We'd finished our BBQ at the "wild and rustic" roadside field and were settling for the night, when the family a few pitches over returned to start theirs. As one of the kids congratulated Dad on the BBQ quality we were treated to:

Don't congratulate me. There's only one man worth admiration.

Jesus? Shearer? Boris?

Steve. Steve's the man.

Who's Steve?

He's got one of those kebab things. We had shaved meat and shaved rotational chicken in minus two degrees. Steve's the man.

All that was left was for his family—and me—to agree, Steve's the man.