In the wake of kings

It is a rare thing indeed, dear reader, when a man finds himself in the presence of their adolescent hero. As the title of ‘idol’ is seemingly typically awarded only to the loftiest few within our society, it certainly becomes fathomable to believe that many of us never do meet those that they admire most. But not I! For this eve, my friends – as I rounded into Fitzroy Street on the stalwart singlespeed – I had my chance encounter with that that I admire most:

Since the days of years long gone – when the hearty laughter and stereotypes targeting skinny chefs floated gently through the TV of a mid-afternoon – it had been the remotest desire that a man may one day behold ‘The Chief’. And this eve, as his eyes (which were nestled below a deservedly sweaty brow) met briefly with mine, I ogled like a schoolgirl while he majestically shuffled his generous girth past. At that precise moment, I knew that a very prominent box in the ‘life goal’ category had been firmly ticked.

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