My name’s Paul, and I have a problem.

You see, I’ve fallen out of love with myself. I’ve forgotten how to be tender in a one-on-one situation.

I can’t believe I’ve let it come to this. How low and miserable and tired do you have to be, to not want to wank?

A good bout of special hand love – whether you’re a boy or a girl – is a successful, if sadly temporary cure for general dissatisfaction with the day job, spiraling debt, receding hairline, cellulite, chirpy twatish suits who seem to have a much better quality of life than you that girls find bewilderingly appealing despite them being chirpy twatish suits, and so on.

Yes, feeding the horses, jacking the beanstalk, checking for squirrels, stroking the poker – there’s no better distraction when your life is turning to shit.  Just like real sex really, but without those troublesome irritations, like having to cuddle afterwards. Or talking to them ever again.

And it’s difficult to get wrong. My friend Martin was recently telling me about a topic he’d covered on his radio show; what’s better – bad sex or no sex? His decidedly unscientific survey proved inconclusive, although I’m sure the dilemma can be appreciated by all.

Not so when there’s only one in the bed. Or on the sofa. Or the bus. Or providing the incontinent pensioner with a cold sponge bath.

And I’ve always considered myself to be great at it. Ever since that fateful evening in Autumn 1986 when the thought of Mrs Brunning’s enormous breasts popped into my head and propped up my pyjama bottoms like a big top, I’ve practiced my delicate technique near daily. If as a teenager I’d put the same intense dedication into piano recitals, and not knocking one out into a series of used socks, perhaps I’d have achieved something in life other than my 50 metres breaststroke.

Mrs Brunning there again. She’s never far from my thoughts.

But recently I’ve hit upon an unexpected poor run of form. I just can’t be arsed. Once a week. Tops. It’s not as if there’s any pressure on me to perform. In that sense, my left hand is the perfect girlfriend. I’ve got it on tap, so to speak.

So what’s gone wrong? I’m at a loss to explain. A long, parched drought of furious, filthy sex should have pushed demand through the roof and into the vicinity of Saturn. Pent-up frustration with my work and career should mean handfuls of joy aplenty. The arrival, finally, of hot shiny weather and women wearing underwear in the street should mean a plentiful supply of imagery for the spank bank.

Not a twitch. Not a sniff.

So I’d like to apologise in advance. If we meet up sometime soon, and I don’t seem like myself, if I’m rude or surly or uptight, I’m not being a wanker.

That’s the problem.