort of) minor, but for me the experience took the magic out of fire breathing. I did a few more gigs using kerosene, but my career was soon extinguished.

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Do I have any advice? Well, I can tell you that the days of the high-paid fire breathing superhero are over. Health and safety rules have seen to that. And to be honest, it's not worth the risk. Yes, those were truly the glory days, but I almost suffered the most horrible death imaginable.