Girl, you’re my angel, you’re my northern angel
Close to Newcastle in England’s east, baby
Shorty, you’re my angel, you’re my northern angel
Girl, you’re a friend to all Geordies, lady
A hedonistic folly of steel and ambition, The Angel of the North serves as a tribute to the unique soul of those oop norf. Mired in controversy, and loved and loathed in equal measure – much like the people of the region – this remarkable example of post-minimalist roadside architecture is now one of the most recognised sculptures on the planet.
And holy moly, is this Angel big!
The Angel – who uses they/them pronouns and is known as ‘Angie’ to enamoured locals – rests on a seraphic hill on the outskirts of Gateshead, right between the A1 and the A16-heaven… oopsies, I mean A167! It’s an appropriate location, given Gateshead is best described as Shangri-La on earth.
You’ll be cloud nine if you go there – teehee!
Completed in 1998, The Angel of the North is the pièce de résistance of the cherubic Sir Antony Mark David Gormley, a sculptor blessed with godlike talent. Answering the prayers of all Northerners, he apparently modelled the piece on his own physique. If that’s the case – wow! – I have to get the number of his Pilates teacher.
“To me the Angel is about being alive today, but I want everyone to have a personal relationship with it,” the artiste sermonised. “I hope it will encourage people to think and ask themselves questions.”
Thanks but no thanks, Ant. I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing those sorts of questions.
“My part in this was small,” Brother Gormley preached. “It’s of and from the people of the North East, and was made by them. It was entirely the result of working with local people.”
I hate to play the devil’s advocate but, after 26 years in the diabolical Gateshead weather, Angie is showing a bit of Tyne and Wear and tear. Hopefully there’ll be some divine intervention by the local council soon to spruce them up!
Say halo to my not-so-little friend
- Angie is believed to be the biggest angel sculpture in the world – being slightly larger than the statue of Angel from Home & Away found outside the Beachside Diner.
- They weigh 208 tonnes – a little over 100 tonnes for the voluptuous body and 50 each for the wings. Oh, Angie, Wetherspoon’s Thursday Night Curry Club shall be the unravelling of us all!
- Angie’s 54-metre wingspan is wider than that of a Boeing 757. And they look more comfortable than a RyanAir flight!
- At 20 metres tall, The Angel of the North is the height of a five-storey building, or four Monuments to Vimto stacked on top of each other.
- Made from weather-resistant Cor-ten steel – enough to make 16 double-decker buses or eight quadruple-decker buses – Angie is designed to mellow with time. We’re both aging like fine wine, toots!
- The Angel is built to last for 100 years – so plan your trip to the Northeast for before 2098 to avoid disappointment.
- Angie has yucked it up with many celebs, including Weird Science minx Vanessa Angel, charismatic professional wrestler Angel Garza, and gender-bending illusionist Criss Angel. Local lads – and self-confessed Land of the Bigs tragics – Ant & Dec have also visited, but they don’t have ‘Angel’ in their names, so who cares?
- Thanks to colossal concrete pillars, each 20 metres deep, Angie can withstand winds of more than 100 miles per hour. If Angie ever decides to wear a hat – and I really hope they do! – those sorts of winds will blow it off.
- The total cost of The Angel of the North was £800,000, or 13,911,914.02 Botswanan Pulas. I’ll take five!
- The Angel is seen by an estimated 33 million people every year, which is slightly fewer than the number who visit Land of the Bigs.
Woah! This Geordie sure is big!
For time immemorial, The Angel of the North has beckoned me with their siren song. The image of those ethereal wings, that stoic expression, consumed me. I was so obsessed that, for time, I became the self-styled Angel of the West Wyalong.
I stood outside the IGA for months, arms outstretched, painted a sort of rusty orange. Few people , sadly, afforded me the attention I so craved. But then again, I couldn’t hope to compete with the butcher’s two-for-one rissole deals.
And so, able to resist the calling no longer, I bestowed my earthly belongings to a local church and made my pilgrimage across the globe to worship at the feet of this sacred Big.
What I experienced that clammy afternoon can only be described as a rebirth.
Even as the world’s greatest historian of oversized art, a visit to The Angel of the North proved to be an imposing encounter. Towering above me, their industrial frame cutting through the sullen northern air, they made me feel tiny and insignificant. As I sat beneath a swaying poplar tree, I began to question my very existence.
What am I doing here? Does my life have value? Am I foolishly worshipping false idols?
“That’s it,” I decided. “I’m ditching the garish clothes and the partyboy lifestyle and joining the seminary.”
Just then, dark clouds swept across the field and an icy wind chilled me to my very bones. Illuminated in the fog, The Angel’s face angled ever-so-slightly towards me.
“You’re already walking the righteous path, Bigs,” a celestial voice boomed. “People find meaning and hope in your writing. It may not always seem like it, but you’re doing His work.”
And so, with a spring in my step, I wrapped a pair of hot pink sunglasses on my handsome head and swaggered into the sunset.
“Toodles, Angel,” I cheered. “I’m heading off to get some taco empanadas and take selfies with The Big Fisherman over in North Shields. Tell Father Roderick not to expect me for dinner!”
