On a number of levels there are some similarities between me and National-Treasure-and-generally-good-egg, Mr Stephen Fry. It's a low number, but it certainly counts as a number.
We're both blessed with physiques that would, if we were being charitable, be described as being somewhat less than athletic. I'm a bear of a man. I loom. I can only loom. And blunder. Loom and blunder, that's me. I suspect Stephen would recognise the same characteristics.
I have this deep, booming, stentorian voice. I can't whisper to save my life. Blunder, loom and boom. That's pretty what I'm about. Mr Fry would, I fear, find this familiar.
Despite these seemingly antisocial characteristics I can turn my hand to the avuncular if I wish. Dispensing wisdom and charm, I'd make a damn good uncle. If I had glasses I'd perch them on the tip of my nose while gently explaining the best use of the terms 'rebut', 'reject' and 'repudiate'. Stephen personified.
I'm even on Twitter, too. But this is where things start to unravel. Stephen Fry is seen (wrongly) by some as the eminence gris behind Twitter. If he sees some injustice, a single tweet from his fingers will send his massed followers into overdrive, leaving him settling into a wingbacked chair, gently harrumphing. Yet if he wants to support something, a favourable 140 characters from the keyboard of his Apple is sufficient to guarantee its success.
I tried this last week. My mate Barry was running the New York marathon yesterday for a jolly good cause. I thought he could use all the help he could get, so I tweeted about it. I thought if I could mobilise the masses, Fry-style, we'd see Barry nosing the tape (or whatever it is they do at the end of races) with a couple of grand behind him.
Nothing. Nada. Rien. Sod all. Sweet Felicity Arkwright.
Maybe I need to work on my charm a little.