Theatre - Banish all dirty thoughts before watching this show, writes Michael Portillo Marc Salem's Mind Games Tricycle Theatre, London NW6

I dread being plucked from the audience by a performer and paraded on stage. While I cannot claim to be unaccustomed to appearing in public, I want it only on my terms. I squirm throughout Dame Edna Everage shows in case that chubby Antipodean digit of fortune should beckon me on to the boards for ritualistic humiliation.

The danger is acute when you are dealing with a mind-reader such as Marc Salem. I tried not to think too hard for fear of attract-ing his attention, and certainly it seemed important to banish all dirty thoughts, and if possible to keep Diane Abbott out of my head completely.

Luckily, I appear to be in a minority, not regarding Diane Abbott of course, but in my phobia about being dragged into the spotlight. The auditorium at the Tricycle Theatre was full of willing volunteers, and in fairness to Salem, he embarrassed none of them. If he read their filthy secrets, alas, he did not share them with us.

First, there was simple stuff. Five people drew a sketch, unseen by Salem. He showed them each picture and required them all to deny being the artist. Every time, one of them had to be lying, and from that person's non-verbal signals, Salem correctly identified the creator of each drawing. He admitted that it would be hard to tell whether a method actor such as Marlon Brando, who enters fully into his role, was being untruthful. Some of the signs of fibbing are really tiny - for example, President Clinton's "microshrug". Apparently, he pulled his chin in for two-twenty-sevenths of a second when denying that he had had "sexual relations with that woman".

Talking of statistics whose accuracy sounds spurious, an author called A Barbour has written that the way we communicate with each other can be broken down as 7 per cent words, 38 per cent the characteristics of our voice such as intonation and volume, and 55 per cent body language, which means that most of us who judge people by what they say are working on very thin data. Salem said there is nothing in his act that could not be done by a ten-year-old child after 30 years of study.

An audience member was given three envelopes, two of which contained money, and Salem aimed subliminally to influence her to pick the one that did not. He succeeded. But maybe it was a conjuring trick. Perhaps he switched the contents of the envelopes. Certainly there was something odd about the sleeves of Salem's black three-piece suit and white shirt.

Much harder to explain is how, when he was thoroughly blindfolded, he passed his hand some distance above objects that had been collected from the audience and identified them precisely. "It's a key, the fob is fake leather, and it isn't used any more." Then he started calling out names, telling those people where they had been on holiday. "Does she know you went to Vegas?" This was getting scary and I was intensifying my efforts to blank my mind. Fortunately, the answer was yes, she did, but Salem would have known that, too.

Salem is bearded, bald and stout. He entertains (or distracts?) his audience with a flow of weak jokes. When he invited two physicians on stage, he said: "I call this a paradox." (Try saying it with an American accent.) But he is very quick-witted and good at ad libbing. For some reason, the producers of the children's television programme Sesame Street made use of his talents. More obviously, police forces from New York to Sydney have put him to work on criminal cases.

His slow-moving bulk descended from the stage to ask members of the audience to write a number on to a grid on a board. The figures were totted up and they produced a four-digit total. Another member of the audience had meanwhile been guarding a cassette recorder and tape. When the tape was played, we heard Salem's voice, supposedly recorded that afternoon, correctly predicting what the tally would be. But, I wondered, could he have swapped the board on which the audience had written with one he had prepared himself?

In another stunt, Salem asked the audience to invent a code name for a spy, to name a city and time for his rendezvous, and to specify what snack the spook should take with him. "Mars Bar!" I exclaimed to myself, before regaining self- control, hoping that I had not thought so "loudly" that Salem would pick on me. Phew. He had lighted instead on a girl close by. Once he had gathered all the details for his little spy drama from the audience, he produced a piece of paper on which he had written, apparently in advance, his predictions of all the data with complete accuracy.

As I left the theatre, the girl who had been asked to nominate the snack was alongside me. By now I suspected plots in everything. Was this really a coincidence? She said: "I don't know how he made me say 'hot dog', since I'm a vegetarian."

Spooky indeed. It's a wonder that New York and Sydney have any unsolved crimes at all.

Booking on 020 7328 1000 until 8 August

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