As the world carries on wallowing in its own shit, the only species that seems to be thriving these days is the wildlife programme. Makes sense really - in about 20 years time virtually every animal on the planet will end up as a meat product or fashion item and we'll have to make do with having pet maggots or something, so it's only fair that we get all these creatures on film for generations to come. (The BBC have already filmed everything and are having to revert to mockumentaries about Dinosaurs).

And when you're talking about the wildlife docco, only one man stands atop of the heap: Steve Irwin. Steve, a mullet-clad son of the Australian soil, is better known as the Crocodile Hunter. And if there's a post-apocalyptic situation in your area sometime in the near future, I strongly suggest you ask to join his gang and take him as your God.

The main reason why Steve has become the accepted brand leader is because, like all successful media types of the era, he understands that you've gotta go that extra mile for your audience - like risking death every 5 minutes. Back in the day, David Attenborough would spend huge chunks of time cowering behind a bush like a ponce whilst a crocodile slunk about a waterhole. Well, Steve can't be arsed with any of that shit - he steams in, grabs the fucker, wrestles with it, points out the things you should never do to said animal, and then proceeds to do those very things. "Crocodiles absolutely HATE it when you flick them on the end of the nose" says Steve, as he flicks the crocodile on the end of the nose. "You should NEVER attempt to stuff a Bulbous Death Adder down your shorts" says Steve, as he stuffs a Bulbous Death Adder down his shorts. "Now, I were to whip me todger out and hit this Leaping Screaming Agony Spider in the face with it, he'd get VERY ANGRY" says Steve as he unbuttons his khaki shorts.

Steve's a fully qualified herpetologist, but he doesn't let that get in the way. The opening titles of Crocodile Hunter contain more violence and danger than the entire ouevre of Quentin Tarantino, Sam Peckanpah and the Faces Of Death series combined. Steve leaping out of the way of a berserk crocodile. Steve getting bit on the knee by a snake. Steve running after and rugby-tackling an ostrich. Steve being repeatedly pecked in the face by a kiwi. Steve having his head caved in on a boat by a falling branch and knocked into a swamp. To add even more tension, he always takes his wife Terri, who understandably wears the constant expression of someone who gets through 40 Valiums a day, and his pet dog Suey. Forearmed by the Mad Max trilogy, where every dog who ever crosses Mel Gibson's path is guaranteed a grisly death, Steve's dog reduces girlfriends all over the world to quivering wrecks who have to be coaxed from behind the sofa.

Steve's technique is simple: whereas lesser wildlife presenters are happy to point out, say, the evidence of a bird-eating spiders nest, Steve won't stop until he's dug the fucking thing up, got one of them on a stick, and then made it spit out golf balls of venom at him. David Attenborough's greatest moment was sitting very still and whispering whilst he sat amongst a tribe of gorillas: Steve would be putting the bastards over his knee and spanking them. His finest hour? Probably the time he went out looking for fiercely protective alligators who had just given birth in the middle of a swamp about two days from the nearest town. Oh, forgot to mention - it was the middle of the night, and his torch kept going out.

Not surprisingly, rumours have swept the globe that he's actully died from a snakebite, but this is thankfully not the case: he's just become a dad, so expect to see the poor kid being thrown into a pit of snakes on a cable channel near you soon. Thank you, Steve, and thank you Australia - you are completely forgiven for the hate crimes of foisting Neighbours and Home & Away upon the world.