This month Jeff Bezos, Amazon boss and third richest person in the world, is getting married to Lauren Sanchez, broadcaster and astronaut. Their wedding, set to take place in Venice, will cost, I read, $10 million (£7.4 million), although that sounds a little light to me, given Lady Gaga and Elton John, rumoured to be providing the entertainment, don’t come cheap. Still, Jeff can afford whatever. He’s worth $220 billion (£162 billion), a smidge behind Zuckerberg, way below Musk.

Bezos is just seven months older than me. Like me, somewhat late in the day, he has got himself in decent physical shape. We also both have a host of famous friends. Kim Kardashian, Eva Longoria, Katy Perry, Oprah Winfrey, Ivanka Trump (and possibly her dad), Leonardo DiCaprio, Barbra Streisand… these are some of the guests believed to be attending the happy couple’s big day. Me? Well, Andy McNab came to my wedding in 1998, although we’ve lost touch in recent years. I’ve also chatted to Mike Atherton and Tony Cascarino in the office. Several times.

Given these uncanny parallels, I think it’s only fair — in fact it would be madness not to — to ask the question: how much would I want to be in Jeff Bezos’s Clae Salazar sneakers (a snip, even a tad cheapskaty, at $220) as he prepares to get hitched to the lovely Lauren? In Venice. On a superyacht. With all that money. Well, the answer is not as straightforward as you might think.

For starters, Jeff Bezos is bald. I am not bald, and very much do not want to be bald. Jeff is apparently OK with being bald, given he could afford a really top-notch transplant, like Jurgen Klopp, and hasn’t had one. Bezos is also two inches shorter than me. I’d need a fairly massive bribe to lose two inches and all my hair. But I suppose, what with the $220 billion I’m set to acquire, we could do business.

And also, for all his money, remember that Jeff has had to spend a fair chunk of the past few months pretending to be interested in the colour of the bridesmaids’ dresses and the floral arrangements, and whether they do a sit-down or buffet spread. Lauren will, I guarantee, have been trying to pin down his preferences on these and other matters, and he’ll have been pursing his lips and acting as if he’s wrestling with the choices, while inside the whole buff Bezos body is screaming, “I don’t care! I don’t have an opinion. And even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.”

I’d also be fretting over how long the bloody photographs were going to take — those endless shots by some stupid ornamental bridge, arbour or water feature while all the guests were getting pissed indoors. I’ll bet Jeff’s already stressed about it — the nagging ache in his lower back, fit as he is, cooking slowly in his smart outfit under the searing Venetian sun, stomach rumbling, knowing those Kardashian women are polishing off all the canapés, and yet still Lauren is insisting on one more pouty pose after another.

And, as the groom, I’d be required to make a speech. And although I’m much less anxious about public speaking than I used to be, the prospect would still hang over me like a rain cloud over Piazza San Marco. One of the reasons I held off proposing to my future wife for eight years after we first got together was the dread of having to get up and talk in front of 100 people.

Ah yes, Lauren. To be honest, my bride-to-be would be my biggest concern. To be specific, I’d worry about her outfit. Obviously, old romantic as the Amazon baron is, Jeff won’t have seen the dress, but I think we can all agree Lauren won’t be opting for something demurely high-necked. In recent photographs, Lauren’s boobs have threatened victory in their struggle for full liberation. It’d be embarrassing if they finally broke free at the altar.

And after the altar, mouthing along to the hymns, the poor sod’s still got to get through the reception. I mean, that guest list! It’s possible, I suppose, that the groom genuinely likes his intended’s celebrity mates (and fellow astronauts), but I doubt it. I suspect he wishes most of them could have taken a rather longer flight than 10 minutes and 21 seconds. Like, maybe check out Mars. Or better yet, Mercury.

And after Katy Perry, with her dopey daisy, here comes Trump, upstaging the bride with his entourage, and there’s that weirdo Musk and, oh no, who invited the Argie nutter, the one with the sideburns and the chainsaw?

Rather you than me, pal, for all your $220 billion. I’ll have just a bit of it, though, if that’s OK. As much as you earned in the time it took to read this. How does that sound? Deal?

robert.crampton@thetimes.co.uk