IF ever I was to run away and join the circus, there are several things I could claim as a speciality.

First and foremost, I have the loudest sneeze known to man. It begins from the pit of my stomach and roars out of my mouth at the speed of light, creating a huge explosion which shakes me off my seat.

I swear one day it will kill me, or perhaps be the death of someone else through shock. There are always audible gasps from passers-by whenever they hear me sneeze, which is an all-too frequent occurrence.

Once the Regional Managing Director came running into my office to tell me my sneeze had interrupted his phone call in another room with another very senior manager – who specifically asked him to find me to pass on his best wishes for my health.

Then at Christmas, when I was on leave, I found it had earned me an accolade in the Office Oscars. My deputy told me I had won an award in a staff vote, and I vainly assumed it must be in either the category of ‘Most Fanciable Male’ or ‘Rear of the Year’.

No such luck. It was of course for Loudest Sneeze.

Naturally, just being The Amazing Sneezing Man wouldn’t keep me fully occupied at the circus were I to join it. So I’m happy to say I could show off my other pride and joy – my weird double jointed ankle which moves on command and makes people go “Ugggghhh.”

Then there is the hole in the palm of my hand. Yes, really. But, unlike the other two specialities, this is not a naturally-occurring phenomenon.

It was entirely my own fault during my mis-spent youth when I accidentally smashed the hand through a glass container of red wine as I tried to pour myself another drink. I won’t bore you with the specifics, but I was left with a large gouge that has never gone away. When I visited a GP several years later, he said it was the equivalent of a belly button. I don’t quite know what he meant but it’s a great party trick, and my young son’s friends always get a buzz out of seeing the bizarre deformity.

However, perhaps my greatest claim to weirdness is the fact I do not have a stop valve in my body when it comes to food. I can eat until the cows come home, or indeed the cows are devoured, and still go back for more.

Former housemates of mine used to refer fondly to ‘Tommy Tapeworm’, the creature they imagined inhabited my body.

I thought of this last week when I heard an item on national radio about a group of friends who challenged themselves to eat as much as possible at a pizza buffet. One of the group managed to polish off 24 slices on his own. Impressive, yes, but I have no doubt that in my heyday I could have beaten that.

For I still have the T-shirt I won at the Old Bell in Wooburn Green many years ago when I won a pie-eating contest. My memory is vague, but I recall it involved a colossal steak pie, meant for a minimum of four diners, that no one had ever eaten by themselves.

The pub, as a gimmick, offered it for free to the first person who could do it single-handedly. I took up the challenge during my lunch hour and of course, finished the whole pie – although to my shame I may have left a few chips uneaten.

I didn’t tell Mrs Editor’s Chair at the time, however, in case she didn’t serve up dinner that night as arranged.