The famously celibate, depressive loner who despises "the repulsive dippings and sputterings" of sex and feels "genuine distaste if someone touches me"? Almost. Except he's abandoned celibacy, oozes contentment and is deeply enamoured of his long-term lover.
A teensy-weensy contradiction there, perhaps? Well spotted. All that sex-hating stuff was, as Fry puts it, BCM.
BCM? Before Cell Mates, the West End play he scuppered in 1995 by quitting and attempting to gas himself in his car, before eventually fleeing to Brussels. Unsurprisingly, all that proved something of a turning point.
Why this sudden celebration of domestic bliss? In a spate of interviews to publicise his latest film, The Tichbourne Claimant, he's spoken with unprecedented candour about the joys of being "a we rather than an I".
Who is it, then? Not that much candour, I'm afraid. (We do know that the mystery man is 10 years younger than Fry and works in showbusiness, which doesn't exactly narrow the field very much.) His candour is of a more self-analytic variety.
And the results of all this self-analysis? That Fry has that sine qua non of all good comedians, an obsessive need to be liked. Oh, and that he's not much good at self-analysis.
So he prefers it when everyone's nice to him? Wrong again. He's not too keen on being a "public kitten", placed "somewhere between Alan Bennett and the Queen Mother" in the public's affections.
He sounds like a mass of contradictions. Which just goes to show that, despite his over-achieving career in comedy and fiction writing, he really is human after all.
Don't say: What the Telegraph's interviewer somewhat insensitively asked this week: when Fry insulated the doors of his car in preparation for his suicide, was it an eiderdown that he used, or blankets? (It was a duvet, he replied - "although I'm afraid I can't remember the tog rating").
In fact, don't say: Anything nasty.
