AS the final touches of make-up and my big red nose were put on I began to think a long hard look at my life might be required.

I must have made some terrible decisions in my life I lamented as the ringmaster passed me a tiny bowler hat.

With a heavy heart, wondering if Hugh Cudlipp or John Pilger had ever found themselves in a similar position, I made my way into the big top to begin my capering.

I passed my “normal person” clothes to the circus boss and prepared to throw myself into the serious business of professional clowning.

I was given a handful of plastic rings and an expectant look by a nearby jester.

Of course juggling, the cornerstone of any quality clown’s repertoire and it looked easy enough.

People dived for cover as I looked up helplessly at the five soaring hoops flying off in different directions far beyond my reach.

After several failed attempts to do handstands and make balloon animals I left the big top a broken clown.

On my way back to the office, my cheeks still burning with shame and residue make-up giving me the appearance of a particularly haggard drag queen I wondered how I came to be given this odd assignment.

Perhaps my bosses were angry with me but couldn’t remember why so had opted to punish me in ways which were vague and ambiguous.

My colleague, speaking with the upbeat optimism of a man who has not just had to dress as a clown, said: “Woman always say they like a sense of humour.”

I shook my head sadly having heard this self-serving feminist propaganda in the past.

Regular readers of my column will already know I am absolutely hilarious all the time and yet terminally single.

I pointed this out to him along with a monologue of about my love life entitled Woe is Simon.

“Women only say they like a sense of humour so they appear less superficial than men,” I explained.

He looked unsure and changed the subject.

Whatever the truth I was sure clowning would do little to help my chances as the simple truth is clowns aren’t funny, they are terrifying.

I was discussing this with a friend the other day who retorted “Charlie Chaplin was a clown.”

There was an unexpected silence as he waited for his comments, that he evidently considered a trump card, to sink in.

“But Charlie Chaplin isn’t funny,” I pointed out.

He tutted and raised his eyes at my views aware I prefer humour based around snide comments and bitter put downs.

The only type of clown I approve of is one who is willing to stay behind the scenes and make his living from burgers and fries.