So, this is the bit where I tell you how good-looking, witty, sensitive, generous, emotionally literate, and extraordinarily well-endowed I am. Well, stuff that for a game of soldiers. I'm a curmudgeonly, uncommunicative, unsociable old sod.
Quite apart from that, I'm afraid my character cannot possibly be characterised in 100 or so characters. However, you may like to note that I adopt the spelling in '-ised', rather than the (extraordinarily) Oxford-preferred '-ized'. The sad thing is, I actually care about this stuff. I think that says it all, really.
Quotes (for no very good reason):
'A heape of old monumentes, wytnesses of tymes, & bright beames of the truth, can testifye, that I have not swarved one whyt from the truthe.'
John Stow, 1566
'We speak from facts not theory.'
Sir Richard Colt Hoare, 1812
'Blest is the Man whose Bowells move,
And melt with Pity to the Poor.'
Isaac Watts, 1719
'O young England! young England! you who are born into these racing railroad times, when there's a Great Exhibition, or some monster sight, every year, and you can get over a couple of thousand miles of ground for three pound ten in a five-weeks' holiday, why don't you know more of your own birthplaces? You're all in the ends of the earth, it seems to me, as soon as you get your necks out of the educational collar, for midsummer holidays, long vacations, or what not — going round Ireland, with a return ticket, in a fortnight; dropping your copies of Tennyson on the tops of Swiss mountains; or pulling down the Danube in Oxford racing boats. And when you get home for a quiet fortnight, you turn the steam off, and lie on your backs in the paternal garden, surrounded by the last batch of books from Mudie's library, and half bored to death. Well, well! I know it has its good side. You all patter French more or less, and perhaps German; you have seen men and cities, no doubt, and have your opinions, such as they are, about schools of painting, high art, and all that; have seen the pictures of Dresden and the Louvre, and know the taste of sour krout. All I say is, you don't know your own lanes and woods and fields. Though you may be choke-full of science, not one in twenty of you knows where to find the wood-sorrel, or bee-orchis, which grow in the next wood, or on the down three miles off, or what the bog-bean and wood-sage are good for. And as for the country legends, the stories of the old gable-ended farmhouses, the place where the last skirmish was fought in the civil wars, where the parish butts stood, where the last highwayman turned to bay, where the last ghost was laid by the parson, they're gone out of date altogether.'
Thomas Hughes, Tom Brown's School Days, 1857
'Bi the Rode wimen ar wode'
(By the Cross, women are mad)
Seal legend, C14
Now this ridiculous machine wants me to show off my linguistic skills - French, Latin and Welsh:
Le chien est sur le table.
Canis in mensa est.
Mae'r ci ar y bwrdd.
Look, I never claimed to be fluent.