THERE has to be a reason for the sorry state of my current affairs.

A sex drought lasting months and the loveless singles wilderness stretching ahead as far as the eye can see.

Then the other day it struck me – I am shy.

When I told people about my self-diagnosed condition they seemed doubtful and looked at me in a “shy people don’t ask women they’ve just met if they want to meet Mr Knobbly” kind of way.

Even my lady adviser seemed sceptical.

What nobody seemed to grasp is that I have a rare loud, slightly garish kind of shyness.

Other bashful types advertise this deficiency by being the perfect gentlemen.

I looked through back copies of my column and decided this wasn’t me.

Others try and attach themselves to a social group and remain on the fringe by good attendance as opposed to contributing anything.

The problem is I’m too interested to be on the outskirts of a social circle.

Sometimes I’m so fascinating I find I’m just waiting for my friends to stop talking so I can start.

However, when I meet a girl and there is a hint of romance in the air I suddenly become incredibly shy and find myself blushing, nervously shuffling my feet and chattering on aimlessly to fill dead air.

Also I don’t idle well when nervous and I find myself fidgeting.

This can range from picking the label of a beer bottle to becoming suddenly fearful the muscles in my face are operating independently.

This shyness is even worse when I’m in a club.

I am constantly harangued by friends for my timorous bar hanging.

One drinking pal finds this particularly annoying – to save him embarrassment I will withhold |his silly sounding American |name.

I have lost count of the number of times he has tried to drag me from my safe place at the bar to the dance floor or worse to talk to strange women.

In most areas of my life I am confident but the fear of running out of conversation and being stuck with someone with no exit strategy makes me feel quite sick with nerves.

Rattling through introductions in a few moments before resorting to questions like: “So… do you enjoy living in Fair Oak?”

Trying not to visibly cringe at my own tedious question and look interested, nay tantalised, by a response that can only be boring.

This is normally the point where I start scanning the room frantically for a topic to talk about or better still an excuse to leave.

In the past I have guzzled a pint in one go just to get away.

With tears in my eyes from the feat and a croaky voice I could now legitimately say I was going to the bar and slink off.