Land of the Bigs

Brussels sprouts; two words that strike fear into the hearts of children. The bitter, chartreuse vegetables have been responsible for countless dinnertime meltdowns and turned generations of youngsters off their greens for life. But one gentleman has risen up against the hatred, with a cheeky smile and a zealous thumbs-up as his only weapons.

Arthur Sprout, who stands sentinel in front of Adams Farms, has dedicated his young life to giving the despised veggie a friendlier face. The Yarra Valley’s most unlikely sex symbol has been turning heads and smashing prejudices since 2015 – and he’s slowly winning the war against anti-sproutism.

Arthur’s sanguine posture speaks volumes, yet this sprout-going chap is a man of few words. Thankfully fellow Brussels sprout activist Bruce Adams – the owner of Adams Farms and the man who brought Arthur to life – is more than happy to tell this sproutlandish story.

Twist and Sprout!

The seeds of Arthur’s journey were planted a few hours north of his current location. During his regular pilgrimage to the Big Strawberry at Koonoomoo, Bruce was struck by an idea so marvellous he needed to have a good lie down afterwards.

“I thought, ‘Oh, maybe we should have a Big Sprout,'” Bruce told a dumbfounded journo from The Monthly. Most of us have had the same idea, but Bruce actually made it happen. Sadly, it wasn’t all smooth sailing, with anti-sproutites doing whatever they could to get in the way.

“There were a lot of issues with the council,” Bruce explained. “Not in relation to his height, but with where I could put it. I wanted it at the front of the property but they wouldn’t let me put it there. They wanted it back further. They wanted it way back ‘cos they basically said to me in the end, ‘You can have it but we really don’t want people to see it.'”

Arthur – named after Bruce’s father – was unveiled during the 2015 Sprout Fest, which is like Woodstock for fruit and veg fanatics. Featured artists included Ba Na Na, Carlos Sultana and Canned Beet.

As a result Arthur stands a good way back from the main road, giving him an unassuming charm and heart-warming shyness that needs to be seen to be believed. With his farmer’s hat and rustic overalls, he’s one of the best-dressed Bigs in Australia.

Most importantly, ‘the Muscles of Brussels’ is winning over the locals, one sprout at a time.

Out and About with Arthur Sprout

My date with Arthur was a bittersweet experience, as it brought back memories of tear-stained dinner parties with my abusive stepfather Craig. As he and the rest of the family tucked into delicious fried chicken, Craig would load my plate high with uncooked Brussels sprouts and not allow me to leave the table until every single morsel had been consumed.

Often I would pass out from sheer exhaustion, unable to bring myself to gorge on my waterlogged tormentors. I would wake in the dead of night, the house silent and the unwanted spouts edging ever closer. Their tiny leaves seemed to mock me.

In retrospect it was probably Craig’s way of forcing me to run away from home, which I finally did at the tender age of 24. I’ve never been able to look at a Brussels sprout since.

And so it was with deep reservations that I rolled into rural Coldstream, unsure whether I was ready to face my fears. Would I break down in tears upon seeing the giant sprout, as memories of my abusive stepfather washed over me? Would I become enraged at the thought of a youth shattered by this bulbous vegetable?

After seeing Arthur’s cheerful face and roguish gesturing, my troubled soul was put at ease.

It was as if decades of fear and loathing were lifted from my shoulders, and I felt nothing but love and admiration for him and his kind. I was reduced to a blubbering mess and, after a cuddle, even purchased a small tray of well-priced and beautifully-presented sprouts.

Without the shadow of my stepfather brooding over me, I found the spouts to be surprisingly nutty and very moreish, especially with a generous dollop of mango chutney.

Craig, it seems, was just a crap cook.

That’s Sproutstanding!

After saying my goodbyes to Arthur, I kissed his rubenesque thorax one last time and turned to leave. Just then, a hotted-up Kia Rio rolled up to the farm and paused beneath the shade of a poplar tree. As the engine continued to cough and wheeze, one window slowly rolled down, and two acne-riddled faces, punctuated by the deadest eyes I’ve ever seen, pushed their way into the dying sunlight.

“Go back to where you came from, Sprouty!” screamed one of the hate-filled youngsters.
“Yeah, go back to Belgium, where Brussels sprouts have been cultivated since the 13th century!” warbled his mate.

“Actually,” I shrieked, hurling sprouts at their hotrod, “there’s scientific evidence that the Ancient Romans propagated a similar vegetable 2000 years earlier.”

“Go back to Ancient Romania then, Sprouty!” yelled the hatemongers, their malicious diatribe hanging heavy in the air long after they had peeled out of the carpark.

The impregnable Arthur Sprout, as always, simply fired back with that machine gun smile of his.