Like many folk in the industry, I've always been a huge fan of Mike Slade.
Leave to one side that he doesn't really do urban regeneration, all that devil-may-care cavalier behaviour, the sailing and the yachts, the lifestyle, the charity work, the Byronesque locks and - of course - the rampant political incorrectness, is a very attractive package.
Particularly to we irreverent souls. Even more so, if you spend a goodly portion of your life dealing with po-faced types, mainly in the public and voluntary sector.
One can't help but marvel at someone who has such a secure position that they can say what they want, when they want. It is enviable indeed. I would call him the enfant terrible of the industry, were he not so very senior and clever.
And so successful at what he does. And rich. And tall and good looking. And before I decide I hate him actually after all, I remember just in time that Mike used to employ my bonkers old mate Gareth Roberts (back in the 80s when he was in Bruton Lane); he was good to Gareth, and any mate of Gareth's is a mate of mine.