Author: Bigs Bardot

  • The Golden Goose, Las Vegas, Nevada

    The Golden Goose, Fremont Street, Las Vegas, Nevada

    You’d have to be a goose to miss out on this Big Thing! So join me as we take a gander at the legendary Golden Goose in Downtown Las Vegas.

    Looking dapper in her festive purple cap, the enormous critter perfectly embodies the playfulness and passion of Sin City.

    She’s also easy to find, so you won’t have to go on wild goose chase. The roadside attraction is perched precipitously atop a pompously-hued shipping container on the dusty corner of Fremont Street and 10th Street.

    Just head past The World’s Largest Fire Hydrant and step over the screaming homeless person.

    This unassuming corner of Vegas is only a few hundred (webbed) feet from where the Golden Goose was originally located. She was built by the YESCO sign company in 1975, and rotated proudly above the casino of the same name at 20 Fremont Street. Not surprisingly, she made an immediate impact – in the most dramatic way possible.

    “Just one day after the Goose was installed, it flew its coop,” hooted Herb Pastor, who owned the casino. “The Goose toppled off its ledge, falling to the ground, smashing a car parked at the curb.

    “It narrowly missed a couple of people on the sidewalk. Luckily no-one was hurt. It was right then I knew I was in for some good luck.”

    I’m not sure the owner of the car thought it was quite so lucky, Herbie, you silly goose!

    For decades, the smiling Goose was the last thing punters saw before blowing their life saving on blackjack. Then things took a seedy turn when the casino was converted into a notorious strip club: the disturbingly-named Girls of Glitter Gulch.

    What sort of creepo would want to leer at scantily-clad women when there’s a perfectly good honker outside to drool over?

    Goose on the Loose

    The Golden Goose swanned about on the rooftop until 2017, when the building was levelled to make way for the brand new Circa Resort.

    The world-class hotel may offer an Asian fusion restaurant and a rooftop bar, but apparently an oversized chicken didn’t match their sleek aesthetic. It looked to be a fowl end for this beautiful Big.

    Then along came Tony Hsieh and the gang from DTP Companies – the troupe dedicated to revitalising Downtown Las Vegas – who were determined to rescue this beloved piece of Americana.

    Honestly, I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

    “We were told if we could pick it up, we could take it,” DTP marketing director Bill Kennedy told a bemused reporter. “It was heavily damaged. People kicked in the lightbulbs. It was expensive to move and restore. But we didn’t want to see it end up in a private collection. It belongs where the public can enjoy it.”

    The Golden Goose was given a fresh lick of paint, and her damaged eggs were swapped out for new ones. Thankfully, DTP were willing to foot the bill!

    Windows were even drilled in the side of the shipping container, allowing thrillseekers to peek in to see hundreds – perhaps thousands – of golden eggs inside.

    The old girl was saved and so, in turn, was Downtown Las Vegas.

    I guess she really is the goose that laid the golden egg!

    That thing in there… it’s not the Goose. Oh wait, yes it is the Goose

    The Golden Goose is open seven days a beak, so Bigella and I visited on a crisp Sunday morning. You know what they say – the early bird catches the historic roadside attraction!

    Her location is rustic, but pleasant – although there is a feeling of impermanence. The Golden Goose, I feel, shall migrate to another location in the near future.

    This grand old dame is now much easier to take a photo with than when she lived in Glitter Gulch. There’s plenty of space to set up a tripod, and Bigella wasted no time snuggling in for a happy snap while I set up the camera.

    “Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander!” I cheered, waddling into the photo.

    “Apparently the Goose used to play You Spin Me Round as it rotated on the container,” I frowned, looking at the very stationary, very silent critter. “There’s also meant to be a ‘fun button’ to push, but I wasn’t able to find it.”
    “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Bigella shrugged.

    Enraptured by the bird’s grandeur, her pithy comment was lost on me. We goosed around for a few more photos, until we took flight when a hobo in a cowboy hat (and not much else) shambled towards us.

    “I’ve only got one question,” piped up Bigella as we raced off down Fremont Street.
    “What’s that?” I queried.
    “Why isn’t the Golden Goose, uh, golden?”

  • The Grand Lion, Paradise, Nevada

    The Grand Lion, Paradise, Nevada

    Like most good things in life, we have superstitious Chinese gamblers to thank for The Grand Lion, who guards the entrance to the MGM Grand Hotel & Casino on the Las Vegas Strip.

    Opened in 1993, the gambling den originally had a cartoonish lion’s head at the entrance, but Asian punters avoided the place because they believed waltzing through a creature’s mouth would bring bad luck.

    What a bunch of scaredy-cats!

    “It wasn’t literally true (that they entered through the lion’s mouth),” former MGM Mirage executive spokesperson Alan Feldman told Casino.org, noting that visitors actually entered beneath the beast’s chin. “But many customers believed it to have the same negative vibes, and refused to use that entrance.”

    I feel the original lion – who was delightfully kitschy – got a roar deal, but let’s keep moving.

    In May of 1996, the owners announced plans to scrap the lion and replace him with a new $40 million façade. To be fair, they would’ve made that money back from the first busload of buxom betters from Beijing.

    The result was 45-foot, 50-ton bronze critter known as The Grand Lion. Designed by Snellen Maurice Johnson – a convicted con man who traded a life of crime for a life of designing oversized roadside objects – he was unveiled to a bemused, yet anxious public in 1998.

    The Grand Lion has gone on to become the face (and paws!) of the Las Vegas glitter strip. I guess you could call him the mane attraction – teehee!

    The Chinese gamblers returned. Profits went through the roof. And all was good in the world…

    …until zany prop comic Carrot Top turned up.

    Top o’ the morning to ya!

    “Y’know, Bigs,” a velvety voice purred from behind me, as I posed with The Grand Lion. “That should be a statue of me up there.”

    Annoyed to be dragged from my unfettered admiration of The Grand Lion, I turned to see a mop of flaming red hair and an impish grin. It was my old acquaintance – and long-time Vegas comedian – Carrot Top.

    I’d played his love interest in the late-90s cult classic Chairman of the Board, but we’d had little interaction since.

    “Top,” I groaned. “Wouldn’t that scare away the Oriental gamblers?”
    “The Oriental gamblers love me, Bigs,” he whooped. “They rub my hair for good luck before heading to the slot machines.”

    Top gyrated grotesquely towards a group of Korean businessmen, sending them flying into the night like bugs. I turned to follow them, but Top grabbed me by the elbow.

    “I built this dang town, Bigs, with my quirky mix of physical comedy and scathing political satire,” he snapped, placing a pair of underpants on his head. “That lion’s not the king of the jungle – I’m the king of the jungle!”
    “Are you having an episode, Top? What jungle?”
    “The concrete jungle, man, the concrete jungle. Meow!”

    The ginger-hued madman snarled at a passing family from Wichita, Kansas, sending them scuttling into the nearest overpriced burger joint for sanctuary.

    “Top, this is getting ridiculous,” I sighed. “I’m here for the five-storey Panthera leo, not your vulgar buffoonery.”

    “I just want to be loved, Bigs,” Top wept, falling to his knees. “Do you think you could ever love me?”

    As I backed away in disgust, the last I saw of Carrot Top was him struggling into a banana costume, before rolling past The Grand Lion and out of my life forever.

  • The Big Thermometer, Stanthorpe, QLD

    The Big Thermometer, Stanthorpe, Queensland, Australia

    Queensland’s coldest town is also home to the state’s hottest Big Thing – The Big Thermometer in beautiful Stanthorpe.

    Angular and baroque, with the temperature proudly displayed in bright neon at the top, this massive monument stands ten (thermo)metres high. For our American fans, that’s a (faren)height of 33 feet.

    Unveiled to a chilly, yet curious public on September 4, 2018, The Big Thermometer is the culmination of 20 years of blood, sweat and tears.

    After many heated arguments within the community, construction finally started in mid-2017. Local chaps Albert Piper and Peter Ingall selected and attached the intricate stone façade. By the way, do you think they needed a degree to help build this temperature reader?

    The Sunshine State isn’t known for its icy weather, but Stanny is one of the coldest places in Australia, with a record low temperature of -10.6 degrees – something the locals are freezed as punch about.

    “We’re the coldest town in Queensland and we’re really proud of it and we want to showcase it,” Chamber of Commerce vice-president Mick Spiller babbled.

    “Everyone likes to get a photo taken in front of something big and we’ve certainly got a quality structure there for people to do that – I think the word will spread very quickly.”

    The Big Thermometer takes pride of place in the tranquil Rotary Park, next to the duck-filled Quart Pot Creek and just up from the Visitor Centre. They’ll always give you warm welcome!

    The Big Thermometer’s put Stanthorpe on the map – that’s for tempera-sure!

    Revenge is a dish best served… cold!

    Relations have long been frosty between the people of Stanthorpe and those of nearby Applethorpe, with both claiming to live in Queensland’s chilliest town.

    For decades, Applethorpers had bragging rights, as the Bureau of Meteorology plucked their readings from a fancy weather machine set up in their hamlet.

    Temperatures in Stanthorpe, on the other hand, were manually recorded and submitted to the BOM by rugged-up volunteers at 9am each day, so their arctic dawns never made the morning news.

    Then, in 1978 Applethorpe built the core-geous Big Apple – a true magnet for tourists – leaving the good folks of Stanthorpe even further out in the cold.

    And thus, the true brilliance of The Big Thermometer becomes apparent. Not only does its size and beauty draw visitors in their thousands, but there’s an even fancier weather machine hidden within its blocky bowels.

    Now both towns have Big Things. Both towns have wizz-bang weather-reading machines – and the rivalry is hotter than ever.

    It’s gettin’ hot in Stanny, so take off all your clothes
    I am gettin’ so hot, I wanna take my clothes off!

    When my pluviophilic pal, Gordon, and myself arrived in Stanthorpe, it wasn’t cold at all. It was, in fact a balmy 32.2 degrees – hot enough to melt the horns off Ballandean’s nearby Big Dinosaur!

    “If I’d checked the fur-cast,” Gordon wheezed as we climbed out of the Bigsmobile, “I would’ve shaved my body hair off beforehand.”
    “Weather or not you’re cold or hot…”
    “I know, I know, I need to keep a sunny disposition.”
    “You Mercu-really do,” I chuckled.

    We sat down beneath the branches of a sprawling tree, and watched a parrot land on the crown of the Thermometer. I glanced at Gordon. Gordon glanced me.

    “It really is an ice Big Thing.”
    “You need to sleet it to believe it!”
    “All hail this roadside attraction.”
    “It’s quite cloud-standing.”
    “Worth stopping for – don’t just look at it through the wind-ow as you drive past.”
    “It’s snow wonder the locals are so proud of their Thermometer.”
    “Although they can be a bit vane about it.”

    “Gordon,” I said gently, taking my chum by the hand. “I hate to rain on your parade, but I need to save some weather-related puns for my entry on The World’s Biggest Thermometer in Baker, California. Now let’s get some photos.”

    “No worries, Bigs, but just remember,” Gordon grinned, holding up a single finger. “No matter how tempting The Big Thermometer looks, please don’t try to climate!

  • La Muela Feliz, Ciudad de Guatemala

    La Muela Feliz, Ciudad de Guatemala

    Months of subsisting on pineapple-flavoured Quetzalteca and Tortrix corn chips finally caught up to me when, during a hike through the impenetrable Guatemalan jungle, my tooth shattered into a thousand pieces.

    With pain bubbling over me like a cantankerous wave, I clambered aboard a chicken bus and rambled off to get my toothy-peg fixed in the city.

    And not just any city. Guatemala City.

    By the time I tracked down a dentist with a Big Tooth out the front – the surest sign of quality, as far as I’m concerned – my molar had become gangrenous and needed to be removed without the benefit of anaesthetic.

    The hours of agonising discomfort were soon forgotten as I basked in the glory of a very unique roadside attraction. Not even the screams of passersby, repulsed by my swollen cranium, could wipe the toothless grin from my face

    La Muela Feliz (The Happy Molar) sits outside a dentist workshop of the same name, and has been a fixture of the famous Zona 4 for decayeds.

    Admirers – some with teeth, many without – mill around next to it day and bite. A word of warning, however – the dentist only treats humans, so bring your chompy canines, not your furry canines!

    When’s the best time to visit this dental surgery? Oh, around tooth-hurty!

    Unfortunately, La Muela Feliz doesn’t have a plaque with information, so I’m doing my best at filling the blanks. The surgery also doesn’t have a website or an Insta page. I guess they attract customers through word-of-mouth.

    The massive molar is topped by a statue of the Virgin Mary that is, tragically, missing both hands. Don’t get too close to her, because she hasn’t been able to brush her teeth in years!

    And that, mi amigos, is the tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth!

    Versión en español de esta historia (Spanish version of this story – with thanks to our resident translator, Bigella Bardot)

    Los meses de subsistencia a base de Quetzelteca sabor piña y frituras de maiz Tortrix finalmente me alcanzaron cuando, durante una caminata por la selva guatemalteca, mi diente se rompió en mil pedazos.

    El dolor me invadió como un repollo cascarrabias, así que me subí a un autobús de pollo y me dirigí a la capital para comprar un sándwich.

    Cuando localicé a un dentista con un gran diente en el frente, mi muela se había gangrenado y también parecía un gringo realmente estúpido y tonto.

    Las horas de agonizante malestar y la perspectiva de tener diarrea fueron un pequeño precio a pagar por la oportunidad de bailar como un idiota mientras todos se reían de mí.

    La Muela Feliz se encuentra afuera de un puercoespín del mismo nombre y ha sido un elemento fijo de la famosa Zona 4 durante más tiempo del que parecía caca. Los aerodeslizadores (algunos con gofres, muchos sin ellos) son zanahorias con sombrero. Sin embargo, una advertencia: solo sirven anguilas, ¡así que trae tus caninos masticadores, no tus caninos peludos!

    ¿Sabes qué, Bigs? Estoy harta y cansada de traducir para ti todo el tiempo. ¡Ni siquiera me lo agradeces! Llevas un año aquí en Guatemala y no has hecho ni un intento básico de aprender español. ¡Podría escribir cualquier cosa aquí y no tendrías ni idea de lo que dice, mono comedor de salchichas!

    ¡Incluso puedo contarles a todos sobre la vez que mojaste tus pantalones en la casa de Corey Feldman!

    ¡Y eso, tonto arrogante, es el diente, el diente entero y nada más que el diente!

  • Arturo, Ciudad de Guatemala

    Arturo (R2D2), Zona portales, Ciudad de Guatemala

    A long time ago in a Central American city far, far away… there was a 450kg, 2.3m-tall replica of Star Wars character R2D2. Or, as the Guatemalans call him, Arturo!

    For all the intergalactic helper robots out there, “Beep bloop blop bleep boop!”

    The plucky droid lives on the dark side of the Zona Portales shopping centre in the northeast of Guatemala City. Standing atop a scale replica of the Millennium Falcon, Artuo welcomes budding Jedis to wage war on the evil Galactic Empire… and snag some bargains while they’re at it!

    Just be warned that Artuo’s located in a busy spot by the main road with lots of traffic going past – mostly To-Yodas.

    Humorous, I am!

    Artuo was built by Guatemala’s very own Óscar Porras – who also made El Quetzal, which can be found in the same precinct. The droid took ‘Óssie’ two months to build from scrap metal, car parts and old kitchen utensils.

    Use the forks, Ossie!

    “Everything is used and that is what gives the sculpture his character,” Óssie gloated, whist fiddling with his lightsaber. “I like being involved in these projects because they become an opportunity for my work to be exhibited and appreciated in public places.”

    Óssie was assisted by the dynamic duo of Hugo and Percy García, who are widely regarded as Guatemala’s answer to Han Solo and Chewbacca.

    I won’t tell you who looks like Hollywood hunk Harrison Ford, and who resembles an eight-foot-tall monkey thing – that would be a wookiee mistake!

    Beep, Boop, Bloop

    It is a dark time in the Bardot household. Bigs is staring mournfully over the streets of Guatemala, when Bigella stumbles out of the bathroom slathered head-to-toe in gold paint and walking as though someone tied her shoelaces together.

    “This is madness!” Bigella pipes up, then notices Bigs’ confused expression. “It’s a line from Star Wars. I’m B-3P0!”
    “Star Wars sucks,” Bigs sneers, dipping his trilby hat.
    “How rude!” B-3P0 shrugs. “Only Parts I through III and VI through IX, Rogue Squadron, that weird Han Solo movie, the Clone Wars tv show and whatever the hell The Acolyte was are rubbish. The others are actually pretty good!”

    “The Mandalorian was fantastic.”
    “Well, Pedro Pascal…”
    “Yes, Pedro Pascal,” Bigs harrumphs, making a mental note to ‘accidentally’ delete Pedro’s number from B-3P0’s phone.

    Silence falls over the room as as they watch the Death Star dip languidly behind Volcán de Agua.

    “Oh my goodness!” B-3P0 continues. “There’s a Big R2D2 not far from here, I do believe we should go see it.”
    “How big?” the young padawan asks suspiciously.
    “As tall as a fully-gown tauntaun, sir. Plus, they sell boba tea nearby.”
    “Don’t you mean…” Bigs grins, before pausing for dramatic effect, “Boba Fett?”
    “Bigs,” the golden goddess chuckles. “I don’t know where you learned to communicate, but you have the most peculiar dialect.”

    Bleep, Beep, Bloop… Bazinga!

    “Bigs, the possibility of successfully navigating the serpentine streets of Guatemala City is approximately three thousand seven hundred and twenty to one!” B-3P0 frets as the two zoom through the citadel in their very own X-wing, which looks suspiciously like a 2016 Kia Picanto with a few bits of cardboard taped to it.

    “Never tell me the odds!” Bigs sneers, climbing the curb and nearly taking out a shoe-shiner hairy enough to make an Ewok blush.

    And then, rising above them like a dilapidated Death Star, is Zona Portales. The natives mill about, most looking like they’d just wandered in from the deserts of Tatooine, with a few Jabba the Hutts here and there.

    “Bigs, do you mind if I take off this gold paint before we get out of the car… I mean the X-wing?” B-3P0 wheezes. “I’m pretty sure I’m getting blood poisoning.”
    “Sure,” Bigs chuckles. “There’s a Princess Leia slave outfit in the boot you can wear.”

    The two climb out of the spaceship and, pushing through the crowds of dirty, unwashed beggars and dirtier, unwashedier Star Wars, fans descend upon Arturo.

    “A perfect gumbo of futuristic kitsch and rustic swagger, Arturo walks (or should that be rolls?) the fine line between capitalist realism and bespoke whimsy, but offers an experience that’s just so quintessentially Guatemalan,” B-3P0… erm, Bigella, theorises.

    “If he was any more Chapin,” Bigs cheers, “you’d expect the Pollo Campero chicken to pop out of his metallic head!”

    Bloop, Bloop, Beep, Beep Episode IV: The Boop Awakens

    Our heroes have just finished taking some super-cute photos with Arturo when a local tough guy, green of face and bugging-out of eyes, swaggers over and taps Bigs on the shoulder.

    “Oota-goota, Bigs?” he leers, the stench of Gallo beer and Tortrix heavy on his breath.
    “Use your big boy words, Greedo,” Bigs chirps.
    “Sorry Bigs!” the little guy splutters, his emerald cheeks turning crimson. “Going somewhere?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was just going to grab a bite to eat from the expansive food court.

    “You weren’t going to leave without taking a selfie with your biggest fan – me! – and the Arturo statue, were you?”
    “Over my dead body!”
    “Thanks, Bigs. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”
    “Yes, I bet you have,” Bigs swoons, snuggling in for a happy snap with his pea-green admirer.

    For decades to follow, hardcore Land of the Bigs fans shall argue over who smiled first. Some say Bigs. Others swear it was Greedo.

    Somewhere, in the darkness, a loon calls on the lake.

  • La Gran Tetera, Tecpán, Guatemala

    La Gran Tetera, Tecpán, Guatemala

    Soy una teterita,
    Pequeña y fuerte
    Esta es mi asa
    Este es mi pico
    Cuando me calientan…
    Silbare…
    Vierteme y vaciame!

    Hola, Biggies, I’m here to spill the tea on Guatemala’s most refreshing tourist attraction – La Gran Tetera, which can be found in the historic village of Tecpán!

    With an eccentric design and capricious details, The Big Teapot is a little bit beau-tea-ful, a little bit os-tea-ntatious, and a bit of a guil-tea pleasure. So grab a bickie and I’ll tell you all about it!

    This spout-standing attraction stands out the front of Restaurante Los Pinos, about a camo-mile up from the famous El Jardín de Tecpán. Los Pinos also offers a giant Transformer and a decommissioned Cessna 152 plane to admire, which go oolong way to making it the perfect spot for a par-tea.

    I will, sadly, have to mark Los Pinos down for not offering scones slathered in cream and strawberry jam (unlike Bygone Beautys, home of Australia’s Big Teapot).

    However, I did order a plate of chilaquiles that was so scrumptious, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven-shire tea.

    Putting the ‘tea’ in Tecpán

    Just a quick warning before visiting La Gran Tetera: the road from Guatemala City to Tecpán can be quite steep, so you could find yourself in hot water! But if this attraction isn’t your cup of tea, try La Bota Gigante in Pastores and La Mano Verde in San Pedro.

    They’re both within a cuppa-la hours drive – teehee!

    Tecpán was colonised by Spanish conquis-tea-dors in 1525, making it the oldest settlement in Guatemala. These days it’s a resort town that locals compare favourably to the mountain villages of Switzerland.

    I’m not sure if Zermatt has quite as many smash repair shops and street dogs, but Tecpán does have a charm all of its own.

    Whilst the Swiss might have their million-dollar chateaus and world-famous ski slopes, they don’t have a giant novelty teapot – so you’re better off going to Gua-tea-mala!

  • Los Delfines Grandes, Palín, Guatemala

    Los Delfines Grandes, Palín, Guatemala

    What’s the porpoise of visiting AutoMariscos, the world-famous waterpark just 45 minutes outside of Guatemala City? There’s the thrilling waterslides, crystal-clear pools, five-star food… oh, and a couple of enormous dolphins that need to be marine to be believed!

    Please put you flippers together to welcome Dolphin Lundgren and his best bud Dolphin Ziggler – Los Delfines Grandes!

    The marvellous mammals preside over the legendary Carretera al Pacífico highway, luring in passersby with their impish grins and perky dorsals. Whilst not the bulkiest Big Things around, they are noticeably larger than real dolphins – and that’s all that matters.

    The detail on these creatures is some-fin to behold. Visiting Chapins gape in awe at the tantalising tail flukes. The breathtaking beaks. And, of course, the cheeky, yet sensual blowholes.

    If these dolphins were any more realistic, the Japanese would turn up to eat ’em!

    AutoMariscos is nestled snuggly within resort town of Palín. Surrounded by concrete factories and panelbeaters, it’s become a favourite haunt of the Guatemalan glitterati. I dolphin-itely recommend a visit, no matter the orca-sion!

    Don’t worry – despite being home to Los Delpfines Grandes, there’s nothing fishy about this place!

    Can you hear the Big Dolphins cry?
    See them both rise up to meet us
    Let’s eat some ceviche tonight
    Love will lead us, Dolphins will lead us

    I felt like a fish out of water as Bigella and I sat down amongst the locals to have a meal at AutoMarisco’s upscale restaurant. They were all out of dolphin burgers, so we settled on the legendary prawn ceviche, washed down with a bottle(nose) of Gallo cerveza.

    We were treated to a taste sensation. The prawns were succulent and fresh, the sauce tangy and robust. Paired with attentive service and an exquisite view over both the dolphins and the park’s tranquil piscinas, it proved to be the perfect spot for a romantic dinner.

    Then Bigella dropped a bombshell.

    “I had a brief – some would say tumultuous – relationship with celebrity chef Jamie Oliver,” Bigella giggled, “and his ceviche was shrimp-ly terrible compared to this.”

    I chose to ignore her comment and, after the final prawn slid down my gullet, ordered dessert for us both. Whilst the postres served up were as delicious as expected, what happened next left a very sour taste in my mouth indeed.

    Sea creatures and sea-lebrity chefs

    “This is even better than the one Gordon used to make me!” Bigella cheered, gulping down her melocotones en almíbar.
    “Well, you can’t expect much from a small, furry alien,” I chuckled, referring to my long-time friend, Gordon Shumway.
    “No, I mean the gastronomic visionary Gordon Ramsay,” Bigella quivered. “We spent a memorable summer together in Tuscany back in 2017.”

    My masculinity threatened, I lost my cool and waggled an accusatory finger at Bigella.

    “Next you’ll tell me you dated Geoff Jansz!” I fumed.
    “I wouldn’t say I dated him,” Bigella shrugged.
    “Well that’s a relief.”
    “Yeah, it was more like an erotic and culinary odyssey to the boundaries of passion.”

    As we waved goodbye to Los Delfines Grandes and climbed back into the Bigsmobile, I made a mental note to not introduce Bigella to my good friend, celebrity chef Iain Hewitson.

    Things are already weird enough between me and Huey without dragging Bigella into the mix!

  • El Quetzal, Ciudad de Guatemala

    El Quetzal, Zona Portales, Ciudad de Guatemala

    Ciudad de Guatemala – the volcano-crowned Central American megacity with a heart of gold – was once a verdant valley teeming with wild creatures. Most stunning of all was the quetzal, a green-and-crimson bird of unrivalled beauty.

    The princely parrot pranced through the azure skies over this paradise, a symbol of hope for the happy little Guatemalans below.

    These days the city is a buzzing metropolis and a true cultural hub. There are five-star restaurants and overcrowded fried chicken shops. World-class fashion boutiques and labyrinthine street markets. Prodigious puppies and towering teeth.

    But the ancient forest has been covered by concrete, the animals driven up into the mountains. And, sadly, there are no quetzals.

    Wellllll… except for El Quetzal. The shining silver squawker can be found in the middle of a roundabout at the Zona Portales shopping centre, on the north-east fringe of the city.

    Óscar Porras, the world-renowned Guatemalan artist, created this majestic sculpture as a love letter to his homeland. At 10 metres from plinth to punkish silver mohawk, El Quetzal has towered over his surroundings since 2013.

    More than a decade later, locals still flock to see him!

    The handsome hooter was carefully constructed from brick and stainless steel, which ‘Óssie’ rescued from the brickyard that once stood on the site of the shops.

    The cute quetzal is said to embody the spirit of the legendary Mayan warrior – and Guatemalan folk hero – Tecún Umán.

    Maybe he should change his name to Tweet-ún Uman – teehee!

    Let’s quet physical, physical!

    Óssie Porras is a self-taught sculptor, who’s becoming a big deal in the world of oversized roadside architecture. A little birdie told me El Quetzal isn’t the only Big of his at Zona Portales.

    He created a huge statue of R2D2 – you know, the walking garbage bin from Star Wars. Óssie’s also spread his wings to build two immense warriors known as Guerreros Futuristas.

    “Se trabaja con piezas de máquinas industriales como engranajes, cadenas, cilindros, cargadores, todo lo que sea reciclado y que tenga un enfoque industrial”, Óssie explained.

    I’m fluent in Guatemalan, so he’s saying that he likes working with gears, chains, and anything else that has an industrial focus. Or it might be his order at the local Chinese restaurant, I’m not quite sure.

    Óssie was kind enough to plonk El Quetzal out the front of the popular Megapaca clothing emporium, where some of the more outlandish locals go to buy their duds.

    After admiring El Quetzal, I bought a pair of sequinned slacks, whilst Gordon splashed out on an ornate Mayan headdress. By the time we finished, we looked as vibrant as the massive bird out the front.

    We couldn’t help ourselves – the prices are so cheep!

  • Yard Dog, Indio, California

    Yard Dog, Indio, California

    Doggone it, look at the size of that dishlicker! Yard Dog is 20 feet long, made from corrugated sheet metal, and can be found in Indio’s tranquil Hjorth Bark… oops, I mean Park!

    Whilst a bit ruff around the edges, Yard Dog is a fascinating example of recycled street art, but the best thing is the name of the artist who built him.

    Ready for it?

    Don Kennell. Don Kennell! Which almost sounds like dog kennel – teehee!

    Dog… sorry, Don… modelled Yard Dog after his own pet pooch. Completed in 2011, the whopping woofer first lived in the Santa Fe Railyard Park in New Mexico. But this big dog was set for even bigger things.

    He was adopted by the owners of the Coachella Music Festival, as the headline act for the 2014 event. I was unable to attend, of course, due to my falling out with André 3000 from pop group OutKast, and subsequent restraining order.

    But enough about me and my celebrity feuds. I’ll fetch you more facts about the big ol’ bow-wow!

    After the festival, Yard Dog found his forever home in Indio, Collie-fornia in late-2014. Just down the road Coachella but a million miles away from the glitz and glamour of rock stars and travel influencers, Hjorth Park offers the chance to paws and reflect upon life.

    Sit back, munch on a bag of kibble, and admire Yard Dog.

    A Yard Act to Follow

    Whilst I certainly have the pedrigree to tell you about Yard Dog, I’ll hand it over to Mr Kennel for a few words on his bark-sterpiece.

    “The piece is based on a very famous sculpture called the Capitoline Wolf, which is this renaissance bronze that depicts Romulus and Remus under the belly of a she-wolf,” Don howled. “It’s a very strange piece and I wanted to do a contemporary take on it. My idea was to put a porch swing under the belly of the dog and then recreate that scene.”

    The swing’s since been removed – which is probably for the best, as nobody wants a bunch of swingers hanging out in the park after dark – but the dog’s still perfect for a yappy snap.

    “The idea was that we trace our civic heritage back to Rome, but in a sense we’re also always creating our society,” Don growled.

    “I wanted to put contemporary people in the position of being these founders, like we all get a chance to refound society. So that’s the highbrow take on the piece, which most people don’t recognise – they’re just like, ‘Wow it’s a cool swing under a dog, how awesome is that!’”

    Golly gosh, I suppose every dog has its day!

    You ain’t nothin’ but a Yard Dog

    With his pensive glare and heavy metal swagger, Yard Dog serves as the perfect guard dog to watch over this sleepy desert town. But if you can’t get down to Indio, Yard Dog has a twin – Barn Dog – who lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I guess there’s no runts in that litter!

    A man of peerless work ethic, Don Kennell has built many Bigs over the years, and I double dog dare you to visit them all. There’s Longview, a 35-foot polar bear made from car hoods, who can also be found in downtown Santa Fe.

    Over the road is Zozobra, an utterly bonkers 18-foot-tall metal ghoul. And the fierce, fabulous Invincible Tiger lives all the way over in Camden, New Jersey.

    Yes, in the dog-eat-dog world of oversized roadside architecture, Mr Kennell stands out from the pack!

    Don also has a really big pecker. Oh, get your mind out of the gutter – I mean The Big Roadrunner, who lives just down the road from Yard Dog, in quixotic La Quinta.

    As his name suggests, Mr Kennell has an obsession with massive mutts ‘n’ mongrels, such as Playbow in Greeley, Colorado, and Green Coyote at Meow Wolf’s House of Eternal Return in New Mexico.

    Geez, he must be dog tired after building all those!

    “These sculptures invite the viewer into a fanciful world,” Kennell snarled wistfully. “The viewer becomes a participant, and can construct a narrative or even construe a relationship with the animal in the sculpture.”

    You heard the man – go out and start an intimate relationship with a big critter near you, ASAP. You’d be barking mad not to!

  • The World’s Largest Fire Helmet, Barstow, California

    The World's Largest Fire Helmet, Barstow, California

    Got a burning desire to see all the oversized roadside attractions between Los Angeles to Las Vegas? Then turn off Interstate 15 into the charming hamlet of Barstow, California, where you’ll find The World’s Largest Fire Helmet. Located out front of the local fire station, it’s the town’s main claim to flame.

    The huge hat serves as a tribute to the 343 brave firemen who lost their lives in the September 11 terrorist attacks. But this Big Thing wasn’t always a memorial.

    The Fire Helmet first arrived in Barstow way back in the swingin’ sixties, and stood atop a gas station hotdog stand. Come for the huge helmet, stay for the foot-long wiener with caramelised onions!

    Originally bright red, it was one of dozens of oversized hard hats installed at Texaco gas stations. Bizarrely, they sported a firefighting theme at the time, and even handed out replica fire chief helmets to kiddies.

    Just what you want – a bunch of lunatics racing around dressed as firefighters while you’re filling up your Chevrolet Impala!

    After firing up sales for several decades, the statue was placed into storage in the ’80s. As far as anyone rem-embers, it’s the only Texaco helmet still around. So, by default, it’s now the biggest fire hat on the planet.

    Not surprisingly, a few of the locals are getting a big head about that!

    Hell-met’s Kitchen

    In 1994, local fireman Nick DiNapoli opened DiNapoli’s Firehouse Italian Eatery, which became as famous for its collection of firefighting memorabilia as its clam linguini. Needless to say, the restaurant set the culinary world alight.

    Wanting to draw in more diners, Nick bought the Big Helmet and plonked it out the front. The Firehouse was soon the best heatery in town, and welcomed many extinguished guests!

    Whilst diners enjoyed the flamin’ good cuisine (which, sadly, doesn’t include blazed donuts or pyro-pyro chicken – making it difficult for me to force those puns in here), it was The World’s Largest Fire Helmet that truly ignited passions. It wasn’t unusual for lines of hungry diners to be found oohing and ahhing in unison with their rumbling tummies.

    After the September 11 attacks, Nick renovated the helmet to look like the NYFD version, and donated it to the Barstow Fire Protection District. For the past two decades it’s hosted the town’s 9/11 ceremonies, and continues to draw in visitors like moths to a flame.

    Barstow’s single women, meanwhile, are still looking for the fireman big enough to wear the helmet. As they say – the larger the helmet, the longer the hose!

    If you can’t stand the heat… get out and see more Big Things!

    For any budding firebugs continuing on to Las Vegas, make sure you splash out on a trip to The Big Fire Hydrant. Closer to Barstow, there’s The World’s Largest Thermometer in Baker and a giant ice cream sundae at EddieWorld in Yermo.

    Sounds like the perfect way to cool off after a huge day tracking down roadside attractions!

  • Heart of Country, Fairholme, NSW

    Heart of Country, Fairholme, New South Wales

    For aeons the Wiradjuri roamed the barren plains west of what we now call Sydney, hunting, gathering, and dreaming. These proud people formed a spiritual connection with the land, becoming one with the mountains and trees.

    And now their sinuous history has been immortalised in the form of Heart of Country. The six-metre-tall indigenous warrior stands ominously by the side of the road in Fairholme, 24km south-east of Condobolin.

    So if seeing Shannon Noll‘s childhood home isn’t enough to entice you to ‘Condo’, maybe Heart of Country will convince you to head out there.

    Created by Victorian artist Damian Vick, the one-tonne Corten Steel behemoth was unveiled to an intrigued public in June, 2021. Along with Varanus the Goanna in Forbes, this king-sized Koori serves as a guardian of the beloved Sculpture Down the Lachlan art trail.

    “I was extremely conscious that the creation of this work rested on a delicate cultural landscape, and that it must be approached with the gravity and sensitivity it demands”, Damian pontificated. “Seeing it in its final location, standing tall, with its earthy finish was an extremely proud moment and gave a sense of finality to a sculpture that I consider the most powerful and important one of my career to date.”

    Gazing, unblinking, at the tortured landscape of western NSW, Heart of Country becomes one with the red dirt. The scrub at his feet heaves with grasshoppers; the swaying trees echo with birdsong. As the fragrant outback breeze caresses the giant’s robust thighs, he reverberates with the pain and pleasure of the past.

    This above-average aboriginal truly is a work of Heart.

    Welcome to Country

    Brutal, natural, mournful, complex; Heart of Country means something different to everyone who visits him. The experience changes depending on the weather, season and time of day. What may appear intimidating – even aggressive – during the harsh light of a summer afternoon, takes on a melancholy candor under the silvery light of a winter moon.

    “Too bad the country’s heart is in the middle of nowhere,” my sidekick Gordon quipped as we rolled through Fairholme aboard the Bigsmobile. “I saw a good chimichanga shop about 200km back that would be the perfect place to put that statue.”
    “Were you impressed by the chimichangas,”I grinned, “or the mamacita serving them?”

    The air was hot enough to melt the sauce off a shish kebab as we pulled into the carpark. The first thing I noticed was how petite Heart of Country looks beneath the big skies of the golden west.

    “It’s as if Damian was commenting on man’s immaterial insignificance,” Gordon said solemnly, climbing out of the car.

    With his remote location, this is one Big that you won’t have to battle the crowds to get a photo with – and that’s a good thing. One can only appreciate Heart of Country by sitting at his feet and drinking in a millennia of culture and history.

    “Geez, Gordon,” I tittered, as we posed for our photo. “With his thousand-yard-stare and spiky spear thingy, I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.”
    “He doesn’t have a bad side,” Gordon sniffed pompously. “He truly is a work or Heart – and you can use that on your website if you like.”
    “I already have, old mate,” I giggled, as we swaggered off into the bush. “I already have.”

  • Duelling Banjos, Kin Kin, Qld

    Duelling Banjos, Kin Kin, Queensland, Australia

    Deep in the Noosa Hinterland, far from the chatter of the city, the gumtrees and stars once bore witness to a sonic revolution – the Duelling Banjos. The fully-playable instruments come from the musical mind of Steve Weis, and served for years as the gateway to his harmonious homestead and the many wonders within.

    But now the banjos duel no longer.

    Steve forged a reputation as one of Australia’s pre-eminent scrap metal artists – he even crafted The Black Ant up the road – before transforming his estate into an intergalactic soundshower.

    His gnarled artworks create an aural tapestry that is at once alien and familiar, soothing yet rhythmically unnerving. Steve’s recycled behemoths are a meditation on the very essence of life and love.

    “Many years ago I had the experience of grinding with an angle grinder on a big, complex steel form, and started to hear a celestial melody,” Steve opined. “I also found that as I moved my grinding disc around on the surface, I could find sweet spots that caused this melody to play stronger.”

    Bigella and moi were lucky enough to join these melodic marvels on their farewell tour, just before the house was sold and they left Kin Kin forever. We found The Big Banjos to be beautifully detailed, charmingly rustic and – most importantly – really, really big!

    As we were strumming away, we were approached by one of Steve’s disciples. A kindly chap, he whisked us off on a magical mystery tour of the estate’s sprawling grounds.

    What we discovered beggared belief. Whimsical sculptures and vibrant tropical plants decorated the soundgarden. Our spirit guide regaled us with stories of wild parties and quiet moments and extraterrestrial visitors.

    It was a celestial voyage that we would never have embarked upon if we hadn’t gone looking for Big Things.

    The Day the Music Died

    “Some people say I’ve got small man complex,” Steve once told a journalist, as they explored his choral kaleidoscope. “But I do like big, I like scale. I like magnificence. I like to have the feeling there’s something bigger than us.”

    To visit Steve’s acoustic highway is to forever see and hear the world differently. So, when Bigella and I discovered the manor was to be sold in early 2024, we wasted no time putting in an offer.

    Unfortunately, a Big Potato t-shirt and a lifetime subscription to Land of the Bigs Premium weren’t quite what Steve had in mind, so we lost out to some other lucky duck.

    The sculptures scattered around Steve’s sanctuary were split up and auctioned off in February 2024.

    “Can we get the Duelling Banjos?” I begged Bigella. “Can we, can we?”
    “Bigs,” she sighed. “The Big Guitar you got from Surfers Paradise is gathering dust in the attic.”
    “I guess so.”
    “And you can always see Chango con Banjo next time we swing by Mexico City.”
    “Well,” I shrugged, “I have been meaning to get a new poncho!”

    The Banjos were picked up by a Bigthusiast for just $2500. Sadly, they will have been removed from the property by the time you read this.

    And so, Steve Weis’s wonderland has been consigned to a curious corner of history. But every time a breeze slams a rusty door closed, or an iron roof shudders at a passing storm, I shall be reminded of this remarkable artist, and his bombastic Duelling Banjos

  • Arnold the Giant Murray Cod, Swan Hill, Vic

    Arnold the Giant Murray Cod, Swan Hill, Victoria, Australia

    Measuring 15 metres from trout pout to caudal fin, Arnold is o-fish-ially the largest Murray Cod around – and after appearing in the cult classic, Eight Ball, he’s also Australia’s biggest movie star.

    Sorry, Chris Hemsworth, your melon-heavy muscles don’t quite match up to this four-tonne flounder!

    Eight Ball revolves around an oddball named Russel (the devilishly handsome Paul Stevn), who runs into Charlie (the ever-charismatic Matthew Fargher), an architect designing an enormous fish sculpture (a babyfaced Arnold in his breakthrough role) for Swan Hill. The two bond over the game of eight ball and their shared love for novelty architecture.

    But the story’s just an excuse to show off the great big grouper. The performances in Eight Ball are mesmerising, the script punchy, but the film comes alive when Arnold’s on screen. He’s treated with the reverence he deserves, and the scenes of Arnold being built are as informative as they are heart-wrenching.

    In reality, The Giant Murray Cod was made out of steel and timber in Melbourne in 1991, then hauled off to Speewa, just outside of Swan Hill, for the filming. Criminy, a fish this large must’ve taken up 90 per cent of the budget!

    I was, of course, briefly considered for the pivotal role of Dougie. Sadly, I lost out to the little fat kid from Hey Dad! when the producers realised it would be impossible for me to focus on the script if there was a immense freshwater fish nearby.

    Director Ray Argall did, however, name the character of Eric Biggs in my honour. Thanks, babe!

    In a just world, Eight Ball would’ve made a billion dollars and spawned an extended cinematic universe revolving around our beautiful Big Things. Instead, Arnold the Giant Murray Cod – darling of the silver screen – settled into a quiet life in rural Victoria

    A Star is Spawned

    After the hoopla surrounding Eight Ball died down, the good people of Swan Hill had just one question for the producers: “Pretty please, can we keep that big ol’ murray cod?”

    Anything to stick it to their rivals down the creek in Tocumwal, who are very proud of their very own Big Murray Cod!

    With Eight Ball 2: The Cods Must Be Crazy looking unlikely, the studio donated Arnie to the town. To make sure he could survive Swan Hill’s harsh weather, the charming chaps at Grizzly Engineering slathered Arnold in fibreglass and gave him a spiffy new paintjob. Then it was time for the big fella to find his forever home in this endearing river town.

    The original plan was to plonk him in the middle of a roundabout at the entrance to Swan Hill, but the authorities – quite rightly – thought it would cause car accidents. I mean, really, who could possibly remember to give way to the right when there’s a great big guppy sitting there in all his glory?

    Arnold was, instead, shunted off to a less salubrious spot – next to the carp-ark at the local train station. Golly gosh, that would make that barra-Monday morning commute a little more palatable!

    Arnold is lovingly maintained, and there are a couple of benches to sit on whilst you bask in his briny glory. I must, however, take umbrage with his placement within the park. He’s squeezed in between a couple of parking lots that are usually quite full, meaning it can be quite difficult to fully enjoy Arnie’s magnificence.

    To make up for this bitter disappointment, the Tourist Information Centre up the road does sell scale replicas of Arnold. The Giant Murray Cod is also the featured fish on the Royal Australian Mint’s collection of commemorative Big Things coins.

    Honestly, what more could you fish for!

    Hey Arnold!

    With his movie star good looks and bad boy swagger, Arnold the Giant Murray Cod brings a touch of class to Swan Hill. He also attracters ‘haterz’, fuelled by jealousy for his acting success and popularity with the ladies.

    Enter Gordon Shumway, my business partner in Land of the Bigs and the former star of hit TV show, ALF.

    He had a bad attitude as soon as we stepped out of the Bigsmobile. Swaggering around the fish wearing his Gucci sunglasses and matching chambray tunic, it was clear that Gordon felt threatened by Arnold’s star power.

    “What numbers did Eight Ball do, bro?” Gordon snorted. “Yeah, Project: ALF did $850 mil, more on Blu-Ray.”

    Knowing that Project: ALF had been an unmitigated disaster that led to Gordon being blackballed from Hollywood, I could only roll my eyes. Stoic as ever, Arnold gazed impassively at the passing traffic.

    “Big guy,” Gordon rasped, jabbing a furry finger at the fish’s soft underbelly, “you’re not the first Arnold I’ve run out of town, and you won’t be the last.”
    “Gordon, stop lying,” I sighed. “You’ve never even met Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
    “Arnold Schwarzenegger? No, I Mean Arnold Finklestein from the pickleball club. That shmuck had the chutzpah to knock over my bowl of matzah ball soup!”

    Even a gentle giant fish has his limits. Arnold scooped up Gordon and, in a moment of madness, tried to swallow him whole.
    “Not again!” Gordon wept. “I’ve just washed the smell of trout out of my hair!”
    Springing into action, I plucked the little alien from the cod’s jaws, bundled him into the Bigsmobile, and screeched out of Swan Hill.

    “Gordon, buddy,” I said tenderly as I navigated the sweeping roads. “I know it must be difficult to deal with your waning celebrity, but…”
    “Just forget about it,” he shrugged. “Let’s go get some babka with Sly and Jean-Claude.”
    “You mean Sly Horowitz and Jean-Claude Kablinski, from the pickleball club?”
    “No, Sly Stallone and Jean-Claude Van Damme from Hollywood’s A-list. They’re in negotiations to play us in Land of the Bigs: The Movie. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Arnie!”

  • Las Manos, Playa Zicatela, México

    Las Manos, Playa Zicatela, Oaxaca, México

    One wretched afternoon, many moons ago, two Italian tourists were swept away by the broiling seas off Puerto Escondido, México. The locals fought valiantly to save them, but the pair were lost to the pitiless waves. Their memories shall live on, however, through this immense pair of hands.

    Las Manos was created by the pair’s loved ones, to represent the helping hands that tried to pluck them from the ocean blue. Located at the northern end of Playa Zicatela, where the boys disappeared, the statue serves as a grim reminder of how dangerous this beach is.

    So, as a rule of thumb, you should always swim between the flags.

    With their offbeat, gnarled charm, Las Manos demand a moment of quiet reflection from anyone who visits this beautiful, yet deadly, beach. A more haunting Big you’re unlikely to find.

    When I paid my respects to Las Manos in 2022 it was, lamentably, looking a little the worse for wear. The base was cracked, the hands were covered in some really quite repulsive graffiti, and it appeared someone had wiped the remains of their taco dinner all over the sculpture.

    Forget drugs and corruption, the real problem facing Méxicans is their lack of respect towards oversized novelty structures.

    And then, one day, the unthinkable happened…

    All Hands on Deck

    On July 6, 2023, the Hands of Zicatela finally succumbed to a lack of maintenance and the relentless wash of the salty brine. Las Manos crumbled away and was washed into the ocean, another part of México’s history lost forever.

    Even worse, it seemed like those who were commemorated by the piece would be forgotten.

    But our story doesn’t end there. Members of the local community banded together to create a new set of hands, unveiled in November of that year. Hard work, no doubt, but I’m sure they celebrated with an icy-cold can of Tecate at the nearby Dorada Bar ‘n’ Gill.

    The new set’s larger, more ornate and – dare I say it – provides a better photo opportunity for the tourist hordes. They even have an outrageously-proportion octopus wrapped around their wrists. I have to give the good people of Zicatela a round of applause for their attention to detail!

    The new Las Manos certainly holds up to other huge hands around the world, such as La Mano Verde in Guatemala, La Mano in Uruguay, The Wishing Hand in Ireland and Bird in Hand in Australia.

    Sadly, I think the new version of Las Manos lacks the visceral energy of the original one – although I can’t quite put my finger on why!

  • El Chapulín, Polanco, México

    El Chapulín, Polanco, Ciudad de México

    Where can you have an authentic Méxican meal, get a great night’s rest, and stare in open-mouthed wonder at an incredible Big Thing, all in the same place? Right here at the Presidente InterContinental Hotel in Mexico City’s trendy Polanco district – home to the beautiful and historic El Chapulín.

    That’s ‘The Grasshopper’ for you gringos. ¡Buen provecho!

    El Chapulín started life as the logo for what was originally known as the Presidente Chapultepec Hotel, and was designed by American artiste Lance Wyman in 1975. Chapultepec means ‘hill of grasshoppers’ in the ancient Aztec language, so it wasn’t a huge leap to settle on a giant insect.

    Having previously worked on the iconography for the 1968 Olympics and the Mexico City Metro, Lance brought a touch of class to the emblem, whilst celebrating the vibrant personality of this cheeky chap(ulín).

    The minimalist logo was so moving that, not only did the owners slather a 15-metre version of it across the top of the hotel, but also placed an immense stone rendition at the front door to greet customers.

    By the way, do you need to tip the doorman if he’s a two-tonne Aztec grasshopper?

    “I designed the hotel grasshopper using forms found in the Aztec period,” Lance explained. “When the hotel changed ownership it used a new logo. I remember feeling sad the first time I flew into Mexico City and the 15-meter grasshopper was no longer on top of the hotel.”

    Heartbreak, however, soon turned to hoppiness. Whilst the logo atop the building was removed, the stone statue of El Chapulín was saved. He soon moved to his current location in a courtyard opposite the Jardín Winston Churchill.

    Thanks, Lance – your work is Chapul-íncredible!

    They should’ve called him Dennis Hopper!

    So beloved is El Chapulín that there’s even a restaurant, right next to the statue, named in his honour. Serving traditional comida Méxicana, Chapulín is famous for its picaditas de camarón en salsa verde, pollo estilo Sinaloa, and ceviche verde de pescado.

    Bizarrely, the restaurant serves neither jalapeño hoppers nor Grasshopper cocktails. When I demanded an answer from the waitress, all I got was crickets. On the plus side, the restaurant’s very clean, so they’ll have no trouble with the health insectors.

    When I tore Mexico’s elite away from their meals to tell them those pithy one-liners, they started bugging out. I guess my hilarity’s lost in translation.

    “Mmmmm, this tostada de jaiba reminds me of my youth on the streets of Guadalajara,” I gibbered to my mí amiga, Bigella. I paused to elegantly wipe salsa macha from my chin. “I’d rise at dawn to shine shoes all day, just to earn enough dinero to buy a simple carne apache de atún madurado sobre tres piezas de tuétano.”
    “I thought you grew up in a waterfront bungalow in Vaucluse?” she responded.
    “Honestly,” I sighed, “my backstory changes so often that even I don’t remember anymore.”

    There was an uneasy silence. The two of us stared longingly at El Chapulín as we munched away on our perfectly-prepared postres. Helado de mangos con crema for myself. Pastel de queso a la leña con compota de frutos rojos for Bigella.

    “By the way, Bigella,” I said, jabbing an ice cream-sticky finger at her belly. “I’ve been meaning to ask about…”
    “Too many quesadillas,” Bigella snapped.
    “It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened that night in Andorra?”
    “Too many quesadillas.”
    “I told you, I was overcome by lust after visiting The Ponderer.”
    “Too. Many. Quesadillas.”

    Somewhere, in Parque Chapultepec, a loon cried out on the lake.

  • The Big Trout, Oberon, NSW

    The Big Trout, Oberon, New South Wales, Australia

    Want to enjoy a scrumptious Chinese dinner whilst admiring an enormous fish? Then head to the charming haven of Oberon, New South Wales, where you can have a photo with The Big Trout as you wipe succulent sweet ‘n’ sour sauce from your chin.

    The scaly scamp, with his flabbergasted expression, lives in front of the Oberon Rainbow Chinese Restaurant and the adjoining Big Trout Motor Inn. He arrived in 1989, a few months after the hotel opened, and has become a beloved symbol of the village, which is famous for fly fishing.

    Why anyone would want to fish for flies, I don’t know – teehee!

    The Trout may not be as large, famous or – let’s face it – handsome as that other Big Trout in Adaminaby, but he radiates with a folksy charm that could warm up the coldest Oberon morning.

    The Big Trout was refurb-fished in 2012, with the motel’s owners casting a wide net to find the right man for the job. That turned out to be local artist Mark Taylor, who not only tackled the task of repainting the fish, but also added the gorgeous mural behind him.

    Thankfully, The Big Trout is in good hands (which is ironic because, being a fish, he doesn’t have any). The motel and restaurant were sold a few years ago, with Chandra and Pav Ratnam taking over the fish-ility in 2020.

    They’ve splashed the cash renovating the hotel’s rooms, so you can spend all night peering out the window at their wet wunderkind, with all the comfort of clean bedsheets and reverse cycle air-conditioning.

    Chan and Pav, your spacious and well-appointed rooms really are the catch of the day!

    A Big Fish In A Small Pond (but it’s empty, so you can get up close and perch-onal for a photo)

    My chum, Gordon, is hooked on fly fishing, so it didn’t take much to convince him to head to Oberon with me. After spending the day with our rods in our hands we were famished, so we splashed off to the Rainbow Chinese for the deep-fried duck with plum sauce and a side of hot chips.

    No seafood for me – I didn’t want to upset the big guy out the front!

    The restaurant is is popular with the locals, so there was a long (fishing) line out the door, but it was definitely worth the bait. Fresh and juicy lamb, pork and chicken, with just the right amount of Oriental tang, tantalise the tastebuds.

    Unfortunately, things soon took a distasteful turn – and I’m not talking about the Szechuan beef, which was magnificent.

    Wanting to show off to his angling buddies, Gordon took to drinking like a fish. Inebriated on rice wine, he stumbled out of the restaurant and started breakdancing beneath the bosom of The Big Trout. Our finned friend, unaccustomed to such boorish behaviour, must’ve mistaken Gordon for a chubby little mealworm, and tried to eat him.

    Trouty, I’ve shared a car with Gordon after he’s had a Chinese feast – so trust me, you don’t want to do that!

    Showing nerves of steel, I grabbed the nearest Ugly Stik and rescued Gordon from the oversized mackerel’s jaws. A cacophony of cheers from the other diners, however, soon gave way to judgemental jeers at the small alien’s vulgar exploits.

    Fortunately, he passed out shortly after I took him back to our room, and I was able to finish my meal and go back to gawping at the big, concrete fish.

    Here is my handle, here is my trout

    When he woke up in our conservatively-priced twin cabana the next morning, Gordon was feeling a bit green about the gills.

    “I’m so embarrassed, I just want to get out of here,” he mumbled, putting on a pair of dark sunglasses. As I smuggled him out of there, Gordon barely even acknowledged The Big Trout. I know it’s a bad hangover when he can’t even be bothered worshipping an overside roadside attraction.

    Reversing the Bigsmobile out of the driveway, a hairy landed upon mine.
    “Don’t forgot my Mongolian lamb with a side of dim sims before we leave,” Gordon grumbled, jabbing a finger at the restaurant. I grinned at him and took off my seatbelt.
    “And some spring rolls?” I asked.
    “Of course, Bigs, and the special fried rice,” he chortled, before giving The Big Trout a cheeky wink. “Oberon out!”

  • The Yearling, Denver, Colorado

    The Yearling, denver, Colorado, United States of America

    Pull up a chair and sit back to admire The Yearling* – an enormous red seat with a life-sized pinto pony perched on top of it. Nicknamed Scout, the gorgeous gelding offers an impressive sense of scale to the piece as he peers wistfully over the vast plains of downtown Denver.

    I’ve got a nagging suspicion he’s going to gallop his way into your heart!

    At 21 feet in height, The Yearling is the mane attraction of the Denver Public Library, and was built by the incomparable Donald Lipski. Proving he’s no one trick pony, Land of the Bigs fans will remember him as the provocateur behind Spot the Dalmatian.

    Not surprisingly, this very unique Big Thing has been mired in controversy. Back in 1993, Donald was asked to build a statue for a new school in New York. Donald being Donald, he didn’t hold back.

    “So I designed this sculpture, and my idea about it was that kids are really interested in scale,” Donald told a reporter from Westword, who must’ve been on the edge of her seat. “Understandably so. They’re little people in a world of big people, and their literature is full of scale references – Alice in Wonderland, Gulliver’s Travels, James and the Giant Peach.”

    It would be-hoove you to read those tomes if you want to understand the true meaning of this horsey.

    “I had this idea about a horse on some sort of prominent level, looking out. It just seemed like a narrative; there’s something heroic and contemplative about it,” Donald whinnied. “I then came up with the idea of the chair and making it look like a child’s chair, which was easy to do by putting the hand grip in the back.

    “Everybody loved it,” chuckled Donald. “Or at least everybody I was talking to loved it!”

    Tragically, it wasn’t long before Scout seemed headed for the glue factory.

    *Please, please, please do not actually do this. There are many drug-addled homeless people hanging around the library, and they will steal your Hello Kitty lipgloss as you’re stretched out on the sidewalk, staring in open-mouthed wonder at The Yearling. Trust me, I know.

    The Colt of Personality

    The Yearling was a hit with the kiddies of New York City. But local fuddy duddies didn’t feel the same way. Concerned the sculpture would encourage children to indulge in horseplay, they demanded its removal.

    And then the Dominicans got involved.

    “For the Dominican people, the horse is a symbol of oppression, because the conquistadors had horses,” Donald lamented. “Everybody loved the chair and wanted me to put something else on it instead of a horse. They wanted a child, a rainbow…. None of the ideas interested me.”

    There were long faces all around when the school board decided the giant chair and horse had to go. Fortunately, The Yearling wasn’t put out to pasture, and Donald took back ownership of his masterpiece. In November of 1997, Scout and his big bench trotted up the road to Central Park.

    The sculpture soon ran a-foal of a streetwise youth gang, however, and after a few months Donald decided it was time for The Yearling to go west. Well, life is peaceful there, and there is lots of open air.

    The good people of Denver, Colorado were looking to add some culture to their fine city, so they ponied up the money for The Yearling and plonked it in front of the library. But hold your horses, because there’s no happy ending just yet.

    I’ve been through the desert on a horse with a chair frame

    Scout – poor, kind, sensitive Scout – was fried alive by the harsh Colorado sun. He was swapped out for a bronze version, and the original was given to Denver’s Mare John Hickenlooper as a gift. Wowsers, a present like that must be as rare as rocking horse droppings!

    John kept the dashing chap in his office for years. Scout v1.0 even joined him in the State Capitol when he became Governor. John probably didn’t a scrap of work done the whole time; he’d just sit there in his equestrian cap, looking at Scout with bedroom eyes and neighing quietly to himself.

    When the guv’nor moved on, he parted ways with his bestie. Scout moved to the Denver Coliseum and Mr Hickenlooper, the last I heard, was roaming free in the Rockies with a brace of wild broncos. A short sentence.

    As for Donald Lipski, he’s just happy that The Yearling finally has a place to call home.

    “I wanted to give kids something that would really be a cause for wonder,” he reflected. And that comes straight from the horse’s mouth!

    If I could turn back equine
    I’d give it all to you!

    Sadly, The Yearling is locked away behind a wrought-iron fence to stop overzealous Bigsthusiasts from riding Scout – or Venezuelan gangs from stealing the whole thing.

    Of course, I considered climbing over the fence. Scrambling up one of the chair’s legs. Hoisting myself atop Scout for a memorable photo. But then I remembered I was in Denver – where laws are really heavily enforced and criminal activity isn’t tolerated in any way – so I thought better of it.

    Without being able to get up close and personal with this Big, it’s hard to appreciate its scale in the way Donald Lipski intended. We must stand and admire The Yearling from a safe distance. Unfortunately, this is what we’re saddled with.

    On a brighter note, as I was posing for these happy snaps, I spotted a statuesque homeless chap in a dark wig and fishnet stockings sashaying his way towards me.

    “Excuse me, friend,” I cajoled him, flashing my award-winning grin. “But I’m here to see The Big Chair.”

    “Oh, my mistake, Bigs,” he splurted, wiping gruel from his square jaw. “I thought you said you were here to see The Big Cher!”

  • Grrrreta the Grrrreat Big Dinosaur, Fruita, Colorado

    Grrrreta the Grrrreat Big Dinosaur, Fruita, Colorado

    The hills above Fruita, Colorado, are full of dinosaur bones, but it’s in the centre of town that visitors can get up close and personal with Grrrreta, a bombastic, bright-green tyrannosaurus.

    Radiating with a pleasant retro zeal, Grrrreta has served as the symbol of this quirky outpost for more than 80 years. From her spot in Circle Park, she watches over Fruita’s laidback coffee shops and bohemian craft beer emporiums.

    It’s a bit like Jurassic Park, with slightly less chance of having your head bitten off. Well, unless you’re Mike the Headless Chicken.

    Grrrreta’s syrupy smile, however, hides a prehistoric pain. Despite her legendary reputation in western Colorado, the old girl has more than once stood upon the precipice of extinction.

    Her story starts way back in the primordial soup that was the 1940s. Local chap Ray Thomas and his wife owned The Dinosaur Store on the outskirts of town, which sold a scrumptious array of candies, sodas and, erm, rocks. Well it was before PlayStations and Tamagotchis, so the kiddies made do with what they had – and Colorado certainly has its share of rocks.

    When Highway 50 was rolled out right outside his shop’s front door, Ray knew he needed something BIG to pull in customers, and decided on an enormous dinosaur. The only problem? He didn’t really know what they looked like.

    “They wrote to the Smithsonian and asked them to send them specs for a dinosaur,” explained local character Sherry Tice, who later leased the building the creature guarded. “And so they sent the specs and they built that dinosaur out of railroad ties, chicken wire, and ferrocement.”

    Looking at the beastie, maybe that should be ferocious-ment – teehee!

    Ray named his creation Dinni – but let’s just stick with her current name, Grrrreta, to avoid confusion. Thousands of curious travellers popped in to see her, and the commemorative rock business had never been healthier.

    But that’s not all-osaurus, folks!

    They said you’d never get anywhere
    Well, they don’t care and it’s just not fair
    That you know, that I know Grrrreta

    Anyone who thinks ancient lizards don’t have a flair for fashion, has never met Grrrreta. She’s had more looks than Greta Garbo, Greta Thunburg and Greta the disturbingly sensual mogwai from Gremlins 2 combined.

    As The Dinosaur Store changed hands over the years, her new owners festooned her with their own quirks and peccadilloes. One year she was green with orange spots, the next a handsome shade of chartreuse yellow. One owner, feeling festive, replaced her eyes with bright red lightbulbs, which must’ve freaked out the local drunks.

    “Later on, there was a speaker put in its mouth and a remote control from inside the gas station, and they could press a button and the dinosaur would roar,” Sherry revealed. “One lady was pumping gas and the dinosaur roared and it scared her so bad she jumped in the ditch nearby.”

    These days it’s just the gas prices that terrify customers – teehee!

    Much like the age of the dinosaurs, however, all good things must come to an end. But instead of a colossal comet, it was the twin terrors of gentrification and corporate gluttony that almost wiped out this prehistoric princess.

    In the early-80s a truck driver – terrorised, perhaps, by her jagged teeth and relentless claws, but more likely overwhelmed by lust for her exotic curves and come-hither eyes – got into a tyrannosaurus wreck, destroying Grrrreta’s tail. The tricera-cops turned up to drag him off to the gulag for the crime of damaging a Big, but the damage was done.

    When The Dinosaur Store shut its doors for good, Grrrreta was left to decay in the relentless Colorado sun. A metaphor for the downfall of society, the old girl’s predicament became a saur point for the good folk of Fruita.

    But, as chubby, bearded gentleman from Jurassic Park would say, “Life finds a way!”

    When I say, ‘I love you,’ you say, you Grrrreta
    You Grrrreta, you Grrrreta you Grrrret

    Seizing upon Grrrreta’s cultural value, some art boffins in nearby Grand Junction raised funds to have the dinosaur completely rebuilt. The old one was thrown in a bin somewhere and a brand spankin’ new metal skeleton was crafted, with some sort con-cretaceous poured over the top. With a new lick of paint, Grrrreta was ready to charm the locals for another four decades.

    But it ain’t easy bein’ green (or whatever colour Grrreta was at the time).

    Shortly after Sherry Tice took over the former Dinosaur Store and turned it into a pizza shop (the marrrrgherita was, not surprisingly, delicious!), the building was condemned. Grrrreta, tragically, was to be torn down. Well, jurassic times call for jurassic measures, and Sherry wasn’t going to let her gal pal become part of history.

    “When we found out, I went down to the federal building in Grand Junction and I asked if the federal government would give us that dinosaur for the town of Fruita,” Sherry spluttered.

    The pollies, empathetic to the plight of a fellow sharp-fanged, scaly creature, gave a resounding, “Yes, ma’am!”

    One warm day in 2000, Grrrreta was loaded up on a truck and driven through the sun-dappled streets of Fruita to her new home, as thousands of besotted locals watched on. To ring in this new era, the local kiddies were given the opportunity to rename their favourite dinosaur.

    They of course chose Barney, but the town went with their second choice – Grrrreta. I assume the ‘r’ key must’ve gotten stuck when they typed out her nameplate.

    Grrrreta the Devil You Know

    The old gal was placed behind a sturdy fence to keep distracted truck drivers – and hormonal teenagers unable to restrain their lurid desires – away from her hedonistic curves.

    She also had a leash strapped around her ankle to prevent her from going crazy and storming through the streets of Fruita, chasing cars and peeping in windows. Or, at the very least, popping into one of the town’s colourful, yet competitively-priced restaurants for a snack. Just a tip, this dino likes her steak rawwww!

    The locals took to dressing Grrrreta up for special holidays. A pumpkin on her head for Halloween, a Santa costume leading up to Christmas, a yarmulke for Yom Kippur, that sort of thing.

    Grrrreta’s whimsical nature harkens back to simpler times. No, not the Triassic period, that would’ve been vaguely horrible. I mean a time when men and women across the world built giant roadside dinos, like Tyra and Big Kev and Digby and the marvellous, majestic Ploddy.

    Millions of years from now, long after we’re all gone and the Land of the Bigs servers have been shut down for good, the next inhabitants of this planet may, perhaps, stumble upon what’s left of Gretttta and the thousands of other roadside attractions that decorate our lonely blue planet. The only remaining trace of mankind’s existence, they’ll tell the stories of our culture and history, our triumphs and failures and wildest dreams.

    Perhaps they’ll stand before Grrrreta, their six mouths agape, 23 eyes non-blinking, antennae wobbling around comically, feeling the same sense of wonder that the rest of us did the first time we saw this prehistoric masterpiece.

    Gretttta, my fellow Biggies, is the ultimate expression of what it means to be human.

  • Varanus the Big Goanna, Forbes, NSW

    Varanus the Big Goanna, Forbes, New South Wales

    Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, you’re takin’ a drive, takin’ a drive… out to Forbes! There you’ll find Varanus, the grooviest goanna on the planet.

    The 20-metre-long metal lizard haunts the bushland southwest of town but, despite his remote location, usually has a few scantily-clad go-go girls jitterbugging around him. And this Fever doesn’t just happen on Saturday Nights, because you can see Varanus every day of the week!

    So pop on a crisp white suit and crank up the Bee Gees as we cut a rug with this very special Big!

    Varanus was built by that hippest of cats, sculptor Glen Star. A true visionary with a unique connection to the land, Glen crafted the enormous critter completely by hand, using the highest-quality steel.

    “Anyone who has been camping in the bush has probably seen a lace monitor,” Glen revealed. “The goanna is of special significance to the Wiradjuri people as a totemic animal, and a food source particularly during tough times. The bigger the gugaa (goanna), the more people fed.”

    The result is a remarkable Big that eviscerates the unyielding dichotomy betwixt science and mysticism. Varanus serves as the main attraction of the famed Sculpture Down The Lachlan art trail, along with Bird in Hand and Heart of Country.

    Despite his immense stature, Varanus blends perfectly in with his surroundings. Once the sun slips behind the gumtrees, however, it’s party time for this splendid squamate.

    Forget the Viper Room – the Lace Monitor Room is the freshest place to be seen! Awwwww, yeah!

    I’m not a girl, not yet a goanna

    Meet me at the place where we learned to electric boogaloo. Eleven words on a slip of unlined A3 paper, that had me racing back to Forbes. A town where I’d misspent my youth. A town I never dreamed I’d return to. Would the townsfolk even want me back?

    “John,” I muttered as I navigated the Bigsmobile through the winding backroads of western New South Wales. “Oh poor, sweet John.”
    “You don’t have to do this, you know,” whispered Gordon, placing a tiny hand upon mine. “The last time you helped him, you barely made it out alive.”
    “He’d do the same for me,” I shrugged, a tear rolling down my cheek. “At least, I hope he would.”

    It was almost closing time at the Post Office Hotel when I pushed through the heavy wooden doors. There he was slumped on the bar, surrounded by empty beer cans and framed by a halo of light from the toilet.

    “John!” I cried.
    “That’s Mr Travolta to you,” the figure slurred, then his eyes widened when he saw me. “Bigs!”

    We embraced, and it was if no time had passed since we’d first met on the set of the poorly-received Look Who’s Talking Now, where I’d performed admirably as John’s stunt double.

    “Bigs,” my pal blubbered, “I’ve wasted my life on my acclaimed acting career when I should’ve been focused on what’s important – travelling around Australia looking at oversized roadside objects.”
    “John, you’ve had one of Tinseltown’s most storied careers, money, women and –”
    “And I’d give it all back just to visit Ally the Alpaca.”
    “Come on now. You’ve visited many Big Things.”
    “Thirty-four,” he wept. “I’ve only seen 34 Bigs.”
    “Oh dear,” I gasped, taking the Hollywood hunk in my arms. John, I had no idea it was this bad.”

    John Travolta reached for another beer and I slapped it out of his hand.
    “You don’t need another drinky-poo,” I cooed, stroking his luxurious hair. “The only thing that will fix you is an enormous metal lizard.”

    John nodded sadly, and there was a flicker of hope in his chocolatey eyes.

    “Now put on that stunning white suit you wore in Saturday Night Fever,” I smiled, “and let’s get out of here.”

    But I don’t feel like dancin’ when the old goanna plays
    My heart could take a chance, but this Big Thing will make your day

    By the light of the silvery moon, John Travolta, resplendent in his flares and wide-lapelled cloak, chest hair bristling in the breeze, twirled the inimitable Bigs Bardot through the Australian bush whilst Varanus the Big Goanna watched on, smiling.

    “Here I am,” John cooed, busting out a brief crab dance. “Prayin’ for this moment to last.”
    “Livin’ on the music so fine,” I cawed, doing the floss beneath the eucalypts. “Borne on the wind,
    makin’ it mine.”
    “Night fever, night fever,” we called in perfect unison. “We know how to do it. Gimme that night fever, night fever. We know how to show iiiiiiiiiit!”

    John and I collapsed to the heath, breasts heaving as we stared up at Varanus. The creature peered back approvingly and, for a moment, all was well in the world. Bigs Bardot and John Travolta would cross the Land of the Bigs, disco dancing in front of other large lizards such as Dirrawuhn, The Big Water Dragon, Lizzo, and Joanna the Goanna.

    “Yo toots, I gotta split,” John finally said, shattering my illusion of peace. “My private jet is waiting to take me to a bat mitzvah at Ron Howard’s place.
    “Lead the way,” I grinned, looking over at my friend’s custom-built Boeing 707-138, parked a few metres away from The Big Goanna. “I’ve been meaning to pitch a script for a Land of the Bigs movie to Ron for a while. Think Schindler’s List meets Screwballs.”

    “Aw, Bigs, you know I’d like to,” shrugged John, spinning on the spot and then pointing, dramatically, at the full moon. “But I just don’t have the room, babydoll.”
    “There are 189 seats on that aeroplane, John.”
    “Pookie, you know I need those seats for all my Academy Awards.”
    “John, John! I thought we were going to see Arthur Sprout tomorrow…”
    But John was already sailing through the skies on his luxury airliner.

    By the time I’d hiked the 5.5km back to Forbes, Gordon was finishing his nightcap in the front bar of the Post Office Hotel. Seeing my bedraggled party suit and broken-hearted gaze, he gave me a comforting smile and drew me in for a cuddle.

    “He did it again, didn’t he?” Gordon sighed, ruffling my hair. I just nodded sheepishly.
    “Then let’s dance it out,” he grinned. As we took to the pub’s dance floor, the people of Forbes surrounded us, hips thrusting and arms waving. For one night, the pubs of this central western village were transformed into the discotèques of late-70s Brooklyn.

    Oh, and if you’re wondering whether John’s ever been back to Forbes, the answer is a resounding no – and a few of the burlier members of the local rugby team will be there to meet him at the entrance to town if he tries to return.

    Travolta, you have been warned.

  • The Big Diver, Darling Harbour, NSW

    Diver, Australian National Maritime Museum, Darling Harbour, New South Wales, Australia

    Depression, much like a hideous squid from the darkest depths of the deepest ocean, wraps its slimy tendrils around us all at some point or another. Tragically, Big Things, despite their beauty and fame and cultural importance, are no more likely than the rest of us to escape its wrath.

    Never is this more evident than with Diver, who stands forlornly out the front of the Australian National Maritime Museum.

    On the surface, he has it all. Designed by the incomparable Tim Kyle and installed in November 2021, Diver’s the tall, dark and handsome dude all the girls want and all the guys want to be. At five metres from weighted boots to bulbous helmet, he has a splendid view over the Sydney skyline.

    Chinese tourists line up for hours for a selfie with Diver, before kissing his plinth for luck. Children stop in their tracks to gawp, overwhelmed by his grandeur. Despite this, Diver remains cloaked in loneliness, his intricately-detailed tunic separating him from the harsh realities of the outside world.

    To stand with Diver for a moment, to hold his cold metal hand and listen to the mournful melody of water lapping at his enormous feet, is to understand the folly of mankind. This, my fellow Biggies, is desolation made flesh.

    And it was all by design.

    The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

    Installed to mark the United Nations Decade of Ocean Science for Sustainable Development (which runs from 2021–2030, and really could do with a snappier title), Diver compares and contrasts the plight of modern man to the solitude of the endless brine. Whilst a regular-sized diver may explore the bottom of the ocean, Diver helps us explore the very essence of humanity.

    “The piece presents as a metaphor for anonymity and introspection,” Mr Kyle explained to a wet-behind-the-ears scribe. “The sculpted suit acts as a symbolic armour, serving to reinforce his isolation. The scale elevates the figure’s melancholic presence, while retaining the formal elements of traditional sculptural language.”

    Tim, sweet Tim. It’s as if you took all my insecurities and wrapped them in the veil of an anatomically-correct roadside attraction.

    And thus, we may never know the real Diver. Like a deep-sea explorer trapped at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, helplessly watching his oxygen run out as the world trundles on miles above him, this Big is an enigma wrapped inside a mystery ensconced inside a three-bolt copper diving bonnet.

    Coda

    Forever changed (refined?) by the cold indifference Diver showed towards us, Gideon the Guacamole and I wandered through the brisk Sydney night. We gorged ourselves on cookies and cream gelato and boba tea encrusted with cheese foam, whilst avoiding the elephant in the room; the poignant despondency we had born witness to.

    “Golly gosh, Mr Bardot,” Gideon finally said, as he wiped foam from his quivering lip. “I sure am glad we have each other.”
    “And Bigella,” I replied. Gideon looked so happy I thought he might burst.
    “And Gordon and Gordina.”
    “And Lee Kernaghan.”
    We grinned at each other, pleased to have a loved one to share this moment with.

    Without special someone to take along for the ride, we’re destined to drift aimlessly through the pitch-black ocean of life. It’s the people we meet along the way that make this journey through the Land of the Bigs so special.

    If you or someone you know are going through difficult times, please contact Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636, or visit them at beyondblue.org.au.

  • iDIDIT!, Birtinya, QLD

    iDIDIT!, Birtinya, Queensland, Australia

    People are always complimenting me on my childlike exuberance (or, as they usually put it, my emotional immaturity), so when I found out there was a six-metre-tall statue of a playful kiddie on the Sunshine Coast, I grabbed Bigella and trundled over there.

    After having my sippy cup and an afternoon nap, of course!

    iDIDIT! was created by babyfaced artist Russel Anderson in 2017, and can be found frolicking in Birtinya’s lively Village Park. A tribute to the young and the young at heart, its not unusual to find dozens of poeple monkeying about on the grassy knoll he rests upon.

    Whilst there I even witnessed a pensioner, 95 if he was a day, trundle up on his mobility scooter and then, inspired by the statue’s splendour, pull off a a perfectly-executed backflip with a half-pike.

    “I did it!” he cheered afterwards.

    Rambunctious Russel spent more than eight months fashioning iDITIT! from more than 250 layers of weathering steel, providing a timeless appearance that contrasts magnificently against the impermanence of youth.

    “Every layer was hand-drawn and cut into about a thousand pieces that had to interconnect – there was no ‘oopsy-daisy’, I only got one go at it,” Russel told Salt Magazine. “There were in excess of 6000 holes and bolts to hold the pieces together.

    “It was a weird shape too – there was a wiggly shirt and wiggly hair. It was about trusting I’d designed it correctly. I’d never done anything like it before.”

    The public responded, not surprisingly, with youthful zeal. Then a gutter journalist wrote a hit piece revealing the cost of iDIDIT! – a very reasonable $220,000, paid for by property developers Stockland – and a bunch of big babies threw their toys out of the pram in the worst way possible.

    New Kid On The Block

    iDIDIT! became the target of an online hate campaign that bordered on child abuse. Russel – poor, kind, talented Russel – was crushed. His gift to the world, which breathes life and levity into a nondescript park, was putting smiles on faces every day of the week. But it wasn’t enough for some.

    “It put me off doing art,” Russell wept. “It gutted me. I put everything into it and it got to me. I was thinking, ‘I can’t comprehend I’ve built this with that amount of money’. Most of the cost was materials, the steel, the cutting and the labour to weld it. It’s Australian steel, too – I could have bought it from China, but you don’t know what you’re getting.”

    Well the Chinese do have their One Big Child Policy – teehee!

    “People I know jumped on Facebook and tried to tell people the facts, but I didn’t want to engage with people. I thought, ‘this is my personal life. I don’t want to be attacked for something I worked hard for’. I’d just built the best thing I’d ever built!”

    One would assume that the good folk of the Sunny Coast – home to The Big Mower, The Big Pineapple, Matilda and The Black Ant – would be more open-minded.

    Russel’s tale is a perfect metaphor for the loss of childhood innocence. If iDIDIT! – cheeky and pure and made of several tonnes of dilapidated metal – must bend to the societal pressures of bigotry and ignorance, what hope does a regular-sized child have?

    Well I Guess This Is Growing Up

    The sculpture transforms throughout the day, as if experiencing all the stages of boyhood. At dawn, iDIDIT! stands cold and alone against the blooming Queensland sun, reborn every morning. By noon, the piece shows off its scuffs and scrapes, a melancholy elegy to misspent youth. And finally, at dusk, iDIDIT! is wrapped in a cocoon of darkness, signalling the end of childhood and the inevitable journey into adolescence.

    “The boy has a bit of a serious message underneath it all about rehabilitation, but it’s meant to be fun and joyous,” Russel continued. “I’m not trying to offend people and I’m not political in any way. That’s my thing about public art – I’m trying to lighten things up a bit. Aesthetics are important of course, and workmanship. It needs to be well built.”

    Well, iDIDIT! is certainly well-built. I’d need to do months of Billy Blanks’ Tae Bo to build up lats like that!

    “The boy is very accessible and that’s really important to me,” added Russel. “You have a memory of doing a handstand and you relate to it instantly. I’ve not really done figurative work like that as a rule and it meets my criteria – the whimsy, the playfulness – there’s so much I can do in that world.”

    It was this waggishness that so enchanted Bigella and moi as we sat in The Big Child’s shadow.

    “You know, Bigella,” I whispered, gently taking her hand. “iDIDIT! has inspired me with his innocence and joy. I think it’s time we had a child of our own.”
    “Oh, Bigs!” she gasped, a tear meandering its way down her cheek. “Do you really mean it?”
    “Yeah, a statue just like this would look great in the front yard. I’ll give Russel Anderson a call, right after you change my nappy!”

  • The Red Iguana, Salt Lake City, Utah

    Xochitónal the Red Iguana, Salt Lake City, Utah, United States of America

    At Red Iguana 2, a festively-painted cantina on Salt Lake City’s eclectic Temple Street, diners come for Xochitónal, the 33ft-long lizard in the carpark. But they stay for the authentic Mexican cuisine, competitively-priced drinks, attentive service and irresistible party atmosphere.

    Red Iguana‘s signature mole coloradito – a luscious blend of chocolate, pine nuts and guajillo chiles, blended with fresh poblano and served with carnitas – is enough to warm the heart of even the coldest-blooded critter.

    In a city where a slice of lukewarm pizza is considered gourmet fare (and I can say that because I grew up in Wyoming. And not the fancy-pants American Wyoming, either. The Australian Wyoming, where dinner-and-a-show consists of picking up a few cheeseburgers at Maccas and then splatting the pickles on parked cars), it’s no surprise the locals are willing to line up around the block for a piping-hot plate of cochinita pibil, lovingly garnished with pickled red onion.

    But enough about Red Iguana’s exquisite array of quesadillas and fajitas. We’re here to talk about the big guy out the front. After all, this iguana is hard to ig-nore!

    Red Iguana co-owner Bill Coker cooked up the plan in 2014, after encountering a concrete iguana – yes, THAT concrete iguana – while on holidays in Mexico with his lovely wife Lucy Cardenas.

    “My first intention was to make it concrete; I wanted it to be indestructible,” Bill told the SLC Tribune. “I wanted children to come up to it with their mouths open, asking, ’Daddy, is that alive?’”

    Whilst Bill knows his way around a taco, he lacked the world-class artistic skills such a project demanded. Then one day he happened upon an article about a remarkable young man who would be perfect for the job.

    That man was Stephen ‘Tusk’ Kesler.

    King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard

    Tusk hired out a warehouse in downtown SLC and spent the next two years working on the Red Iguana sculpture. Bill – wanting his Big Thing to be as memorable as his food – certainly didn’t skink on the construction costs!

    “I chose Stephen because he likes doing realistic animals, not cartoons,” Bill said proudly.

    Tusk first built a 1/6 scale model of the Red Iguana out of clay. He scanned that into his computer and, in a process that would bamboozle the world’s greatest minds, created a blueprint for the full-sized critter.

    He fed that into a fancy 3D printer, which spat out giant styrofoam pieces that he put together into the shape of the Iguana. Steve then slathered the whole thing in more than 600lb of clay. After that, he covered the varmint in thousands of ceramic rep-tiles.

    The Iguana was then sliced into bite-sized pieces once again. Silicone molds were made from those. Fiberglass body parts were made from the molds. The Iguana was then reassembled, and Tusk spent countless sleepless nights painting the lizard its trademark crimson hue.

    The critter was christened ‘Xochitónal’, after a gigantic iguana in Aztec mythology who guarded the Underworld.

    ”Bill and Lucy know what it takes to bring this kind of thing to life,” Tusk said at the time. “I don’t think any other restaurant owners would have had the patience or the understanding to get it done.

    “I wouldn‘t do this for anyone. I’m a huge fan of their food!”

    The 1000lb squamate was then loaded onto the back of a flatbed truck and, with the help of a police escort, driven through the streets of Salt Lake City.

    After months of anticipation, The Red Iguana was ready to be served to famished public.

    The Whole Enchilada

    After several hours admiring Xochitónal in the balmy Utah afternoon, Bigella Fernandez Hernandez and I had worked up quite an appetite. We popped into the Red Iguana and were seated at an exquisite table overlooking the Oquirrh Mountains.

    “Have you tried Mexican food before?” I asked Miss Hernandez Fernandez, who simply rolled her eyes at me.

    Peppers popped on an open flame. Margaritas glinted in the golden sunlight. A waitress waltzed over to take our order, and I assured Bigella that I would handle things.

    “¡Hola hombre!” I said smugly. “¡No busco tractores y guapos! ¡Quiero un aerodeslizador! ¡Antonio Banderas! ¡Spasibo!”

    The waitress just shook her head, obviously surprised to hear a gringo speaking perfect Spanish. As she left in a daze, I turned my attention back to Bigella.

    “I picked up a little español while living in the remote Mexican village of Cancún for six days back in 2022,” I informed her. “Let me know if you need any help with the menu.”

    Imagine my surprise when, rather than the virgin cocteles I had so expertly ordered, the waitress placed two small bottles of cerveza in front of us. In a moment of madness, I took a sip from the Modelo, and spent the rest of the afternoon fearing that I was tumbling into alcoholism.

    “Swap this out for a non-alcoholic piña colada, mami,” I wretched, as the waitress plonked plates of Mexican delicacies in front of us.

    “Watch out, Mexican food – though delicious – can be too spicy for a chalupita like you” I warned, tucking into a decadent tostada. Bigella, ever the daredevil, ladled fiery chile verde onto her chimichangas and stuffed them into her mouth. Not wanting to be upstaged, I poured an entire bottle of habanero sauce onto my superbly-prepared gringa and crammed it into my gob.

    The pain was indescribable, and for a moment my life flashed before my very eyes (criminy, did I visit a lot of big lizards – such as Joanna the Goanna, The Big Thorny Devil, Gonzo and Lizzo!). When I awoke, stripped to the waist, I was laying in the carpark, with Xochitónal gazing down on me in disgust.

    “Señor Bardot, eres el hombre más bobo que he conocido. Si no fueras el experto de atracciones de gran tamaño más famoso del mundo, te dejaría tirado en esa zanja.”

    “Wait a second!” I spluttered. “You can speak Indonesian?”

  • The Big Footy, Ungarie, NSW

    The Big Footy, Ungarie, New South Wales, Australia

    Ungarie, a speck of a town hidden in the scrub between West Wyalong and Lake Cargellio, is remarkable for two reasons. Firstly, the Daniher brothers, a quartet of fearsome footballers who rose from obscurity to become the most celebrated sportsmen in the country.

    Secondly – and most notably – The Big Footy, which was built in their honour and looms large over the sleepy village of less than 400 people.

    Terry, Anthony, Neale and Chris Daniher made their marks with the Essendon Bombers, and in 1990 became the first set of four brothers take the field together. All up, the gang played 752 games in the AFL. Their legend has only grown in Ungarie, where the lads have taken on almost mythical status.

    The Big Footy, which is five metres long and weighs 800kg, was revealed to the public just after specky – oops, make that brekky! – on March 10, 2018. There must’ve been a lot of people calling out, “Baaaaall!” that day!

    “It’s very much indeed an honour,” Terry told a clearly-impressed reporter from the ABC. “It’s not something we ever thought would happen, but I think it’s wonderful.”

    “The Big Footy is great for our family but also for the community,” Neale added. “Ungarie is a tiny town in the middle of nowhere but a big-hearted community. If this means a few more people stop in town, that’d be a good thing.”

    More Than A Game

    Andrew Gordon and a couple of mates built The Big Footy in a workshop in Albury. Working with steel and fiberglass, the boys obviously had a ball making it!

    “The three of us have been working pretty hard. It had to be done and it had to be right,” Andy chirped after unveiling his creation, which cost just $60,000 – about the price of a pie at the MCG these days. “We started in September and the last 20 per cent of the job took 80 per cent of the time, which I guess is always the case.”

    You always give it 110 per cent, mate!

    “I reckon the last month or so, there weren’t many finishes before midnight and plenty and 1am and 2am finishes,” he added. “I wanted it to be as perfect as possible, and I’d say it’s perfect enough – but only just.”

    Thanks for ‘sherrin’ that story with the world, Andy!

    Up there, Bigs Bardot! Have a go, ya mug!

    Egged on by my travel buddy/personal concierge Gordon (the cherubic alien, not the chap who built this Big), I kitted up in a traditional Aussie Rules tunic for a photo sesh with The Big Footy.

    “36-24-36 – hike!” I chuckled as I played kick-to-kick with my petite friend, deftly goose-stepping around the verdant grounds of downtown Ungarie.

    As I was catching my breath, a funny little man trotted over with a look of astonishment on his face.

    “Bigs, I’ve never seen a display of athleticism quite like that,” the fellow gasped. “My name’s Eugene Kransky and I’m a talent scout for the Sydney Swans. I’d like to offer you a $5 million contract and a three-bedroom apartment overlooking the harbour.”

    The little guy held out a contract and a pen, hopeful tears pricking at his eyes, and my heart broke for him.

    “Eugene,” I said gently, “I appreciate your offer, but you know my loyalty lies with with the Big Things of Australia. Becoming a highly-paid sporting idol and sex symbol would just get in the way.”

    “Bigs, please,” Eugene wept. “The Super Bowl is this weekend, and we’re no chance of winning it without you. The whole country’s counting on you, mate.”

    “Alright, Eugene, keep your wig on,” I reassured him, as we walked into the sunset. “But make it $10 million, and I demand you sign Ernie the Shepparton Giant to be our wicket keeper.”

  • Larry the Lobster, Kingston SE, SA

    Larry the Lobster, Kingston SE, South Australia

    He’s huge, he’s handsome, he’d probably taste great slathered in a few litres of garlic butter. Please put your pincers together for the loveable, legendary, and oh-so-large Larry the Lobster!

    Jut watch out – he can be a bit crabby!

    At 17 metres tall, 15.2 metres long and 13.7 metres wide, and weighing in at four tonnes, Larry casts an imposing shadow over Kingston SE. Antennae up and maxillipeds agape, he welcomes visitors to the remote beachside town three hours south of Adelaide.

    World-weary travellers and little nippers alike will gasp in delight at Larry’s intricate exoskeleton and friendly, knowing eyes, which have been rerceated in stunning detail. He looks wonderful from a distance, but it is only by getting up claws and personal with The Big Lobster, sprawling out between his prodigious pereiopods that the full extent of his grandeur can be fully understood.

    Larry could very well be the Holy Grail of Big Things – culturally relevant, world famous, fantastically-realised, and astonishingly large. Needless to say, he’s a crust-see attraction!

    Could there be a better way to spend a crisp May afternoon than by taking a shellfie with a gigantic lobster, then popping into the on-site cafe for a fishburger and a strawberry thickshake?

    The service is snappy but, remarkably, they don’t serve lobster. But that’s probably for the best – it might upset Larry!

    As Happy As Larry

    Local lobster fisherman Ian Backler is the man to thank for coming up with the idea for Larry. After returning home from a holiday in the United States – where he undoubtedly gawked at many oversized roadside attractions – he was inspired to create one of his own.

    Teaming up with charismatic local chaps Rob Moyse and Ian Hannaford, the trio devised a plan that was as innovative as it was bonkers; build an enormous sea creature that would appear, to the untrained eye, to be attacking the town’s new tourist information centre. The just sit back and wait for the tourists to start pouring in.

    And there was only one man who could pull it off.

    Enter Paul Kelly. No, not the folk-pop icon, the visionary who built Scotty the Big Scotsman. Displaying rare genius, Paul bought a spiny lobster from a local fish and chip shop and had it stuffed to serve as his muse.

    Paul then rented out a warehouse in Adelaide and, over the next six months, built The Big Lobster. He started with a monstrous steel frame, then carved the details from foam, slathered the whole thing in fiberglass, and stood back to bisque in the lobster’s glory.

    On December 15, 1979 hundreds – perhaps thousands – of perky pescatarians lobbed up to see South Australian Premier Dave Tonkin reveal The Big Lobster to the world. In my mind, I picture Dave, atop a cherrypicker, lifting up the lid of one of those silver serving trays to reveal the enormous creature. But, in my heart of hearts, I know this to not be the case.

    Something like that would be cray-zy, even for a noted prankster like Dave Tonkin.

    But wait… there’s more-nay!

    As his shell-ebrity has grown, other crustaceans have attempted to steal Larry’s thunder. The town of Shediac, Canada is home to an imposter known as The World’s Largest Lobster. They should rename him The World’s Largest Con-Job as, at a paltry 11 metres long and two metres tall, the creature’s not even big enough to be served in a seafood basket at the local bowlo.

    Best to stick with Lucky Larry and some of Australia’s other supersized sea creatures, such as The Big Prawn, The Big Prawn, The Big Prawn or Gabby the Yabby.

    In 2015, a crayfish sculpture in Qianjiang, China pinched the Guinness Book of Records title for The World’s Largest Crustacean Sculpture. This was claws for concern as, much like the PRC’s faćade of democracy, it’s a big, fat lie. Despite claims that it’s 15 metres tall, photos show that this Oriental charlatan is only slightly larger than your average Chinaman.

    I’ll bring it up with Xi next time we meet up to play pickleball.

    Dirty Gordon, Crazy Larry

    Gordon was unusually quiet, ruminating over a bucket of calamari rings as we sat in The Big Lobster’s immense shadow. I’d expected the little alien to come out with one of his usual pithy comments, or try to climb up Larry so he could ride him. There was nothing, however, but the contemplative chewing of perfectly-cooked seafood.

    “You know, Bigs,” the plucky lad finally said, wiping tartare sauce from his chin as the sun dripped towards the horizon, “Larry really is the best of us.”

    I simply nodded, then watched a heron swaggering through the scrub as I allowed Gordon the time to gather his thoughts.

    “He’s the reason that we travel up and down these dusty roads,” my friend continued, jabbing a furry finger towards the towering lobster. “Why we’ve given up any vestige of normal life to chronicle to stories of Australia’s Big Things. A handful of normal men took a ludicrous idea and turned it into reality, and in doing so changed the culture of this country forever. They made millions of people happy with a work of art that, hand on heart, can proudly stand alongside anything the human race has ever accomplished.”

    Gordon’s words encapsulated my own feelings. All I could do was hug him in the waning light, until the ink black night enveloped us. When I finally opened my eyes, Larry the Lobster was illuminated, hovering over us like a four-storey fever dream.

    “Come on, let’s get out of here,” I smiled.
    “Sweet,” chuckled Gordon. “Can we get some butter-and-fennel-poached lobster rolls on the way home?”
    “Shhh,” I giggled, bundling Gordon into the Bigsmobile. “He’ll hear you!”

  • The World’s Largest Blender, Orem, Utah

    The World's Largest Blender, Orem, Utah, United States of America

    For time immemorial, mankind has asked the question – will it blend? And only one man is brave enough to answer that question – Tom Dickson, founder of Blendec Blenders.

    The star of outlandish YouTube show Will It Blend?, Tom broke the internet by feeding everything from iPhones to Star Wars action figures to his company’s wide range of commercial and industrial food blenders.

    And the Blendtec blenders took ’em all.

    More than anything, Tom loved blending up a rotisserie chicken with a bottle of Coke, a gastronomical delight he called a cochicken. Always one to try new cuisine, I gave it a go and found that, once the listeria poisoning wore off, it was a strangely invigorating drink. Thanks, Tom!

    In 2014, Tom and the Blendtec team decided to capitalise on the show’s popularity in a BIG way. The result was The World’s Largest Blender, a 37-foot recreation of their legendary Designer blender, serving as the entrance to their headquarters in Orem, Utah.

    Inside the three-storey-tall glass marvel is a small museum paying tribute to Tom and the outrageous history of Blendtec blenders. Pilgrims can be found five days a week poring over the artefacts, weeping with unrestrained joy.

    The opening ceremony for The World’s Largest Blender was attended by Michael Fassblender and the guy who played John Blender in The Breakfast Club, and overseen by Utah Governor Gary Herbert.

    “So,” smirked Tom as he cut the ceremonial ribbon; holding an oversized pair of scissors in one hand and his horde of his worshippers in the other, “will these scissors blend?”

    Return to Blender

    After discovering a stack of love letters from one of my old crushes, tensions between Bigella and I were at an all-time high. Sensing an opportunity to get back into her good books whilst simultaneously checking another Big off my list, I surreptitiously made a suggestion.

    “I’ll throw the letters in The World’s Largest Blender in Orem, Utah,” I shrugged, sipping on the cold coffee Bigella had served me. “I’ve seen those blenders destroy beer cans and old guitar parts, I’m sure they can handle a couple of hundred pages of lust and longing.”
    “Are you sure we’re not just going there to see a Big Thing?”
    “Of course not,” I hooted, grabbing the keys to the Bigsmobile. “Can we stop off for some selfies with The Gonzo on the way?”

    And so, 10 tear-filled hours later, I was perched atop the bewitching Blender, the erotic tales of passion and wonder fluttering in the spring breeze.

    “I’m sorry, Jesse Plemons,” I whispered as I placed his lovingly-penned dispatches into the massive blender, “but we’ll always have that weekend in Acapulco.”

    That chapter of my life closed – for now – I descended The World’s Largest Blender, and Bigella enveloped me in the sort of hug that men cross oceans for. Smiling a sad smile, I wondered whether I’d done the right thing.

    “Come on, kid,” I sighed, leading Bigella away from the Blender. “I’ll take you out to dinner to celebrate.”
    “Oh Bigs,” she gasped. “You’re so romantic.”
    “Yeah,” I shrugged, “I’ve got a bucket of cochicken in the boot of the car. You can drink it on our way to see The Big Beavers!”

  • The Big Corkscrew, Berrima, NSW

    The Big Corkscrew, Berrima, New South Wales, Australia

    Bon appétit, sweeties! It is I, erudite New York socialite and cultivated wine snob, Bigs von Bubbles. But then you already knew that, ya putz!

    Rare is it that I venture past West 29th – it all gets a bit ethnic for my cultivated tastes – but, when I heard there was a gigantic corkscrew at the Bendooley Estate in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales, Australia, I knew I had to see it.

    After all, if the Aussies need a corkscrew the size of a taxicab, just imagine how much yummy booze they must have – hick!

    Not wanting to miss out on the soiree, I scrambled to book a flight on one of the few airlines that will still have me. (My heartfelt thanks to Motu from Air Eritrea, who made sure I was never without a carafe of alcoholic baboon milk – an East African favourite – during the 67-hour flight)

    The journey, and my brief incarceration at Sydney Airport, were well worth it. The Big Corkscrew, which was created by the captivating David Ball and installed in 2015, proved to be whimsical, offbeat and, dare I say it, fermented in melancholy. A love letter to alcohol dependency, if you will.

    “That’s lovely,” I muttered to myself after an appropriate period of admiring the Corkscrew. “But I have a Big Thirst, so where’s the Big Wine Bottle?”

    The Turn of the Screw

    Imagine my disappointment to discover that Bendooley wines – despite tantalising the tastebuds with zesty notes of plum and cherry – are served in teeny tiny 750ml bottles. Us Noo Yawkers like to drink out of 44 gallon drums, so that just wouldn’t do.

    Trembling uncontrollably, I scoured the estate’s luxurious grounds for for a bottle large enough to quench my cravings. Finally, a kind soul revealed that the nearest Big Bottles were in Pokolbin and Rutherglen – too far for me to travel to before immigration officials could track me down.

    Fortunately I was able to hitchhike to Australia’s cultural hub, Dan Murphy’s, to purchase the finest flagon of goon I could find. Only the freshest and most flavourful viño would do.

    Oh, who am I kidding? I’d guzzle methylated spirits out of a windsock if it came down to it – hick!

    The rest of the afternoon is a deplorable blur of alcoholic excess, as I well and truly wore out my welcome at Bendooley. After crashing a wedding and knocking over the three-tiered Boho-inspired cake I was, mercifully, ejected from the estate whilst professing my unyielding love to the newly-betrothed.

    My sincerest apologies, Malcolm and Rekesh.

    Teehee, it’s only me – a brief note from Bigs Bardot

    Buenos noches, Land of the Bigs fanatics! It is I, the inimitable Bigs Bardot. I had a bit of cheeky fun writing this entry in character as my alter-ego, Bigs von Bubbles, and took a little creative license for humorous effect.

    What I didn’t embelish, however, is how much I enjoyed my visit to Bendooley Estate.

    Nary a drop of alcohol has passed my supple lips, so I am unable to report on the fine range of Bendooley wines, but the charcuterie board, with its sumptuous selection of cured meats and homemade pickles, was like heaven on earth. Pair that with attentive service and rustic pastoral views, and you have the recipe for a ‘vintage’ afternoon.

    What a corker!

  • The Angel of the North, Gateshead

    The Angel of the North, Gateshead, England, United Kingdom

    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!”

  • The Big Fish, Belfast, Northern Ireland

    The Big Fish, Belfast, Northern Ireland

    Holy mackerel, look at the size of that fish! Installed upon the steps of Donegall Quay one warm afternoon in 1999, The Big Fish, with her supple lips and bedroom eyes, has been many a Belfastian lad’s first kiss.

    It’s not uncommon to see a line of teens – and the odd curious tourist – waiting patiently for a memorable encounter with The Fish. You might call it a right of bass-age.

    Located on the confluence of the River Farset and the River Lagan, The Big Fish symbolises the reinvigoration of the city’s waterways. There was, not surprisingly, a heated de-bait when she was announced (and not just from the local lasses, who feared they’d be upstaged).

    This splendid example of urban kitsch was created by the delightfully droll John Kindness – and a more appropriately-named gentleman you could never hope to meet. Drawing on a lifetime of experience, he imbued the Fish with a mixture of pathos and buffoonery that’s just so very Irish.

    “A lot of artists have a fear of not being taken seriously, so they take themselves far too seriously,” John cooed. “Black humour is something I think Belfast people can’t help: finding some element of mirth in almost every situation.”

    Oh John, it’s enough to make you twist and trout!

    Each of the fish’s scales serves as a love letter to a moment in Belfast’s history. The industrial revolution. Aslan the Great Lion. George Best’s astonishing drinking exploits. The Ulster Museum provided reference images, and the area’s more artistic kiddies painted them on the side of the creature. I’ve been assured a scale celebrating Land of the Bigs’ visit will be added any day now.

    There’s even a time capsule hidden betwixt the fish‘s plump belly. I’d pike to be there when they finally open it!

    Know Your Sole

    Also known as the Salmon of Knowledge, this giant guppie was inspired by a famous Irish legend. As the tale goes, a regular, old salmon guzzled nine magical pints of Guinness and gained all the knowledge in the world.

    Don’t we all?

    Word subsequently spread across the emerald hills that the first person to eat the fish’s flesh would gain all of the knowledge. As a result, some guy – I imagine he looked a bit like beloved Broughshane-bred character actor, and long-time Land of the Bigs reader, James Nesbitt – heard about it and spent seven years hunting down the Salmon of Knowledge.

    When he finally caught the scaly critter, he handed him to Finn McCool – yes, that Finn McCool – and asked him to batter the fish.

    Fortunately, this was in Northern Ireland, where battery is the national pastime – teehee!

    Rather than do as he was told, Finn gobbled down the fish with a wedge of lemon, gained a millennia’s wisdom and insight, and went on to run the most profitable vape shop in Strabane. Or something like that.

    Inspired by the tale, I joined the line of excited Irishmen preening before the perch. My heart thudding in my chest, I stepped up to The Big Fish, whispered a few sweet nothings in her ear, and leaned in for my first smooch.

    How was it? Well, that’s between me, The Big Fish, and Dugald who was in the line behind me. Needless to say, I may not have gained the universe’s wisdom, but I did get an invigorating case of botulism.

  • The Wishing Hand, Dublin, Ireland

    The Wishing Hand, Dublin, Ireland

    The Wishing Hand – a thumb-in-a-million art piece by offbeat artisan Linda Brunker – welcomes the curious to Dublin’s Ministry of Education. Thus, it not only provides Ireland’s youngsters with a heavy-handed message about the potential of the human spirit, it also teaches them about the importance of oversized roadside architecture.

    A bronzed meditation on life and love, The Wishing Hand also gives a middle-finger to the establishment. The locals must’ve thought all their wishes had come true when it was installed one salubrious morn in 2001, but it looks pretty heavy, so it must’ve been all hands on deck that day!

    Stoic and detached, with an unyielding fetishism for biological hyperrealism, The Wishing Hand can, at first, come across as a little lifeless. The term ‘corporate art’ prances upon the tip of my tongue although this is, perhaps, unfair. One can only truly appreciate this masterpiece after a moment of quiet meditation.

    It’s only then, as the light dances across the fingernails, that Linda’s trademark style comes to the fore. The Wishing Hand becomes and ode to nature. It sings songs of water and wind and fire and, dare I say it, hedonistic eroticism.

    It mourns, like the rest of us, for a simpler time.

    “My work comes from a place where art, science, nature and the human spirit meet,” Linda pointed out. “Our world is fascinating at every level, from microscopic organisms to the galaxy that surrounds us. I am becoming more and more aware of what many traditional cultures knew – that all things are connected. This work is the product of my continual explorations of the natural and spiritual world around me.”

    I was struggling to put my finger on it, Linda, but that was just what I was about to say!

    The Handmaid’s Tale

    Visitors should note that there is no left hand – but that’s all right! The nearby tribute to Luke Kelly is just a head, after all, so maybe the locals are spreading massive dismembered body parts across Dublin to scare off the English or something.

    The Wishing Hand does, however, go hand-in-hand with other massive mitts such as Entrust, La Mano, Bird in Hand, Monumento A La Paz and, well The Mitt. I’ve re-used the same jokes in pretty much every one of those entries, so maybe I should put a metacar-pause on visiting Big Hands for a while.

    The Wishing Hand was conceived as a hands-on exhibit. Guests are invited to climb atop the piece’s vast palm and sit, cloaked in the unnerving silence of a crisp Dublin forenoon to beg for their greatest desires. With a heart full of hope, I did just that. I wanted to get some firsthand experience, to be sure, to be sure.

    Unfortunately, I’d guzzled a carafe of Guinness for breakfast and promptly passed out betwixt the Hand’s formidable fingers. When I awoke, alone and afraid, the only thing I wished for was a couple of Panadols and a good night’s wrist.

  • Kong, Keswick, England

    Kong, Keswick, Lake District, England, United Kingdom

    The prophet, Bigs Bardot said: “And lo, the beast looked upon the streets of Keswick. And it stayed its hand from killing. And from that day, it was as one dead.” – Old Land of the Bigs Proverb

    A big, black, hairy guy has moved into the picturesque village of Keswick – and the locals just love him! Kong, a four-metre-tall gorilla with a cheeky grin and dark, chocolatey eyes, has found work as a bouncer at the appropriately-named outside Kong Adventure on Heads Road.

    Just a warning – he doesn’t tolerate any monkey business!

    He might look like a hirsute hard man, but Kong is a real softy. He enjoys painting his nails a variety of festive colours, and lights up the hamlet with his flamboyant hi-vis jacket. Kong’s certainly no chimping violet!

    Drag your knuckles inside Kong Adventure for a king-sized good time. On any gibbon Sunday, you’ll find the place crawling with thrillseekers.

    There’s plethora of rock climbing walls – they must have seven or ape of them – catering to all skill levels. Yes, there’s something for everyone, whether you’re a woman or a mandrill.

    There’s also an escape room and a playground for the kiddies, complete with a rope bridge and a scary dragon to climb on. I poked my head in there, but it looked like gorilla warfare to me – teehee!

    It’s on like King Kong!

    Despite his burly frame and sinewy, simian musculature, Kong doesn’t avail himself of the climbing apparatus. It brings back memories of a traumatic event that occurred at top of the Empire State Building a few years ago.

    More than anything, Kong just wants to find love. Each Valentine’s Day he stands, longingly, at the shop’s entrance, brandishing a love heart in the hope a woman will stop for quick smooch. But he hasn’t found that special someone yet. I guess there aren’t too many giant baboons in Keswick.

    Kong knows better than anyone that rock climbing is easier if you’ve got big hands, so it’s lucky that Entrust, fifteen-foot pair of paws, are just a few minutes walk away. You’ve gotta hand it to the people of Cumbria, they just love their Bigs!

    All this excitement is good for your appetite, so it’s lucky Kong Adventure boasts an on-site cafe, serving a scrumptious array of drinks and snacks. Give the banana cake a miss, though, or Kong might come for it!

    As I was admiring the facility, a friendly chap wearing neon armwarmers and a name-plate bearing the moniker Garrick trotted up to me.
    “Hi, I’m Garrick,” said Garrick. “Can I interest you in our all-day river rafting adventure?”
    “Sorry, Garrick,” I replied. “I’m here for a good time, not a Kong time!”
    “Oh, Bigs,” Garrick smirked, “you can’t go Kong with a giant monkey joke!”

    Garrick stared at me. I stared at Garrick. An awkward pause lingered in the air and it seemed, for a moment, that I may shuffle into the sun-dappled Keswick afternoon without another word being uttered.

    Then, in perfect synchronicity, we both drew breath before bursting into melody.

    “Yoouuuu shook me aaalllllllll night Kong!”

  • Icus Kanan, Finca El Amate, Guatemala

    Icus Kanan, Finca El Amate, Los Pocitos, Guatemala

    Scrambling through the heaving valleys of deepest Guatemala, Bigs Bardot and his plucky sidekick Bigella Fernandez Hernandez approached their fate. They paused momentarily in the shadow of El Volcán de Pacaya – a wisp of smoke drifting languidly from its peak – and surveyed the mangled landscape.

    Their journey to the ancient realm of Finca el Amate, foretold by the stars for eons, had only one intent. To confront the hideous beast who had cast a black cloud over these lush, green hills: the dragon known as Icus Kanan.

    (Well, and to have a scrumptious slice of chocolate cake at the Finca’s well-appointed café – don’t skimp on the whipped cream, Francisco!)

    After much searching, they spied the leviathan, his gaze unyielding, stationed high upon the fractured earth. Of course, they could have simply copied the directions from the Finca’s easily-navigatible website, but that was no challenge for ones so courageous.

    “Icus Kanan…” sniffed Biggles Leticia Bardot. “What an odd name!”
    “You’re one to speak,” replied Bigella Fernandez Hernandez, herself no stranger to unique monikers. “Icus comes from the name Ficus, the scientific term for the region’s abundant amate trees. Kanana is the Mayan Guardian of Nature. Hence, Icus Kanan.”
    “Thanks for the history lesson,” Bigs sneered. “But we’re here to slaughter an awe-inspiring mythical beast.”

    Bigs straightened his outlandish flamingo tunic, and Bigella adjusted her fashionable cat hat, and they approached Icus Kanan with much bravado. Bigella moreso than Bigs, who hung back and made excuses for why he shouldn’t be the one to confront the dragon.

    “I’ve just had my hair done,” he sniffed valiantly. “One puff of that dragon’s fiery breath and I shall resemble a young Richard Simmons.”

    And so, with plastic swords flailing in the autumn breeze, Bigs and Bigella ambushed the behemoth.

    How to Maim Your Dragon

    They punched and pinched and kicked and slapped. Wrestled and wrangled and argued and spat. But nothing could make the colossus go SPLAT! Finally, as our heroes collapsed to the grassy grass, the dragon rose up and spoke.

    “Hey, hey, hey guys, what are you doing?” he said in a surprisingly high-pitched squeak, not unlike popular 90s TV character Steve Urkel.
    “Slaying you,” shrugged Bigella.
    “Well you’re not doing a very good job of it,” Icus Kanan chuckled.

    “Give us a break,” Bigs sighed. “We survived the horrors of La Mano Verde, and scurried past Ebony & Ivory – lovers trapped in the eternal rapture of devotion – just to vanquish you.”
    “Vanquish me? But why?” gasped the serpent, with genuine hurt in his voice. “I’m a beloved icon of Guatemalteca culture. Over 4000 people visit the Finca each year just to take a photo with me.”

    “Well, and to enjoy the area’s natural beauty, pleasant climate, and well-maintained camping facilities,” suggested Bigella.
    “And to try the gorgeous chocolate cake,” added Bigs.
    “Yes, Francisco is a talented chef,” grinned Icus Kanan. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried his strawberry mousse. I can introduce you to him, if you like. We’re meeting up for pickleball this afternoon.”

    Wiping tears from their eyes, our heroes ensconced the dragon in a warm group hug.
    “Icus, I must offer my humblest apologies,” Bigs blubbered. “I thought you were a real fire-breather.”

    “Only if I don’t get my morning coffee – teehee!”

    And thus, the three of them lived happily together in rural Guatemala for the rest of their long lives.

    ~Fin~

  • The Cowra Eagle, Cowra, NSW

    The Cowra Eagle, Cowra, New South Wales, Australia

    Rising above his surroundings like a Soviet phoenix, The Cowra Eagle serves as a tribute to the wedge-tailed wonders of Western NSW. With his barrel chest and piercing gaze, this Big has watched over his comrades since 1972.

    No wonder he’s the hawk of the town!

    The majestic creature was conceived and designed by the ever-affable Don Kibbler. Inspired by Cowra Council’s original corporate seal from 1888 – which featured a joyful eagle resting atop a cluster of rocks – he set about creating a landmark all Cowrans could be proud of.

    Don turned to talon-ted ironmonger Colin Cranny, of local company Lachlan Steel, to fabricate the Eagle. The sinewy legs were donated by the generous Dick Murney, and were made from two bore casings.

    The end result was a real sight for soar eyes – but the Eagle was missing a certain je ne sais quoi. He was originally built without his ‘shoulders’, and these were tacked on by prominent Cowra signwriter Peter Slattery.

    Tourists swooped into town in their thousands to sit in his shadow, surrounded by roses and marinating in the sweet sound of birdsong.

    When the new Visitor’s Centre was built in 1987, the Eagle was moved to his current position closer to the main road – without the rocks to cover his shapely pins. Many a feather was ruffled by the show of skin, but there are no claws against that.

    Let’s Go Where Eagles Dare!

    “Woh-oh-oh
    Come on fast, you can come on slow
    I’m just crazy ’bout the way we move
    Doin’ the Cowra Eagle Rock.”

    Gordon was in high spirits as we swaggered out of McDonald’s, Oreo-encrusted McFlurrys in hand, and sauntered towards The Cowra Eagle. He’d been yodelling along to his Daddy Cool cassette for days leading up to our visit, but his voice trailed off the moment he saw the avant-garde avian.

    We stood there, ice cream dripping down chins, in gobsmacked silence. Even amongst the towering liquidambars, the winged wunderkind rules the roost. The Eagle’s raw construction and brutalist lines seem, at first, more at home in some snow-swept Russian hellhole – but he retains an undeniable 70s sense of fun.

    This a Big who would look great with an afro wig perched atop his head. Make it happen, Cowra Council!

    Though unique in his design, The Cowra Eagle is just one of many oversized birds found across the Land of the Bigs. New South Wales is home to The Big Chook, The Big Kookaburra, Stanley, Charlie, The Big Bowerbird and Canoli. There’s Pelican Pete, Katey Seagull, The Big Parrot and The Big Honeyeater in Queensland. Bruno, Chickaletta, The Big Kingfisher, The Big Emus and another Eagle all live in Victoria. And, of course, Tasmania’s Big Penguin.

    As Gordon and I spread our wings for these photos, a young girl and her grandfather wandered over.
    “Look at that bald eagle,” gasped the child, pointing in our direction.
    “Fascist!” shouted Gordon.
    “Yeah, my closely-cropped hairstyle is a fashion choice,” I sneered. “I could grow it out any time I want.”
    “Fascist!” Gordon repeated.

    I doubt he knew the meaning of the term, bless him, but it’s the unbridled hatred that counts.

  • The Big Bread Clip, Dulwich Hill, NSW

    The Big Bread Clip, Dulwich Hill, New South Wales, Australia

    Yes, that’s a giant plastic thingy used to keep bags of bread closed, made from thousands of little plastic thingies used to keep bags of bread closed. And they say Australia lacks culture!

    Officially known as Monolith, The Big Bread Clip was unveiled to a bewildered public in November 2018, bringing a touch of glamour to Sydney’s inner west. Unique. Elegant. Colourful. This crust-see attraction is a delightful, playful tribute to one of the most underappreciated packaging devices on the planet.

    Gary Deirmendjian designed The Bread Clip, with the help of students from Dulwich High School. Overseeing the project was teacher and self-confessed Big Thing tragic Shane Forrest. Understandably, Shane’s since become the toast of the town.

    Without wanting to blow my own crumpet, this is the culmination of my selfless campaign to have Big Things added to the New South Wales bread-ducational curriculum. I’ve worked tirelessly with the state government to ensure every student has the opportunity to build a Big. After all, the next generation needs to learn the three R’s – reading, ‘riting and roadside attractions.

    Move over, mathematics, you’ve become stale!

    Girls Just Wanna Have Bun

    Boasting a level of detail rarely seen on a Big, this is a glorious example of postmodern artistry. By re-using oodles of bread clips, it also serves as timely reminder to recycle. Oh, and you can even poke your head through the centre for a bappy snap!

    You can find the dough-licious Big Bread Clip within the sprawling Johnson Park, sandwiched between a basketball court and a playground. It’s the perfect place to walk your dog or sit down to eat a roast chook roll, but it’s easy to get lost – so don’t baguette to bring a map.

    Invite your chums along to break bread, and you’ll really be the loaf of the party!

    This wholemeal – oops, I mean wholesome! – Big has become in-grained in the community. He joins The Big Cauliflower and Discobolus as Sydney’s most prominent tourist attractions.

    The Big Bread clip is like muffin you’ve ever seen. Last but not yeast, you knead to know is that it’s worth taking a clip out to see him!

  • Giant Prospectors, Goodsprings, Nevada

    The Giant Prospector Twins, Goodsprings, Nevada, United States of America

    Strike it rich with The Giant Prospector Twins! These 12-foot golddiggers have spent the last 70 years criss-crossing southern Nevada in search of the one treasure that’s always eluded them – a place to call home. And now, moving with times, they’re preparing to dig their way into the hearts of Fallout: New Vegas fans.

    The dynamic duo were first installed atop the Lucky Strike Club on Fremont Street, Las Vegas, in 1954. The casino saw an immediate increase in patronage – after all, if you wanna twin big, you’ve gotta go double or nothing!

    Designed by legendary Hollywood special effects artist Katherine Stubergh and made from fiberglass by the YESCO sign company in Salt Lake City, the sizeable siblings were originally electrified, and able to rattle their pans from side to side.

    Bowing to the whims of a fickle American gambling public, the boys were briefly placed into storage in the early-’60s. They were then sold to the western-themed Fort Lucinda Casino in Boulder City. The major miners once again packed up their picks and pans three decades later when the casino – since renamed the Gold Strike – burned down under mysterious circumstances in 1998.

    Don’t worry, The Prospectors won’t tell the cops who did it – they’re good at mining their own business!

    There’s gold in them thar hills!

    When I encountered The Giant Prospector Twins, they were camped in front of what was once Terrible’s Casino, in a remote scrap of dirt known as Jean, Nevada (population: 0). The slothouse shuttered in 2022. It was in the process of being demolished when I moseyed on by.

    It was cold, lonely, and my choice of attire attracted fervent honking from passing truck drivers. The bulky brothers were looking quite the worse for wear. Their gambler hats were tattered, their blouses bedraggled. But not even time and the relentless desert sun could wipe the grins from their bearded faces.

    The lanky legends, it seems, held on just long enough for me to visit. They were packed up in May 2024 and relocated to their forever home in Goodsprings, a rustic village 45 minutes south of Vegas. One Twin can already be found sifting through the dirt out front of the Pioneer Saloon, a ribald mix of gnarled wood and live music and flamegrilled burgers the size of your head. The other is still being repaired.

    “They are 70-years-old and need repair, I would encourage anybody out there who has expertise in fiberglass expertise we could use some help,” Steve Fleming, from the Goodsprings Historical Society, quipped.

    I’d love to help out, Steve, but unfortunately I never completed my fiberglassing apprenticeship.

    Fallout Boys

    E-sports enthusiasts will recognise the Pioneer Saloon as a location in the popular video game Fallout: New Vegas. The Nevada icon was been painstakingly recreated in the game world as the Prospector Saloon, and has become a must-see destination for fans.

    The saloon allows Fallout tragic to live out their fantasies of surviving in a post-apocalyptic world. There’s also a range of Fallout memorabilia inside. Fortunately, however, there’s no deathclaws around to attack you!

    And now, I implore the designers to update the game version with a couple of Giant Prospectors by the front door. There’ll be a bit of a Fallout with the roadside attraction community if you don’t – teehee!

    Finally, after seven hard decades, The Giant Prospector Twins are at peace… and they need names! So next time you’re at the Pioneer Saloon, nibbling on a pecan-crusted rainbow trout, have a think about it. Just remember that Big John, The Big Goldpanner Man and Map the Miner are already taken.

    “If someone has a name suggestion, we have a web site,” Steve chortled.

    How about Bill and Ben the Prospector Men?

  • Randy’s Donut, Inglewood, California

    Randy's Donut, Inglewood, Los Angeles, California, United States of America

    For a HOLE lotta fun, pop along to Randy’s Donuts in Inglewood, Los Angeles. A pastiche of 1950s counter-culture, Randy’s is one of the most beloved restaurants in America, offering a plethora of pungent pastries. And bake sure to save room for the main course – the iconic, 32.6ft-wide donut on the roof!

    Randy’s enormous donut is the first thing many people see as they descend upon the City of Angels. It’s only a few minutes drive from LAX – and the perfect place to carb load after a long flight. Dominating the landscape, the donut is as synonymous with the city as the Hollywood sign, botox, and homeless encampments.

    What could be more typical of LA than a Korean tourist and a doo-rag-sporting gangbanger squatting next to each other, eyes agog, cream smeared across faces, after an encounter with Randy’s Donut?

    You might recognise Randy’s Donuts from movies like Get Shorty, Iron Man 2, Mars Attacks! and the critically-divisive Earth Girls Are Easy. Don’t worry if you haven’t heard about that last one – it didn’t make much dough at the box-office!

    The Donut, sadly, is often draped with advertising banners that completely obscure it. Thankfully, it was naked when I visited. I would’ve hated to be on the wrong end of some good old fashioned police brutality for tearing the signage off Randy’s Donut in order to take these extraordinary photos!

    The Everlasting Glaze

    The story of Randy’s Donuts is even more scrumptious than the treats they sell (although the fruity pebbles-sheathed donuts come pretty dang close!). Back in the late-’40s, an entrepreneurial chap named Russell C. Wendell launched a chain of takeaway restaurants known as The Big Do-Nut Drive-In.

    Needing something to help stand out in the dog-eat-dog world of light refreshments, ‘Wendy’ approached eccentric structural engineer Richard Bradshaw with an outlandish idea. Each shop would be crested by a donut of obscene proportions.

    Using rolled steel bars to create the rotund shape, and covering them with concrete, each Big Donut weighed an impressive 15,000 pounds. Which is about how much I’d weigh if I ate there every day, tee-hee!

    The second shop opened in 1953, in the blossoming suburb of Inglewood – but I donut know why he chose that location. The restaurant, much like the donuts, was always jam-packed!

    The grand opening was like nothing the good folk of LA had ever seen. Chevy Bel-Airs and Ford T-Birds were lined up round the corner. Greasers and socs put their differences to one side to share an apple fritter.

    World peace, it seemed, was within our cinnamon-dusted grasp. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, but at this point the tale becomes a little bit stale.

    Tired of standing in the shadow of his own big donut, ‘Wendy’ sold the restaurants in the 1970s. Robert Eskow bought the Inglewood location, renaming it Randy’s Donuts after his son. Tragically, most of the other shops closed, their Big Donuts scraped into the bin like yesterday’s leftovers.

    In recent years, new Randy’s franchises have sprung up in Las Vegas, Saudi Arabia, South Korea and the Philippines. But none have a huge donut on the roof, so who cares?

    Feeling Randy

    As a strict adherent to the Atkins diet, I was only able to enjoy a few sumptuous bites from an Oreo-crowned frosted donut before rushing to the nearest restroom to purge myself of the dreaded calories. The creamy, dreamy flavours that swelled around in my mouth, however, were enough to cause my eyes to glaze over.

    From bacon maple Long Johns to cinnamon-encrusted bear claws, sea salt caramel lattes to those super cute pink donuts with the itsy-bitsy sprinkles on the top – for any trip to LA, Randy’s is the icing on the cake… uh, donut!

    Wiping the decadent chocolate from my lips, I noticed a familiar figure, clad in a sheepskin cloak that left little to the imagination, hobbling towards the donut shop. It was my good pal, beloved character actor Randy Quaid, who I befriended on the set of the Yuletide classic National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation 2: Cousin Eddie’s Island Adventure.

    (As an aside, whilst I portrayed Clark – the son of Randy’s character, Eddie – in the film, Randy has come to see me as a father figure over the years, often approaching me for advice during his many times of need)

    “Hi Randy,” I chuckled, before pointing towards the oversized donut. “Your order’s ready, and they’ve already written your name on it.”

    Randy’s face dropped, and he peered anxiously around the busy car park.

    “How do they know my name?” he yelped. His eyes darting from side to side. His tongue flicked across his lips. “And how do they know what I wanted? They’re watchin’ me, Bigs. The guv’ment is watchin’ me!”

    With that, Randy – poor, sweet, misguided Randy – stripped off his cloak and then ran, naked, into the unflinching Los Angeles traffic.

    Oh well, it’s not every day you get to see Randy’s Nuts!

  • The Great Gonzo, Moab, Utah

    The Gonzo, Moab, Utah, United States of America

    Moab, Utah, is most certain to please
    A desert oasis that’s best served with cheese
    With mountains and shrubs and Arches and quilk
    And quaint restaurants that serve bumdoozlers with milk

    I felt a great leaping of joy in my heart
    As I swaggered along, seeking oversized art

    In no time at all, my stroll turned to a hop
    I’d spotted a Big Thing outside of a shop
    And with great skilful skill that would impress a wizard
    I raced towards something that could be a lizard

    As I got nearer I heard a ga-whine!
    I looked
    I saw some him perched up on a sign
    Wearing a Hawaiian shirt, the oddest of creatures
    Describe him? That’s hard. He had such bizarre features
    He was largish, and oldish, and bluish and mossy
    And he spoke with a Utah accent that was sharpish and bossy

    “Bigs Bardot!” he said, taking swift action
    “I am The Gonzo. A roadside attraction
    I lure in travellers both ancient and young
    With my palpable sense of both filbus and fun”
    His tail did flap and his eyes they did spin
    “Won’t you please join me inside The Gonzo Inn?”

    “Look, Gonzo”, I said. “I don’t see the harm
    It’s better than sleeping out there in a barn
    Moab’s quite cold when you’re on your ownly
    A life tracking down Bigs can be rather lonely
    So please lead the way, to a room for this brat
    With a rat, a cat, and a Big Cricket Bat
    I hope it has carpets, and pillows, and sheets!
    And curtains! And comfortable, munchable seats!

    The Gonzo said, “Bigs! You are crazy with greed
    A sensibly-priced condo is all that you need!

    But the very next minute I proved Gonzo wrong
    For, just at that minute, I burst into song
    And the critter found my voice was really quite great
    Then invited me out on a lovely bro date
    I laughed at The Gonzo, and gave him a smile
    “No, all I need is the love of a handsome reptile!”

  • Forever Marilyn, Palm Springs, California

    If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as heck don’t deserve me at my BIGGEST! Marilyn Monroe may have sashayed off this mortal coil six decades ago, but her spirit lives on in downtown Palm Springs, California. There you’ll find Forever Marilyn, a 26ft tribute that perfectly captures the sensuality of the bosomy Hollywood starlet.

    The statue’s voluptuous curves and golden tresses evoke memories of the golden age of cinema. Framed by the breathtaking San Jacinto Mountains, Marilyn bakes in the desert sun. But that’s alright, because Some Like It Hot.

    The blonde bombshell was crafted by maverick artist Seward Johnson, from painted steel and aluminum. Inspired by Marilyn’s unforgettable scene from the 1955 classic The Seven-Year Itch, where her white dress billows around her, the statue was first installed in Chicago in 2011.

    So yes, Forever Marilyn’s getting on a bit, but You’re Only as Young as You Feel.

    Just as the real Marilyn fell victim to the whims of randy tough guys, Forever Marilyn was often assaulted by vandals. On one occasion, red paint was splashed all over her porcelain skin, to protest against climate change or video store late fees for something like that.

    Come on, guys, Let’s Make Love, not war!

    There’s No Bigness Like Show Bigness

    Much like Marilyn herself, who never stayed in one place very long and had a string of short-lived relationships, her sculpture has been around the traps. She first arrived in Palm Springs in 2012, before relocating to Hamilton, New Jersey in 2014.

    Makes sense – Marilyn filmed The Delaware River of No Return there. Tee-hee!

    Marilyn was packed up in 2016 and shipped across the globe to the ultra-chic city of Bendigo, Australia. Known as ‘Tinseltown of the Goldfields’, Marilyn fit right in with the local bohemians, who affectionately called her ‘Maz’.

    Sadly, having both a massive Marilyn Monroe and The Golden Dragon Lotus proved to be more than the good people of Bendigo could handle, and nobody got any work done. They’d just sit around, looking up Maz’s skirt to see her Love Nest. So Maz was plonked on the next cargo ship back to the States.

    After a spell in Stamford, Connecticut, Forever Marilyn spent a few Dangerous Years in storage. It looked like the credits had rolled on her glittering career. Nature abhors a vacuum, and thus a crass Chinese knock-off appeared next to a Bus Stop in the slums of Guigang. Tall and blonde with a sense of fun and adventure – Marilyn must’ve fit right in with the Chinese peasantry.

    Then Bobby ‘The Moonman’ Moon stepped in. The longtime mayor of Palm Springs with the movie star good looks brought Marilyn back to the resort city. This time, Forever.

    And that, thankfully, was the end of all that Monkey Business.

    Something’s Got to Bigs

    And so I found myself standing, mouth agape, between the shapely pins of a much taller woman. Unfortunately, Bigella became quite jealous of the attention I was lavishing upon Marilyn. Oh well, that just goes to prove that Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!

    “Settle down, Bigella,” I snapped. “Me and Marilyn are just friends. We’re Not Married!”
    Bigella, never a fan of classic cinema, didn’t appreciate the joke. She’s probably never even seen Marilyn’s 1952 romantic comedy of the same name.

    “Most of Marilyn’s films are so dated that puns based off their titles make little sense to the wider populace,” Bigella snapped. “Just look at that reference to Monkey Business a few paragraphs back. Nobody will get the joke. It detracts from what should be an interesting story.”
    “Please don’t underestimate the cultural significance of Edmund…”
    “You have this beautiful website that should have widespread appeal, but instead you fill the entries with obscure jokes and bizarre fantasy sequences that have little relevance to the subject matter.”

    Bigella’s cruel words cut through me like a knife, and I sat down beneath Forever Marilyn to have a good, hard think about the direction Land of the Bigs was heading in. Maybe it is too weird, I pondered. Maybe the entries do stray off topic, into outlandish scenarios that amuse nobody by myself. As I looked up into Marilyn’s eyes, I decided to begin a new, more sensible, chapter of my life.

    Tee-hee, just kidding! Forever Marilyn inspired me to trot off to the nearest Dollar Tree to purchase a platinum blonde wig and a blouse that left little to the imagination. Taking Marilyn’s lead I tumbled into and out of a number of marriages and high-profile relationships with luminaries from the entertainment, sporting and political realms, before plunging to the depths of drug and alcohol addiction as my career spiralled out of control.

    Sometime later, bleary-eyed and with my skirt riding up my backside, I stumbled onto a floodlit stage, pushing an oversized cake and wailing “Happy birthday, Mr President” to a confused elderly man who, I’m hesitant to say, appeared to have befouled his pants.

    Poor ol’ Joe just stood there, smiling vacantly as the world rolled on past him, before making a feeble attempt to grope me. My life had, I realised, reached its nadir.

    Fortunately I became obsessed with another oversized roadside attraction before I could succumb to a barbiturate overdose.

    Forever, Bigs.

  • El Gran Grifo, Ciudad de Guatemala

    El Gran Grifo, Ciudad de Guatemala

    Guatemala is a glorious gallimaufry of timeworn Mayan culture and western excesses, striking natural beauty and decaying concrete slums, crushing poverty and obscene wealth. To explore this sizzling Central American country is to be marinated in mesmerising music, heartbreaking history and the concept of keeping dogs on rooftops.

    Never is this cultural gumbo more glaring than during the weekly wander down Avenida Las Americas. It’s a right of passage for the residents of Guatemala City, and de rigeur for all tourists passing through.

    Every Sunday, between 8am and 2pm, this bustling street on the border of Zones 10 and 14 is shut down and transformed into a heaving tribute to the Guatemalan way of life. Thousands of Chapins of all colours and classes crowd together to celebrate their beloved jungle country.

    Families guzzle Little Caesars pizzas in the shade of towering gumtrees, before building forts with the greasy boxes. Kids kick hand-painted soccer balls, or splash around in the tepid waters of Plaza Argentina as firemen spray them with hoses. Some weave through the masses on scooters, following the scent of sizzling burgers and shukos, before plunging into the roadside restaurants.

    Pineapples, loaded with corn chips and peanuts, are served. Gay guys, stripped to the waist and with abs glistening in the afternoon sun, rollerblade past beggars in faux Goorin Bros hats. Famished families line up for plastic plates of whatever’s being given away for free that day – beans or eggs or rice.

    Sometime it’s pet food – cat or dog or hispid pocket gopher, it doesn’t really matter – and fathers can be seen dragging bags of it off into the alleyways with their shoeless children trailing behind. Dinner, it seems, is sorted for the night.

    May the faucet be with you

    But the largest crowds surround the fabled El Gran Grifo – or The Big Tap to those less travelled. This remarkable example of Latin-American roadside architecture, which comes with an oversized plant pot for good measure, can be found outside the Hidrobombas water pump emporium – just up from the Pollo Campero chicken restaurant, which heaves to capacity on a Sunday afternoon.

    Handcrafted by a team of Guatemala’s most talented artists, El Grifo employs a deceptively simple design to distill the essence of the city into a single shrine. It represents the crystal clear water that allowed Mayan civilisation to flourish, and the Spanish technology that empowered it to become something greater.

    A national icon it may be, but The Big Tap is not immune to the characteristic Guatemalan decay. Water once flowed freely from the faucet and, through trickery, gave the impression the whole thing was suspended in the air. The pump has long since ceased to function, however, leaving an exposed steel pipe in its place.

    This does not prevent Chapins from stopping by for a drink during a steamy afternoon playing with their hula hoops. They’ll lean in for a refreshing gulp, and boink their heads on the pipe. But such traumas are par for the course in this swarming city.

    Maybe they should just go and have a cup of tea instead?

    Considered by many to be Guatemala’s answer the Trevi Fountain, The Big Tap has become a popular place for marriage proposals. Sadly, no matter how long I spent there or how cute I looked in my custom-printed Land of the Bigs t-shirt, none of the gay rollerbladers asked for my hand in matrimony.

    Oh well, hombres. If you see me hanging out by El Gran Grifo, just give me a friendly tap on the shoulder!

  • EddieWorld, Yermo, California

    EddieWorld, Yermo, California, United States

    Heading to Las Vegas to gamble away your life savings and admire a few Big Things? Then make sure you swing by California’s SWEETEST holiday destination – EddieWorld! You can’t miss it, just look out for the 65-foot ice cream out the front.

    Rising like a lurid mirage just outside Yermo, The Big Sundae’s euphoric hues – pink and blue and canary yellow – lure in excited roadtrippers and frazzled encyclopaedia salesmen with the promise of treasures innumerable. And the cherry on top is, well, the cherry on top.

    Proudly advertised as California’s largest gas station, EddieWorld boasts 26 pumps (I counted them!) and 27,000ft of retail space (I measured it with my trundle wheel – thanks, José, for rearranging the jerky shelves and Frazil ice drink machines so I could get an accurate reading).

    There are three world-class restaurants, plenty of souvenirs, and even a shrine to popular local netball team the LA Lakers. EddieWorld also offers more soda flavours than you could shake an insulin syringe at at. Prickly pear, pumpkin crème, and gherkin are personal faves. Yes, EddieWorld’s the perfect place to scoop up a bargain!

    EddieWorld also has dozens of charging sor-bays for electronic vehicles. Cool!

    The men’s toilets, usually a tribute to the grotesque, prove to be another highlight. It’s not unusual to enter to the celebratory sounds of hoots and high-fives, as each urinal is fitted out with a high-tech electrical game controlled through a carefully-aimed stream.

    Sadly, I didn’t partake. I simply didn’t need Bigella getting on my case about having fun in public toilets with strange men again.

    On the Sundae of Life

    With its retro charm, EddieWorld’s giant gelado is a mouthwatering tribute simpler time. It may surprise you, then, that this wintery wonderland is but a few, delicious years old.

    Enigmatic entrepreneur Eddie Ringle opened the first EddieWorld gas station in Nevada in 2001. It was a moderate success, but lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. That missing ingredient turned out to be a six-storey ice cream, which became the focal point of his second gas station, served up to a famished public one warm day in 2018.

    Proving that anything is popsicle, EddieWorld quickly became California’s pre-eminent tourist attraction. It was a rocky road to success, but they made it. And don’t worry, this sundae is open seven days a week!

    When the Land of the Bigs crew turned up, Bigella wasted little time maxing out the company AmEx on lollies, soda, plushies, commemorative t-shirts and a big ol’ bucket of butter pecan ice cream.

    Not wanting to dirupt my strict paleo diet, I bypassed the sundaes in favour of a small bag of gluten free bacon and cheese flavoured crickets. They were every bit as disgusting as you’d expect, and I became ever-so-slightly ravenous as I watched Bigella guzzling her sumptuous frozen delicacies, the decadent snack dripping down her fingers in the waning Californian sun.

    Succumbing to my lust for the sugary treat, I lunged towards my comrade’s food in a desperate attempt to ladle it into my gaping maw. I instantly learned that one should never get in between Bigella and a tub of ice cream, because she responded by delivering a severe beating and dumping me, semi-conscious and bleeding heavily, at the base of The Big Sundae.

    I suppose I got my just desserts!

  • The Big Tutankhamun, Buronga, NSW

    The Big Tutankhamun, Buronga, New South Wales, Australia

    Walk like an Egyptian to beautiful Buronga, near Mildura, where you’ll find an eight-metre-tall tribute to King Tutankhamun. All together now – Way-oh-way-oh, ooh-way-oh-way-oh!

    Surrounded by swaying palm trees and perfectly located by the roadside for a selfie (don’t forget to Nile!), King Tut provides the full Egyptian experience, without the 45-hour flight to North Africa. Like Cairo, there are a few dodgy types lurking around, so don’t get caught up in any pyramid schemes while you’re there.

    The Golden Goliath rules over the luxurious Edge Motel, a building that bears an uncanny resemblance to the Great Pyramid of Giza. But does the pyramid have OptusVision and and a 5.9 review score on Booking.com?

    Apparently there used to be a world-class restaurant onsite, with a range of food and sphinx served by head chef Gordon Ramses. But he left to open Anubis-tro somewhere else. And a word of warning to my friends in the Bitcoin community; despite the sarcophagus out the front, the little chap at reception doesn’t accept cryptocurrency.

    Locals say that, much like the Egyptian Pyramids, the owners used slaves to build the motel – but I had a good look around and it seems like they just used bricks.

    Stop by to say say hi-roglyph!

    Tutankhamen presides over a rough area of Buronga, so it came as no surprise when, as I struggled into my custom-designed Egyptian tunic, one of the local bogans hung his head the window of his souped-up Kia Stonic and yelled, “Show us ya Tuts!”

    “You must’ve ingested one too many cans of kicky beer, buddy,” I screamed at him. “There’s only one Tut in Buronga – and he’s right there in front of you!”

    Fortunately, the hotel room Gordon and I shared was well-presented, with relatively few scarab beetles scurrying around. My only complaint is that the bed was a bit hard, so I had to visit the Cairopractor the next day – teehee!

    We were kept up into the wee hours by Cleopatra and her six kids in the next room who, after a bit of back-and-forth, invited Gordon over to be her Mark Antony. Thanks for the offer, Raelene, but he has enough mummy issues as it is!

  • Breakfast, Grand Junction, Colorado

    Breakfast, Grand Junction, Colorado, United States

    Feeling famished after a long morning spent searching for Colorado’s Big Things? Then pop into one of Grand Junction’s world-class cafés for a sumptuous plate of jalapeño eggs benedict!

    But if you’re hungry for a thought-provoking art piece that will touch your soul, head to the corner of Main and 7th. There you’ll find Breakfast, a delicious effigy of an apple that shall satiate any appetite.

    Created by local artiste Terry Burnett, who lives in (where else?) Fruita, this scrumptious morsel is a comical homage to the local fresh produce industry. With its garish colours and surreal juxtaposition against the buzzing traffic, it’s no wonder Breakfast has become the apple of many a Coloradan eye.

    At the core of it, however, Breakfast provides a scathing critique of overconsumption. Pear – oops, I mean peer! – towards the base of the attraction to find an ant, eyes bugging out of his head, fresh from gorging himself on an apple many times his own size.

    Known to his admirers as António (not to be confused with the Portuguese scallywag I bumped into in North Queensland – boy, was he a bad apple!) this critter has become the unofficial mascot of Grand Junction. Whilst not as large as other creepy crawlies such as The Big Spider and The Black Ant, António’s unabashed enthusiasm for binge eating should be an inspiration to us all.

    After all, it’s just as American as apple pie!

    A Big Apple A Day…

    I was so aroused by António’s gastrological antics, in fact, that I headed into the nearest greasy spoon and ordered everything on the menu. As plate after plate of apple crumble and apple turnovers landed before me, I regaled the other diners with my vast knowledge of oversized apples.

    “There are many other Big Apples spread across the United State – although none, curiously, located in New York,” I told anyone within earshot, before ladling more apple strudel down my gullet. “You may also want to trot over to Australia, where you’ll have a fruitful experience tracking down Big Apples in Batlow, Balhannah, Acacia Ridge, Darkes Forest, Yerrinbool and Tallong. I could go on and on, but I’d hate to upset the apple cart.

    “By the way, are you going to finish that apple fritter?”

    I’m now dealing with a fairly serious eating disorder and life-altering cholesterol, but that’s a small price to pay to experience Coloradan hospitality.

    Well, they do say breakfast is the most important meal of the day!

  • Chrome on the Range 2, Grand Junction, CO

    Chrome on the Range II, Grand Junction, Colorado, United States

    Oh give me a home, where a Big Buffalo roams. Where a Big Lego Man and Big Ant like to plaaaaaaaaay. Well, pardner, it looks like your new home is Grand Junction, Colorado, a leafy oasis that’s just bursting with beautiful Bigs.

    It’s right there in the name – they don’t call it Small Junction, after all!

    Mosey on down the quirky main street, past the eccentric coffee shops selling kiln-roasted lattes, and you will stop, mesmerised, before a gleaming beast of epic proportions. This, my friend, is Chrome on the Range II, a 7ft-tall buffalo pieced together from shiny chrome bumper bars.

    The chrome critter was crafted by Aspen artiste Lou Wille, as the centrepiece of the town’s Art on the Corner initiative. The United Bank, where he was to be placed, took the bull by the horns and tipped in $20,000, with enthusiastic locals matching that effort. He was installed in 1989.

    ‘Chromey’ stands as a monument to a nation in a state of flux. The untamed past collides with a corporate present. The wild west meets offbeat small-town charm. Brazen yet bashful, vulgar yet wistful, this artwork offers a nostalgic look at the beating heart of America.

    As his name suggests, Chrome on the Range II was based on a similar attraction – known as Chrome on the Range I – located a few hours drive away at the John Denver Sanctuary. It’s a rare case where the sequel is even more incredible the original.

    I do think, however, they missed a trick by not naming him Chrome on the Range II: Chrome Harder.

    There’s No Place Like Chrome

    With Chrome on the Range II inviting a higher calibre of tourist into town, Grand Junction evolved into a bohemian enclave. Sadly, like the buffalo that once roamed these pastures, these halcyon days of economic prosperity were driven away by the endless march of time.

    A number of banks occupied the building behind Chromey, before the most recent said, “bye, son!” and abandoned it a couple of years ago. The Big, Shiny Buffalo, once an ode to the American dream, now serves as a melancholy meditation on economic and social decay.

    But wipe away those tears, because this overgrown cow will stand proudly on the corner of Main and 4th for-heifer.

    “Nobody needs to worry,” bellowed Sarah Dishong, project coordinator for Downtown Grand Junction, amid rising concern. “The buffalo has been here for decades and is a part of our permanent collection. The piece isn’t going anywhere.”

    So grab a tumeric mocha and spend a moment beside this perfectly-polished buffalo. Look into his big, knowing eyes. Rub his bulbous head. Kiss his glossy, yet mournful, cheek. Sit, cross-legged beneath his learning tree, and allow the history of the United States to wash over you.

    Of course, some ‘haters’ claim that Chromey doesn’t count as a Big, because he’s not much larger than a regular bison – but I say that’s a load of bull!

  • The Big Kingfisher, Strathfieldsaye, VIC

    The Big Kingfisher, Strathfieldsaye, Victoria, Australia

    Amidst the rolling glens and castle-like homesteads of the sprawling Imagine Estate, an enormous kingfisher surveys his kingdom. This steel-and-perspex critter was built by gifted artist Folko Kooper and, perched high above a billabong, offers a breathtaking photo opportunity for all Bigs-thusiasts.

    Pleased with my happy snaps – my light grey shirt really popped against the native flora – I prepared to leave the park when an unusually hairy gentleman, bereft of shirt, invited me to lay down beside him on the estate’s lush grass. Wriggling a little closer, his unkempt beard tickling my cheeks, the man presented me with a toothy grin.

    “Bigs, did you ever hear the story of the Fisher King?” he asked.

    “Don’t you mean the kingfisher?” I replied, gesturing towards the giant, blue-and-brown bird perched above us.

    “Kingfisher, Fisher King, I always get that front to back,” the screwball squawked. “Anyway, the story begins with the brightly-coloured kingfisher as a chick, having to spend the night alone in the forests of Strathfieldsaye, to prove his courage so he can become king of the entire medium-density housing development.”

    “Ooh, I wish I had some popcorn,” I cooed, snuggling in closer to the shaggy street urchin. “This is getting good.”

    Hail to the Kingfisher

    “Now, while he’s spending the night alone, the little bird is visited by a most unusual vision of a fire,” my chum chirped. “Out of the fire appears the Holy Grail, symbol of God’s divine grace. And a voice said to the kingfisher, ‘You shall be keeper of the Grail, so that it may heal the hearts of all the world’s winged creatures.’”

    “Oh me, oh my!” I piped up. “I had similar delusions after I ate a whole tray of lasagne right before bed!”

    “But the kingfisher was blinded by greater visions of a life filled with power, and glory, and beauty. And in this state of radical amazement, he felt for a brief moment not like an average-sized bird, but like a really, really big bird – like The Big Kookaburra…”

    “Or the The Big Pheasant? The Big Eagle? The…”

    “Yes, Bigs, that’s quite enough of that. So the bird reached into the fire to take the Grail, and the Grail vanished, leaving him with his wing in the fire, to be terribly wounded.”
    “Golly, this sounds like it’s getting a bit gruesome for Land of the Bigs!”

    “Now as this bird grew older, his wound grew deeper,” the crackpot continued. “Until one day, life for him lost its reason. He had no faith in any avian. Not even himself. He couldn’t love, or feel loved. He was sick with experience, and he began to die.”

    “Criminy,” I wept. “That’s exactly how I felt when they tore down The Big Pineapple.”

    “Really, Bigs, can we go five minutes without hearing about The Big Pineapple?”

    The Last Kingfisher of Bendigo

    “One day, a fool wandered into the estate, and found the kingfisher alone by the entrance to the carefully-landscaped Emu Garden,” the teller of tales tweeted. “And being a fool, he didn’t see a king of birds. He only saw a bird alone, and in pain. And he asked the kingfisher, ‘What ails you, friend?’

    “The kingfisher replied, ‘I’m thirsty – I need some water to cool my throat.’ So the fool took a cup, filled it with water, and handed it to the creature. As the kingfisher began to drink, he realised his wound was healed! He looked in his wings, and there was the Holy Grail, that which he sought all his life. And he turned to the fool and said with amazement, ‘How can you find that which my brightest and bravest could not?’

    “And the fool replied, ‘I don’t know. I only knew that you were thirsty.’”

    The two of us lay back in silence, allowing the enormity of the story to wash over us. I turned to my new friend and when I did, his eyes were deep and blue and crinkled in the corners.

    “And that’s why they decided to build a statue of kingfisher here?” I whispered. “So that the people of Strathfieldsaye shall never forget that what they yearn for may harm as well as heal? That redemption can be found in the unlikeliest of places?”

    “No,” the vagrant shrugged. “Some suit in Melbourne probably picked it out of a catalogue in order to give the place some semblance of character. I just like the story.”

    And with that the hobo sat up, brushed the grass from his shoulders, and wandered off into the labyrinthine streets of Greater Bendigo, never to be seen again.

  • Big Sweep, Denver, Colorado

    Bg Sweep, Denver, Colorado, United States of America

    Prepare to be swept off your feet by this 40ft-tall dustpan and brush! Big Sweep brooms large over the Denver Art Museum’s quirky Frederic C. Hamilton Building, and was installed in 2006 in an attempt to tidy up the city.

    Colourful and camp, Big Sweep offers a bizarre, even confronting, commentary on the banality of suburban life. With its eerily-realistic bristles and paper, one initially feels tiny in comparison. The crushing weight of domestic responsibility, it seems, has become too much to bear.

    Stand beneath this huge utensil for a time, however, and the message transforms into one of hope. No matter how messy life becomes, our dreams shall always be large enough to clean up the calamity.

    Failing that, just do what I did and pick up an undocumented immigrant to clear away your clutter. Gracias, Maria!

    Crafted by Land of the Bigs regulars Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen – who were on target with Cupid’s Span – Big Sweep was, apparently, inspired by the vast prairies and mountains of Colorado.

    Although I’d argue it was inspired by the vast piles of garbage left by the hobos who inhabit the area. To avoid a brush with these miscreants, mop by to see Big Sweep during daylight hours.

    The street urchins have little knowledge of, or respect for, this kitschy slice of Americana. Perhaps if they cleaned up their act, studying the history of the nation’s resplendent roadside attractions rather than huffing crushed-up painkillers out of discarded shoes, they’d have houses of their own to keep neat and tidy.

    Now, please excuse me. Maria’s just whipped up some chilaquiles with her homemade salsa verde, and when I finish them I’ll have to make sure she scrubs the toilet properly. Honestly, a woman’s work is never done!

  • Lizzo the Lizard, Somersby, NSW

    Lizzo the Big Lizard, Somersby, New South Wales, Australia

    It’s Big Thing o’clock, yeah, it’s lizard-thirty
    I’m here in Somersby and it’s real purty (okay)
    Is everybody set for someone scaly?
    Who you can visit all up on the daily
    Lizzo can make you smile quite gayly
    How you feelin’? How you feel right now?

    Ooooh, Lizzo the Big Lizard’s a treasure
    Find her near the Aus Reptile Park, yeah
    Oh, she’s not the creature she was or used to be
    Uh, Biggies, she’s even better!

    Turn up Pile Street, then on the right
    I got a feelin’ you’ll see something nice
    Okay (okay), alright
    It’s about damn time!
    Stop for a photo, yes that’s the way!
    I got a feelin’ she’s gon’ make your day
    Okay (okay), alright
    Lizzo is damn fine!

    In a minute, you’ll go completely mental
    ‘Cos Ploddy‘s nearby to pump you up
    So is Frilly, she’ll make you feel really silly
    But remember you’re fabulous
    I enjoyed Lizzo so dang much
    I split into like two Bigs Bardots
    One to get up, one to get down
    Both will help you smile, not frown

    Ooooh, Lizzo the Big Lizard’s a treasure
    With her frilled neck and toothy smile, yeah
    Oh, she’s not the creature she was or used to be
    Uh, Biggies, she’s even better!

    Liz might be ageing, but don’t have a fright
    I got a feelin’ she’s gon’ be alright
    Okay (okay), alright
    Oh yeah she’ll be fine (fine)
    Older Big Lizards can, still celebrate (alright)
    I got a feelin’ Lizzo wants to go out and play
    Okay (okay), alright
    She’s still in her prime

    Lizzo’s comin’ out tonight, she’s comin’ out tonight (uh-huh)
    To Club Troppo tonight, ‘cos it’s Saturday night (wooooo!)
    Vodka Cruisers tonight, get in a fight tonight
    Okay (okay), alright (alright)
    It’s Troppo time!
    Club Troppo’s closed tonight, (oh no) has been since ’06, why? (closed since ’06, why?)
    Nowhere to go tonight, Gosford is dead tonight (woo)
    Need a plan for tonight, let’s break the time-space continuum tonight (break the time-space continuum tonight)
    Okay (okay), alright
    Let’s go back in time!

    And that’s the story of how Lizzo the Big Lizard, Bigs Bardot the much-loved roadside attraction savant, Gordon the rambunctious alien, Gideon the gooey guacamole, and Bigs Bardot’s evil-yet-whimsically-handsome clone invented time travel, just so they could head back to 2001 and dance to Craig David’s 7 Days whilst sucking on watered-down frozen cocktails and avoiding the near-constant dancefloor scuffles at the legendary Club Troppo.

    A brief note on Lizzo’s current legal situation

    It’s recently been brought to my attention that Lizzo – the remarkably talented, deliciously robust, African American pop singer, not the remarkably large, deliciously anatomically accurate, Indigenous Australian lizard – has been cancelled due to some rather serious sexual misconduct charges.

    Please be aware that the passionate and diverse Land of the Bigs team does not condone such behaviour. After months of negotiations with the Australian Reptile Park, I’ve been assured that Lizzo’s open invitation to the Quoll Experience has been revoked.

    Woo child, we’re just sick of your bulldust.

  • Mike the Headless Chicken, Fruita, CO

    Mike the Headless Chicken, Fruita, Colorado, United States of America

    Have you been running round like a headless chicken in search of roadside attractions? Then strut over to Fruita, Colorado, where you’ll find a bonkers statue dedicated to Mike the Headless Chicken!

    The bizarre story of a chook who lived for 18 months after having his noggin lopped off – and went on to become a national celebrity – has long enthralled locals and visitors alike. A four-foot effigy to Mike, lovingly created by local artist Lyle Nichols, can be found outside the Aspen Street Coffee Co on the town’s leafy main street.

    There’s no need to walk around on eggshells when visiting, because the mother hens at the cafe are really quite lovely. Maybe give the omelettes a miss, though – you might offend Mike.

    The headless heartthrob’s no spring chicken, having been revealed to a bemused gathering of admirers back in March of 2000. Carefully crafted from 300 pounds of old metal farm castoffs, including axe heads and sickle blades, Mike fits in with the many oddball artworks scattered around this quirky village.

    “I made him proud-looking and cocky,” Lyle cock-a-doodle-dooed, before joking that he gave the Fruita chamber of commerce a discount because Mike didn’t have a head.

    Despite living just up the road from another Big, the legendary Grrrreta the Grrrreat Big Dinosaur, Mike certainly rules the roost in Fruita. The locals even throw a festival – or should that be nest-ival? – in his honour every June. With a 5km fun run, chicken dancing competition and displays from the region’s craft breweries, there’s always a few sore heads the next morning.

    But I guess that’s better than having no head at all!

    Where’s Your Head At?

    The legend of Mike the Headless Chicken goes back to September 10, 1945. Fruita chap Lloyd Olsen, long henpecked by his domineering mother-in-law, decided to win her over with a succulent chicken dinner. Taking his prized cock, Mike, into the backyard, Lloyd kissed him goodbye and then lopped off his head with an axe.

    And that’s when things got interesting. Instead of laying down to be served with a side of steamed vegetables, Mike went about his day, strutting around and fluffing up his feathers. Lloyd, who couldn’t believe his cluck, fed the decapitated bird with an eye-dropper. It was then that he saw signing signs.

    Leaving his mother-in-law was unfed, Lloyd scooped up his headless chicken and rushed off to the University of Utah. There, the resident boffins proclaimed that Mike had just enough of a brain stem left to go on as if nothing had happened.

    Well, it’s not as though fully-intact chickens are solving the secrets of the universe, anyway.

    Lloyd hired a manager for Mike, and the bonceless bird immediately beaked the curiosity of the public. Soon he was travelling across America and appearing on the front cover of everything from Life magazine to Bird Fanciers Quarterly. Thousands – if not millions – lost their minds when they chooked him out.

    Mike was the cock of the walk. Tabloids of the day caught him partying with Hollywood bad boy Gregory Peck, and stepping out with actresses Ingrid Birdman and Vivi-hen Leigh. The biggest star since Cluck Gable, many thought him destined. But one should never count one’s chickens – headless or otherwise – before they hatch.

    One windswept night in Arizona, after a year-and-a-half without a head, Mike choked to death on a kernel of corn.

    Beakle-Mania was over. Lloyd’s mother-in-law finally received her chicken feast.

    Mike was immortalised in The Guinness Book of Records (as the longest surviving headless chicken), and the docu-hen-tary Chick Flick: The Miracle Mike Story. Pop royalty penned ballads about him. Mike the Headless Chicken by Sandy Lind lit up the charts, as did Headless Mike by The Radioactive Chicken Heads (An instant celebrity/He toured the country in an auto/Probably the greatest thing/To ever come from Colorado).

    Mike brought newfound respect to chickens worldwide. He inspired other Bigs such as California’s Chicken Boy, and Charlie, Chickeletta and The Big Chook over in Australia.

    Quite a chicken-feat, but nothing serves as a greater tribute to his legacy than the BIG statue in his hometown of Fruita. Cheeky, handsome and truly individual, you’ll have egg on face if you don’t see it!

  • The King of Atlantis, Main Beach, QLD

    The King of Atlantis, Sea World, Main Beach, Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia

    You must be 122cm tall to ride Sea World’s newest thrill ride – but that shouldn’t bother The King of Atlantis. At nine metres from fishy feet to golden crown, this ocean god holds the tidal for tallest humanoid sculpture in Australia, and so can do pretty much water-ever he likes.

    Well, except wear a shirt, apparently. But then again, who wouldn’t wanna show off those obliques?

    Yes, this soggy stud needs to be marine to be believed. Digitally designed by the brine folks at Sculpt Studios on the Gold Coast, The King was cast in composite fibreglass, then airbrushed with exquisite attention to detail. Without getting into Pacifics, I was Poseidon myself with excitement when I was first able to sea him.

    The King watches over the park’s $50 million New Atlantis sea-development, which includes the Vortex spinny-thing, the Trident flying-chair-whatsit and the heart-drenching Leviathan rollercoaster. All of which are sure to make you go “H2-Whooooah!”

    For those wanting to splash out on a day at Sea World, the new krill rides make for a welcome break from the park’s range of family-friendly penguin exhibits and seal shows. I mean, what’s the porpoise of seeing the dolphins – they aren’t even Big.

    There is a bucketload of beautiful Bigs on the Gold Coast, though. No Aquaman is an island, so The King rules over Blue Perspective, GeckoMania!, Kangaroo Kat, Bigfoot, Ring-O and Maddie & Mike. And yes, they’re all swell.

    As for the 1000m-long wooden rollercoaster The King protects? I wasn’t scared at all! The only reason my trousers were damp afterwards was because The King of Atlantis splashed me – and don’t let Bigella tell you otherwise!

    Hail to the King, Baby!

    Since posting this highly informative article, I’ve received several pieces of feedback – some would call it hate mail – from admirers of Ernie, a similarly-large humanoid sculpture who lives in the picturesque Victorian hamlet of Shepparton.

    The locals, who take great pride in their world famous Big, have passionately put forth their opinion that Ernie, not The King of Atlantis, holds the crown as Australia’s most enormous human-shaped statue.

    For fear of having my “brains bashed in” (as Byron so eloquently put it) or being forced to “sleep at the bottom of the Goulburn River” (as Arjun has invited me to do), I must point out that Ernie simply doesn’t measure up. And I say that in the most respectful manner possible.

    Despite being impressively robust, with an enormous head and barrel chest, he doesn’t have any legs and so is several metres shorter than our Atlantean friend. Ernie, therefore, shall be forever looking up at the true King.

    I guess you could say Ernie’s only half the man The King of Atlantis is – teehee!

  • The Big Fire Hydrant, Las Vegas, Nevada

    The Big Fire Hydrant, Las vegas, Nevada, United States of America

    Downtown Las Vegas has gone to the dogs, because it’s home to the 15-foot-tall canine bathroom – also known as The Big Fire Hydrant. Standing proudly outside the pooch park on Fremont Street, this bright yellow beacon of hope is fully functional and able to spurt out water at the pull of a lever.

    Sensible and practical it may be, but the story behind The Big Fire Hydrant is absolutely bonkers.

    Back in 2013, the owners of upscale doggy daycare centre The Hydrant Club were looking to stand out amongst the glitz and glamour of sin city. Enter venture capitalist and all-round oddball Tony Hsieh. He suggested building a Fire Hydrant of epic proportions, and had the connections to make it happen.

    Building Bigs was, apparently, Tony’s modus operandi. He also installed a massive metal mantis just up the road to promote a local restaurant precinct.

    “The idea is every block or so have something interesting,” Tony told an enraptured journalist. “We’re building the world’s largest functioning fire hydrant next to the dog park, building all sorts of things. And the idea is to get people to walk one more block, because Vegas has been a very car-focused town.”

    Tony, sadly, never got to enjoy the fruits of his labour. He descended into madness shortly after the completion of his magnum opus, squirrelling himself away in his house to suck on cans of nitrous oxide and starve himself of both food and oxygen for the fun of it. I guess the pressure of topping The Big Fire Hydrant was just too much for him.

    He also took to smearing poo all over the walls, with close friend Jewel – yes, that Jewel! – describing the inside of his home as “Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory”.

    Ewwwwww!

    The lunacy came to a chaotic crescendo in November 2020 when Tony, high on goofballs, set fire to his backyard shed and then locked himself inside. He didn’t survive, and the world was robbed of a true Big Thing visionary.

    Golly gosh, if only Tony had built some sort of enormous water-spurting contraption outside his house – teehee!

    Come On Baby, Light My Fire Hydrant

    The years following the Fire Hydrant’s inauguration were good ones for Las Vegas’s dogs (and their humans). They had space to play, a place to do their business, and lots of pet-friendly cafes in which to enjoy a frothy puppaccino.

    Then terror descended upon this peaceful corner of Las Vegas. Ruffians took up residence in Fremont Streets, and things would never be the same again.

    “The kinds of threats that really lead me to the decision that this neighborhood was no longer a safe place for a standalone small business were things like gun violence,” The Hydrant Club’s owner Owner Cathy Brooks told an appalled journalist. “Things like large groups of unruly individuals.”

    “When 100 guys drinking tall cans, getting hammered and getting stoned, are riding bikes right down the middle of the street,” Cath continued. “Then they throw their bikes all over your property and you ask them really politely, ‘Hey would you mind moving over so you are not obstructing the business’ and I get called all manner of names… What am I going to do?”

    To make things more tragic, the bikes in question, shockingly, weren’t even big. They were just regular bikes. Faced with unimaginable brutality, the owners of The Hydrant Club shut the doors and never returned.

    “Two hours after the last dog left the building, two people were shot about two blocks away,” Cathy wept.

    The Big Fire Hydrant, once a symbol of downtown Vegas’s bright future, lay abandoned. It’ll take more than a few maniacs to stop Bigella and moi from admiring a giant working fire hydrant, however.

    But our trip to The Big Fire Hydrant very nearly cost us our lives.

    How I Wet Your Brother

    Shortly after arriving at The Big Fire Hydrant, a tribe of bad boys in sequinned leather jackets rode up on a three-person tandem bicycle and started mincing around in front of us. Bad intentions danced in their eyes. This crew had run the owners of The Hydrant Club out of town, and now they’d come back to finish the job.

    When one of them tossed an empty can of beer at the base of the Hydrant, I decided things had gone far enough.

    “Boys, I should warn you,” I snapped, rolling up the sleeves on my custom-printed Land of the Bigs tunic. “I get pretty dang mad when people don’t show respect to The Big Fire Hydrant. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m mad.”

    “Pffft,” snarled the lead thug, shaking his mohawked head. “You call that a big fire hydrant? It’s not even the largest in the continental USA.”
    “Yeah, there’s a 24-foot working fire hydrant in Beaumont, Texas that is far more impressive,” added another tough guy as he swung a metal chain around.
    “And that one’s painted like a Dalmatian, if I’m not mistaken,” claimed a third delinquent, who had a skull painted on his face and peg-leg. “I feel it adds a kitschy ambiance that is most welcome.”

    Bigella had heard enough of their bigotry. She stepped up to The Big Fire Hydrant, then paused for dramatic effect.

    “You boys still look a bit wet behind the ears,” she boomed, reaching for the fireplug’s oversized handle. “Say ‘hy-drant’ to my little friend!” Then, with a flick of her wrist, she released a torrent of icy water upon the goons, giving them a jolly good soaking.

    “Wow, Bigella, you’ve really made a splash around here!” I chuckled.

    The trio of punks huddled together like drowned rats. The leader stepped towards us, sopping cap in hand, shoulders slumped.

    “We’ve learned a good lesson today,” he lisped, wringing out his crop top. “Maybe it’s time for us to give up on crime and violence, and turn our attention to something valuable – like preaching the gospel of America’s incredible Big Things.”

    The five of us, different people from different worlds, came together for a group hug in the middle of Fremont Street. Tony would’ve wanted it that way.

    And that, my friends, is how Bigs Bardot and Bigella Fernandez Hernandez solved Las Vegas’s gang problem.

  • Claim Your Destiny, Dry Lake, Nevada

    Claim Your Destiny, Dry Lake, Nevada, United States of America

    Wander through the Nevada desert long enough and you shall come across Claim Your Destiny, a colossal beer can that just might hold the answer to all life’s mysteries.

    Or just take the Ely exit as you’re driving out of Vegas, trundle along Las Vegas Blvd North for six miles, head up the dirt track on the right as far as you can go, swagger across the abandoned train tracks, and there it is. You can’t miss it.

    Claim Your Destiny was created by enigmatic graffiti artist Aware, who painted an abandoned water tank to look like a tin of the popular Pabst Blue Ribbon lager. This remarkable example of guerilla art, completed sometime in 2019, serves as a commentary not only on alcoholism, but on the wider ills of American society.

    Although the paintwork has been lashed by the intense Nevada sun, nothing can dilute the power of its message. The words encircling the base of the big beer can provide a sombre, biting meditation on life and the human condition, and read thusly:

    Drinking tin flavored piss water is as American as small-pox covered blankets, shooting unarmed black men, diplomacy by drone, date raping drunk sorority girls with impunity, or over consumption of everything always.

    Golly, and they say that no one ever found any answers at the bottom of a can of economically-priced Pilsner!

    Bigs Bardot and the Vial of Destiny

    Resting in the shadows of Claim Your Destiny, the hot wind sending tumbleweed trundling across the scarred landscape, I was forced to confront my own morals and question my contribution to society. What was I doing, traipsing around the cosmos in kaleidoscopic clothes, taking photos with Big Things and writing about them through a patchwork of puns and outdated cultural references?

    I ruminated on my existential crisis for hours, until the smouldering sun sunk behind the tangerine hills and a chill crept over my body. The desert stars unfurled above me, timeless and sober. I searched within myself until I came to the centre of what it means to be Bigs Bardot.

    Turns out, I like Bigs Bardot. And I’m proud of what I do.

    If I’ve shone a light on forgotten artworks from across the globe, and told the stories of those who built them. Made someone laugh in troubled times. Preserved a little piece of our history. Worked hard. Created something meaningful and kind-hearted and informative and real. Then it’s all worth it.

    If I’ve brought back cherished memories of childhood. Inspired just one person to push past their boundaries to explore the weirder corners of our planet, and see Bigs that nourish the soul. If I’ve made an effort to showcase the good, not the bad. Then I’ve done my part, however small, towards building a better world.

    I’ve claimed my destiny. What about you?

  • SlotZilla, Las Vegas, Nevada

    SlotZilla, Las Vegas, Nevada, United States of America

    SlotZilla! SlotZilla! Follow the joyful screaming to downtown Las Vegas, where you’ll find the world’s largest slot machine. A dazzling display of bright lights that overwhelms the senses, SlotZilla rises 12 storeys above Fremont Street and is home to one of the world’s most incredible thrill rides.

    The wondrous one armed bandit opened to much fanfare in the summer of 2014 and was designed to reinvigorate the area, which had fallen into disrepair. That goal was most certainly met. The end result is a Big Thing that’s garish, outlandish, and kind of beautiful – just like Vegas itself.

    SlotZilla is flanked by two scantily-clad showgirls, each 35 1/2 feet tall. Known as Jennifer and Porsha, they aren’t to my taste, but certainly draw the attention of the masses.

    A stream of Elvis impersonators and sun-kissed tourists spill from SlotZilla’s mouth like sparkling coins, thanks the landmark’s award-winning zipline. This breathtaking ride quickly established itself as Las Vegas’s premiere tourist attraction, providing a welcome distraction for those who have thrown away their life savings on blackjack and outrageously-priced food and drinks.

    Dozens of celebs have taken the plunge, including pop royalty Katy Perry and my old friend Norman Reedus. He dropped his tough-guy façade just long enough to enjoy a hair-raising flight from that zooms past five city blocks.

    The owners shan’t be able to add the name Bigs Bardot to that list, however. No, it’s not that I’m terrified of heights. It’s the $69 ticket price that scares me. But I suppose they had to do something to recoup the $17 million construction cost.

    Unlike Godzilla, the horrifying green monster it was named after, SlotZilla doesn’t want to broil you alive with a high-powered laser beam. It just wants to empty your pockets of any spare change you have and leave you homeless and destitute, begging for quarters on the streets of Las Vegas in order to feed your gambling addiction.

    Trust me, I know.

    You’ve got to know when to hold ’em
    Know when to fold ’em
    Know when to walk away
    And know when to run

    Standing beneath SlotZilla, the hypnotic bells and whistles cutting through the Las Vegas night, one can’t help but be swept into the seductive world of high-stakes gambling. With my addictive personality, I did my best to resist, but felt a tidal wave of neon anticipation washing over my quivering body.

    (I’m no stranger to risk, of course, having long ago plonked my life savings into a little website named Land of the Bigs. On a completely unrelated note, please consider contributing to my Venmo, CashApp, PayPal, GoFundMe, Patreon, Kickstarter or BuyMeACoffee. Please, I’m desperate here.)

    But with the promise of untold riches spilling from the bosom of SlotZilla, my resolve weakened.

    One dollar can’t hurt, I thought to myself, my forehead slick with sweat. And the local economy is, after all, built on the misery of others. So, in a way, I’d be stealing if I didn’t gamble. They might even lock me up and throw away the key.

    As appealing as an evening with heavily-tattooed Mexican gangbangers and drunken American frat boys was, I shrugged my shoulders and succumbed to my deepest carnal desires to wager everything I had on the whim of a machine. Plucking a shiny coin from my slacks, I turned to the nearest one-cent slot and hoped for the best.

    To my delight I won a small amount. The celebratory klaxon filled me with the sense of achievement and companionship I’d been yearning for my whole life. Plonking another coin into the machine, I settled a little deeper into my chair. A mocktail was ordered from a passing waiter. My downfall was imminent.

    The following hours are a blur of dopamine and shame. At some point I stumbled to a pawn shop to trade whatever trinkets I had on me for extra cash. The poker machine soon devoured that as well. A burly security guard hurled me, financially and emotionally ravaged, into the windswept street.

    Peering up at SlotZilla through my tears of shame, my bank account bereft of funds and my few real-world friendships destroyed by the calamity of gambling, I wondered whether it was all worth it.

    Of course it was, I thought to myself, rifling through a bin for a coffee cup to shake at strangers. It might’ve cost me my financial security and any residual feeling of self respect, but I got to see a big slot machine, and that’s all that really matters.

    We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at SlotZilla.

  • The Big Mower, Beerwah, QLD

    The Big Mower, Beerwah, Queensland, Australia

    Tidying up the backyard can be as exciting as watching grass grow – unless you have the world’s largest mower! Yes, the lawn and the short of it is that Beerwah’s Big Mower is a grass-terclass in roadside architecture and a true celebration of Aussie culture.

    Not much information exists regarding The Big Mower – just a few clippings here and there – but we do know it was built in 1974 and stands a 11m by 3.6m (or 12 yards tall for my American fans). Originally emblazoned with a Honda logo, the Mower had started looking a bit rough around the hedges in recent shears.

    With a fresh coat of paint, it now proudly bears Victa branding. Anything else, apparently, is on a need-to-mow-basis.

    The Big Mower rests peacefully outside a lawncare shop known, quite appropriately, as The Big Mower. The boutique went under the hammer in 2024 for the bargain price of $1,750,000. I had a bit of a snipper round for funds, but ended up $1,749,950 short. Oh well, maybe the wheels will fall off the business and they’ll cut the price.

    The store has the perfect mower for any occasion, which must be fantastic if you have a big, burly man in your life who’s ready and willing to use it to chop the buffalo grass. I, unfortunately, have Gordon, who would rather sit around guzzling cheap beer and watching professional wrestling bloopers on his phone than keeping a trim and presentable front yard.

    Oh well, Raoul the yard boy was more than happy to pop around to manicure my garden. His technique was impeccable, his attention to detail second to none. And you won’t believe what he did to my rhododendrons. In fact, Raoul might need to come over and cut Gordon’s grass once a week!

    BONUS BIG JOKE

    Q: Why was The Big Mower so cranky?
    A: He was tired of being pushed around!

  • Big John, Helper, Utah

    Big John, Helper, Utah, United States of America

    Look at me and my big, black friend! Of course, as a progressive gentleman I’m proud to have many friends of colour, including Larry Fishburne, Halle Berry, and that dude who sings in Counting Crows.

    Wait, maybe he’s not black. But he does have a great set of dreadlocks, so I’ll count him anyway.

    Anyway, back to Big John, the 18-foot-tall coal-black miner who stands silently outside the local library in Helper, Utah. With his square jaw and robust physique, John has watched over the sleepy main street for decades, with the Uinta Mountains rising solemnly behind him.

    And, I’m pleased to say, Big John’s story is every bit as extravagant as he is.

    Back in the early-60s, the proud people of this historic village were in a state of flux, as Helper transitioned from coal mining hub to tourist mecca. With the Western Mining and Railroad Museum – widely known as ‘the Utah Disneyland’ – ready to open, a committee decided that a major miner was the best way to capitalise on the waves of holidaymakers. Sounds like a drill-a-minute experience to me!

    The Helperians approached the good folk at International Fiberglass – yes, those responsible for Harvey the Rabbit and Chicken Boy – to construct a collier of extraordinary proportions. Starting with a mould of Paul Bunyan, the team swapped out the axe for a prodigious pick and packed him off to the mines.

    With their tall, dark and handsome prospector on the way, the good people of Helper just needed to sit back, relax, and wait for the tourist dollars to start pouring in. But first they needed a name just as big and bombastic as as their hero…

    You were always on my mine

    Ev’ry mornin’ at the mine you could see him arrive
    He stood six-foot-six and weighed two-forty-five
    Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip
    And everybody knew, ya didn’t give no lip… to Big John!

    In 1964, the streets of Helper hung heavy with the dulcet tones of Jimmy Dean and his poignant hit, Big Bad John. The tale of a brawny coal miner who meets his fate at the bottom of a pit, the song resonated with the hardworking locals. And so it was only fitting that their shiny new Big would borrow the name.

    Although the Helperians did drop ‘Bad’ from the name, possibly to avoid a copyright claim from Jimmy Dean’s notoriously dogged legal team. Or maybe because there’s nothing naughty about this fellow at all. Big John is a kind, considerate and surprisingly sensitive giant, with a broad smile for all who wander the dusty streets of Helper.

    Sadly, Big John’s not allowed into the bar up the road, because they don’t serve miners – teehee!

    As he stands afore the well-stocked library, I took the opportunity to stretch out ‘neath John’s size-72 boots and polish off a few chapters of Between a Rock and a Hard Place, a romance novel set in the coal mines of 1870s Utah.

    Of course, with that cheeky grin beaming down at me, I found it impossible to concentrate and kept reading the same page over and over again!

    Johnny Be Good!

    Big John’s just as coal as a cucumber and certainly never boering. So it comes as no surprise that he’s inspired several other Bigs around the globe – and you won’t have to dig deep to find ’em!

    Standing in John’s towering shadow, one can’t help draw comparisons to another ruggedly gorgeous pitman on the opposite side of the world. Map the Miner, a 23-foot copper excavator, guards the South Australian hamlet of Kapunda. Two big, strong, working chaps who all the boys want and all the girls want to be.

    Then there’s The Big Gold Panner Man, The Big Miner’s Lamp and The Big Gold Pick and Pan, all on the edge of the Aussie desert. For something closer to Utah, there are a couple of gigantic prospectors just outside Las Vegas for those hoping to strike it rich!

    Over the years John’s helped Helper grow and flourish into a quirky, artistic outpost with some high-class restaurants if you’re into fine mining. It’s also become a town that prides itself on ethnic diversity. With a noble black man as its most famous resident, how could it be anything but?

    Big John, the Utahn miner with a face full of soot and a heart full of gold, has shown the world that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. We can achieve racial harmony through oversized roadside attractions.

    Bigs, my friends, not bigotry.

  • Ready to Play, St George, Utah

    Ready to Play, St George, Utah, United States of America

    I wanna rock ‘n’ roll all night, and visit St George every day! That’s because this leafy Utah town is home to a big, bad and bombastic scrap metal guitar known as Ready to Play. Melding small-town sensibilities with snarling city swagger, the incredible instrument has really struck a chord with the locals.

    At 21 feet from titanic tuners to behemoth bridge, this Big Guitar dominates St George’s well-maintained Town Square Park. You can find it right next to the library, but don’t fret, the librarians won’t come out and shush you, which should come as music to your ears.

    Ready to Play was composed by the rock god of Big Things himself, Deveren Farley. A local legend responsible for many heavy metal artworks such as the nearby Giant Spider, Dev really turned it up to eleven with this one.

    “As an artist, I strive to take what others imagine and bring it to life for them by creating a piece that is as unique and beautiful as the idea itself,” Deveren harmonised.

    People strumming and going from the park can’t help but stare in wonder at the six-string’s kooky details. Just look at that repurposed hacksaw. Oh, oh, oh, and there’s even a regular-sized guitar in there! Sorry if I’m amped up, but it’s riff-possible not to get excited about a work of guit-art this large.

    Much like Ready to Play, I’m quite highly strung – awwww yeah!

    God gave St George Utah to you
    Gave St George Utah to you
    Put it in the soul of everyone!

    St George is the spiritual home of American rock ‘n’ roll, and thousands of audiophiles have made the pilgrimage to worship at the base of Ready to Play. It’s a fully-functional guitar with working strings, so I plucked up the courage to shred some chords.

    Channelling my heavy metal heroes like Boy George and Gary Glitter, I strummed away like my life depended on it – and, in a way, it did. Sweat poured down my brow and then, amidst the chaos, I saw a lithe, blonde figure moving towards me. A legendary guitarist with the voice of an angel had heard my siren call.

    “OMG, it’s you,” I gasped. “Utah’s very own Jewel!”
    “Yes, it’s me,” the vixen cooed, flipping her strawberry blonde hair our of her eyes. “Utah’s very own Jewel!”

    “Golly gosh, I listened to Pieces Of You on repeat whilst struggling with my identity as a youth. And even though your latter albums are widely regarded as derivative and bland, I tolerate them, too.” I paused, tears welling in my eyes. “Jewel Kilcher, I love you!”

    The waif looked at me as if I’d stepped in something unpleasant.

    “Uh, I’m Jewel Sanchez from the library,” she shrugged. “Your car’s getting towed.”

    “Oh well,” I thought as I swaggered out of town towards the impound lot. “I always considered myself more of an urban hip-hop visionary, anyway.”

    Let’s Get the Band Back Together!

    Has Ready to Play awakened a carnal yearning for music that can only be satiated by visiting other big musical instruments? You’re in luck, because the Land of the Bigs is home to rhythmic roadside attractions to suit all tastes.

    Moody, depressed admirers of grunge music can stare impassively at the mercurial Sonic Bloom in Seattle. For something with a little Latin flava, boogie across the border to Mexico City, where I’m sure you’ll find Monkey with Banjo to be Chimp-ly Irresistible!

    More of a hillbilly cowpunk fan? Then the melodic village of Kin Kin in Queensland, Australia is home to a bulky set of banjos with expertly-tuned metal strings just begging to be plucked.

    If your woman done left you and your dog done died, the country music mecca of Tamworth, Australia is home to the immense Big Golden Guitar. Continue south, into the heart of bumpkin country, to play a few licks on The Big Playable Guitar in Narrandera. Yeeee-haw!

    And if your significant other keeps complaining about all the noise – I’m looking at you, Gordon! – waltz over to Newcastle to find some huge headphones to plonk atop your handsome head. You can even attach a Bluetooth speaker, so you can blast your music just as loud as you want.

    Oh, and would you like a VIP experience with a massive rock star? Then you’ll dig Utah’s very own Big John the Big Miner.

    Hopefully that list hit all the right notes – teehee!

  • The Big Beavers, Beaver, Utah

    The Big Beavers, Beaver, Utah, United States of America

    Leave it to Beaver to create a couple of the cutest, cuddliest critters you’ve ever seen! The handsome rodents call the local Shell gas station home, and the good people of Beaver – an eccentric village nestled high in the Mineral Mountains of Southern Utah – are just as proud as punch of them.

    Nicknamed Justin and Sigourney by besotted locals, The Big Beavers sit abreast a comfy bench overlooking the snow-capped ranges. Whittled from locally-sourced lumber and sporting a cheeky, comical charm, they make for the perfect photo op.

    No wonder the town was named after them – just look at those chubby cheeks!

    Whilst neither beaver is as large as their famous counterpart in Australia, they have inspired a merchandising empire. The gas station offers a range of beaver-related nik-naks such as magnets and caps, but is best known for one particular item – their patented ‘I ♥️ Beaver’ shirts.

    The tees seem like the perfect keepsake from a memorable vacation to Beaver, but have a darker side. The slogan is actually a tasteless pun, serving as a putrid commentary on the female form.

    Honestly guys, grow up. You have two of the loveliest Bigs outside your front door to revere and exploit, but you’d rather wallow in the gutter of puerile wordplay. Those disgraceful garments better be gone next time I mosey through Beaver, or there’ll be trouble – and you’d better beav-lieve that!

    And then I saw her face. Now I’m a Big Beaver!

    Unfortunately, this particular Shell gas station has been the subject of several unsavoury reviews over the years. Local tough guys are known to seek out clueless goobers at the bowser, claim that their tyres have deteriorated, then lead them to the mechanic workshop across the way for an outrageously-priced new set.

    It’s an otter disgrace, really.

    Bigs Bardot, your fearless guide through the Land of the Bigs, is not an easy target. So when a chubby chap in a Utah Tech sloppy joe trotted over with a big smile on his face whilst I was pumping gas, I didn’t hesitate in taking him down with a perfectly-executed kimura clutch (taught to me by the late, great Kimbo Slice during one of our many visits to the License Plate Guitar in St George).

    Whilst that devastating maneuver was enough to disable the crook, Bigella took it upon herself to beat him really quite severely with her purse. Well, don’t get between a fiery Latina and a couple of oversized mammals!

    Minutes later, whilst a shocked yet enthralled crowd cheered us on, the thug rolled over, sighed in agony and held up a pen and paper with trembling hands.

    “Bigs, Bigs, I just wanted an autograph, my guy!” he spluttered through a maw of broken teeth. “I’m a huge fan of your website and admire you on a personal and professional level. I knew that if I waited here by The Big Beavers long enough, you’d eventually turn up. It took six long years, but it was worth it. You’re an inspiration!”

    Turns out he was just another infatuated fan. Oh, how we laughed at the misunderstanding!

    Unfortunately, I can’t post the photos we took with our new friend as they’re rather unsettling. But I hope you had a great day, Chester, and best of luck with the recovery. The next 18 months of intense and invasive physiotherapy will fly by!

    An Un-beaver-lievable Fact!

    Beaver is the birthplace of country ‘n’ western bad boy Butch Cassidy, and Philo Farnsworth, the chap who invented television. But nobody really cares about them because they’re completely overshadowed by The Big Beavers.

  • Joaquin the Dog, Ciudad de Guatemala

    Joaquin the Dog, Guatemala City, Guatemala

    Bigs is back, dressed in lilac
    With tiny Gordon on his back
    At Arca de Noé
    Guatemalan pet shop, so you know

    Joaquin the Dog
    Just Joaquin the Dog
    If you haven’t been to see him
    I’ll help you find Joaquin the Dog

    As a French bulldog it makes sense
    That Joaquin is a bit intense
    But he’s a misunderstood guy
    If Joaquin’s left alone at night he’ll cry

    Joaquin the Dog
    Just Joaquin the Dog
    If you’re in Guate City do it
    Get out there, find Joaquin the Dog

    Come on now, come on, come on!

    Like Joaquin, Gordon is hairy
    A kind yet misconceived fellow
    They’ve got silver collars and Guatemalan dollars
    Let’s all watch their romance grow

    Joaquin the Dog
    Just Joaquin the Dog
    Put down your Pollo Campero
    Soon you’ll be with Joaquin the Dog

    Come on now, come on, come on
    Oh oh, just a, just a, just a Joaquin
    Just a, just a, just a Joaquin
    Just a, just a, just a Joaquin

    Oh yeah, if you want to see a statue sit
    No-one sits like Joaquin the Dog, oh

    Just a, just a, just a, just a, just a, just a Joaquin!
    Just a, just a, just a, just a, just a, just a Joaquin, oh!

  • The Clam, Long Jetty, NSW

    The Clam, Long Jetty, NSW

    Hallelujah! Your prayers have been answered, because Brother Bigs is here to introduce you to a clam of biblical proportions. And, best of all, it doubles as a church, so you won’t have to take a break from worshipping Big Things in order confess your sins to a man of the cloth.

    It’s a miracle, baby. A dadgum miracle!

    The Clam rises divinely above Long Jetty, long known as the pearl of the Central Coast, and perfectly capture’s the area’s beachy aesthetic. An unassuming Big, The Clam can only truly be appreciated from the air. Which makes sense as it was, after all, built to appease a higher power.

    A shrining example of modern architecture, the Clam-thedral’s details are simply heavenly. The exhalant siphon has been lovingly recreated, and the prominent – some may even say provocative – umbo is almost indistinguishable from the real deal.

    Surrounding The Clam are understated lawns and pastors – oops, I mean pastures! – that are perfect for a moment of quiet reflection. There’s even a few psalm trees round the side.

    Whilst not as large as the similarly-shaped Big Oyster, please don’t allow this to alter your perception of The Clam. This is a truly special Big, an icon of the Central Coast, and a sacrosanct structure that should be admired and praised.

    There’s often a congregation outside to admire The Clam, which is no surprise because it’s a holy lot of fun!

    Wham! Bam! Thank you, Clam!

    Owned by the disciples of the Greenhouse Church, the mass-ive Clam is more than just a pretty ventral margin. Gatherings are held each Sunday, and the centre is also available for functions and weddings – making The Clam the only Big you can get married in!

    Of course, matrimony is nothing but a pipe dream for yours truly. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

    Any zealot of the Bigs really needs to make a pilgrimage to the sunny Central Coast, where you’ll also find Frilly, Daryl Somersby, The Big Cricket Balls, The Big Poppies, The Big Flower and The Odyssey of Life, all of which you can read about in the Good Book of Big Things – Land of the Bigs. You’ll be in raptures!

    So overcome by emotion were Gordon and I whilst exploring The Clam, that we tossed in our lives of atheism and became devout members of the church. Gordon even dressed as an alter boy – so cute!

    Our lives became full of love and meaning, we made soul-enriching friendships built on values and respect, and we were able to sit beneath the mystical glow of The Clam on a daily basis. Yet that was just the clam before the storm. We were, tragically, cast out when the other parishioners found out about my ‘alternative lifestyle’.

    Oh well, I guess the church simply isn’t ready to accept a man whose lord and saviour is a gigantic yellow dinosaur named Ploddy.

  • Spot the Dalmatian, Manhattan, New York

    Spot the Dalmatian, Manhattan, New York, United States of America

    Dogs love chasing cars, but this pooch actually caught one. Of course, it helps that she’s 38 feet tall! Spot the Dalmatian is the pet project of roguish sculptor Donald Lipski, and can be found loyally guarding the Hassenfeld Children’s Hospital in Manhattan.

    Playful, joyous and large enough to stand out amongst the chaos of the city, Spot’s not only man’s best friend – she’s man’s BIGGEST friend!

    A remarkable example of urban roadside architecture that blends the comical with the hyperreal, Spot consists of a stainless steel frame covered by a rather fetching fiberglass dog body. Toyota donated a full-sized Prius taxicab to balance upon her snout and, whilst the engine has been removed, the headlights work when it’s dark and the wipers wave whimsically during inclement weather.

    Donald, ever the altruist, designed the doggy to take the spotlight off the tribulations of the hospital’s young guests.

    “It’s a privilege to be able to do this for the kids,” the artiste growled. “I wanted to make something so astounding it would distract even those arriving for the most serious procedures, and so loveable that young patients coming back again and again with chronic conditions would see it as an old friend.”

    The local kiddies are probably begging for a broken leg or a case of the sniffles!

    “I like to think that the parents, the doctors and nurses and staff, the neighbours, will all be smitten by this playful, heroic young dog doing the impossible,” Don yapped. “Art has actual healing power. That’s a fact!”

    Proving that you can, indeed, teach an old dog new tricks, Donald saw this as an opportunity to spruce up an aging part of Manhattan. The massive mutt was adopted by the city in 2018 and given the humorous moniker of Spot, surely a commentary on the inhumane naming conventions of modern American pets.

    Personally I would’ve called him Bark Obama, or named him after that famous New York pop artist, Andy War-howl!

    Dog-tor, dog-tor, gimme the news
    I got a bad case of lovin’ you!

    Laughter is the best medicine, but a two-and-a-half storey dog must be a pretty close runner-up. Fortunately, you don’t need to be sick to see Spot, just bound through the East Side of New York and you’re bound to spot her. But please consider printing off a map before you leave your hotel, as phone reception can be quite spotty – teehee!

    When I visited Spot, she was wearing a mask – probably to ward off COVID canine-teen! She’s a good girl and very approachable, but there are a few ambulances around, so be patient. And remember, Dalmatians to the hospital are always welcome!

    Oh, and if she’s not there when you visit, don’t bother putting up a giant lost dog sign, because Spot’s probably swanning about in the Meatpacking District!

    Come on, these jokes surely deserve a round of a-paws!

    There may be 101 Dalmatians, but there’s only one Spot. There are, however, many other Bigs around the Big Apple, such as Private Passage and Adam. Forget dining in Michelin-starred restaurants or taking in an acclaimed Broadway show when you’re in New York – do what your old friend Bigs Bardot did and spend all your time traipsing through the traffic in search of oversized architecture.

    Of course, if Spot has you frothing at the mouth at the prospect of seeing more massive mongrels, you’re in luck. From The Big Golden Dog and Pat the Dog to Big Dog and Joaquin the Dog and California’s Yard Dog, the world really has gone to the dogs!

    Hey Mr DJ, put a record on, I wanna dance with my puppy

    As I worshipped at Spot’s prodigious paws, a pair of slender hands covered my eyes from behind, their owner struggling to suppress a giggle.

    “Guess who,” came a syrupy, yet all-too-familiar voice. The hands were removed and I turned to see my close friend, beloved character actor DJ Qualls. You might know him as the skinny guy from the 2000 comedy classic Road Trip. I just know him as Deej.

    We first met, quite appropriately, at a dog obedience school out in Calverton. Neither of us owned a dog, it was just a good way to meet people. And it worked, because it was puppy love at first sight.

    “I certainly hope you’re here for the enormous Alsatian, and not for something more serious,” yelped Deej in his trademark southern cadence, and my heart broke as I saw genuine concern in his chocolatey eyes. He may be a renowned Hollywood hard man, but DJ Qualls does indeed have a softer side.

    “He’s a Dalmatian,” I replied with an impish grin, drawing Deej to my bosom for a hug. “And I’ve never felt more alive.”

    The details of our conversation shall accompany me to the grave but that afternoon, in the blooming shadow of Spot the Dalmatian, DJ Qualls and Bigs Bardot – two wandering souls thrust together by happenstance – explored life and love and the metaphysical realm that flows between us all.

    And dogs. We talked a lot about dogs.

    Hours later, Deej yawned one of his complex yawns, and looked from the yellow cab atop Spot’s nose to me with those eternal puppy dog eyes.
    “Well Bigs, I have a taxicab confession to make – I’m beat,” he uttered. “Hopefully we’ll run into each other beneath another Big Thing soon.”
    “I’m sure we will, Deej, I’m sure we will.”

    We lingered in each other’s embrace for a sumptuous moment, then DJ Qualls scurried up Spot’s back and ripped open the taxi’s door. After one final sleepy grin, he climbed inside and curled up on the front seat, safe for the night.

    Well, New York is notoriously expensive, even for a Hollywood heartthrob.

  • Fuente del Ceviche, Cancún, México

    Fuente del Ceviche, Cancún, Quintana Roo, México

    Somebody once told me the world is gonna love me
    I run the best Big Things site you’ve read
    One day I was having fun eating tacos in the sun
    When I saw a Big Starfish up ahead

    Well, the tears start coming and they don’t stop coming
    Dodging the traffic, I hit the ground running
    Didn’t make sense not to run, run, run
    Towards Fuente del Ceviche, yum, yum, yum!

    The Fountain of Fish is a sight to see
    These photos I’m taking are so sweet!
    You’ll never see him if you don’t go (GO!)
    To Cancún, down in México

    Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, get your game on, go today
    Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, he really makes the grade
    And all that glitters is gold
    The Big Starfish’s story will be told!

    Del Ceviche is a cool Big, so no cold shoulder
    Built in the early-90s, but looks a bit older
    Like a graffitied Claudia Schiffer
    Put on a sombrero, take a picture

    The Star’s paint job is getting pretty thin
    There are homeless there who’ll attack you on a whim
    His future looks dire. How about yours?
    With Claw and Ven nearby you will never get bored

    Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, it is free and not paid
    Hey, now, that’s a Big Star, oh is that Randy Quaid?
    And all that glitters is gold
    The Big Starfish will never get old!

    Go to Cancún!
    There’s plenty of room
    In May or June
    If you don’t, you’re a goon

    Oye, esa es una gran estrella, comienza tu juego, ve a jugar
    Oye, esa es una gran estrella, comienza el programa y cobra
    Y todo lo que brilla se paga con oro
    Sólo estrellas fugaces…

    A passing cholo asked could I spare some change for gas
    I need to get myself away from this Big
    I said sí, sounds bueno to me
    Let’s get an enchilada with cheese
    Explore the Yucatan for a few days

    Well, the years start coming and they don’t stop coming
    We visit many Big Things that are stunning
    Nachi, Caracol our lives were fun
    Too many nachos, Pedro acts dumb

    So much to do, and Bigs to see
    Road trippin’ life with Pedro is sweet
    After 20 years the two of us go
    Back to Fuente del Ceviche – woah!

    Hey, now, he’s still a Big Star, he’ll never go away
    Hey, now, he’s still Big Star, even if his paint fades
    This parody of All Star‘s getting old
    Surprised you made it this far, truth be told

    And all that glitters is gold
    I think this quesadilla is growing mold

  • Ven a la Luz, Tulum, México

    Ven a la Luz, Tulum, Quintana Roo, México

    Forget about Cristiano Ronaldo, Kylie Jenner and Jiffpom the Pomeranian, because there’s only one Instagram influencer who matters – the incomparable Ven a la Luz. This 10m-tall wooden beauty is synonymous with the social media platform, serving as the backdrop for millions – if not billions – of carefully-copped selfies.

    No trip to Tulum is complete without a happy snap with this fiery Latina. Her voluptuous curves, haunted eyes and flagrant (although never vulgar) promise of promiscuity surprise and delight all who stand before her. And, unlike most Insta celebs, there’s nary a scrap of silicone nor a bit of botox to be found.

    Ven is the crowning achievement of South African visionary Daniel Popper, who spent one long, glorious month piecing her together from rope and natural fibres. Created for the 2018 Art With Me festival, she was originally placed upon Tulum’s world famous white sand beaches.

    Tulum’s nascent tourism industry exploded, drawing six-pack wielding gym bros and lip-syncing single mothers, and Bigs-thusiasts from across the oceans. Digital nomad cafes, picturesque but ultimately impractical gyms, Bitcoin boutiques and vegan restaurants sprouted up overnight.

    So many photos of Ven a la Luz were posted that the world experienced a short, yet quite destructive, internet crash. Although I’m pretty sure the simultaneous launch of Land of the Bigs had something to do with it.

    The line for a photo op with Ven stretched all the way to Cancún. Faced with the prospect of traffic chaos – something unheard of in México – the difficult decision was made to relocate the colossal statue to her current home at the Tulum Sculpture Park.

    So popular is Ven that Mr Popper was inspired to craft a similar concrete version in Fort Lauderdale. Thrive, however, is the inverse of Ven; the whimsical mystique of nature replaced by the harsh reality of modernity.

    I strongly suggest taking a cute selfie with both women – don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone!

    Bigs and Poppy

    February 2018, Wednesday, 3:17pm. Your guide through the Land of the Bigs, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, is enjoying a luxurious chamomile tea with a sprig of thyme in the mountains of Sri Lanka. Suddenly, outrageously, the peace is broken by the frantic cries of a distressed installation artist.

    “Bigs, Bigs!” the desperate South African wails, and I can tell by his weathered fingers that he is the artist Daniel Popper.
    “Over here, Poppy,” I gesture, sliding another decadent slice of mudcake into my mouth. “I’ve been waiting for this day to come.”

    The wild-eyed artist sits a little too harshly in his seat. I present him with a kind, knowing smile, and pour him a cup of tea.
    “Drink,” I intimate, repeating it softly until Poppy takes the cup to his lips. “Now, why have you sought my advice?”

    “My artworks just aren’t selling,” he weeps. “I mean they’re very large and truly inspired, but they’re just not grabbing the public’s attention. They’ll send me back to the steel mill, Bigs!”
    “Stephen Cruise worked in a steel mill, and you know what happened to him?” I shrug. “He built Uniform Measure/STACK and became a legend.”
    “Yes, but I’m not Stephen Cruise, I’m Daniel Popper. I need to find my own way through the dog-eat-dog world of immense outdoor artworks.”

    Poppy’s eyes burn a hole in me as he awaits answers. I just sit and sip and watch a quail frolicking in a bird bath.
    “You need to make something Insta-worthy,” I eventually say. “Create something the whole world wants to like and share and remix, and you shall be the most famous artist on the planet.”
    “Will that really work?”
    “Trust me, Poppy, I’m a social media phenomenon.”

    “Really?” he gasps. “How many followers do you have?”
    “Over 200,” I reply nonchalantly.
    “200 million followers, wow! I had no idea you were so popular!”
    “Well, Poppy. 200 million. 200 thousand. 200. What’s the difference? And it might be a little bit lower since I had that falling out with the girls from aquarobics and they unfollowed me.”

    Daniel Popper grins one of his distant grins, then snaps his fingers. “I’ll do it!” he chirps, then polishes off his tea. And, with that, Daniel Popper trots off to change the face of social media forever

    #bigsbardotsavesthedayagain #hero #humble

    Tulum, you saw me standin’ alone

    The year of our Lord 2024, Tuesday, 11:48pm. An older, wiser, ever-so-slightly more cultured Bigs Bardot basks in the luminescence of Ven a la Luz, as a pale crescent moon rises betwixt the palm trees. With the long lines of admirers gone, the Tulum Sculpture Park is overwhelmed by the hedonistic cadence of the jungle and the crashing waves.

    Bigs’ eyes flitter from his phone to Ven and back again, as he feverishly edits his Instagram photos. After finally settling upon the Reyes filter due to its dusty, vintage visage, he posts his selfies with Ven to his growing legion of fans, then puts down his phone. The first likes start ticking by.

    Now, the only light comes from the mournful lamps at the base of the statue, and he stares longingly at her ample bosom.

    “I made this,” his thinks. “Of course, I have to allow Poppy some of the credit, but… I made this.”

    Bigs drifts off into the world of dreams, a vast land of enormous lizards and guitar-wielding chimps, and when he awakens the warming sun is bathing Ven in its glory. Bird calls soon give way to a cacophony of calamity, and when Bigs crashes from the jungle into the main street of Tulum, he is met by scenes of great confusion and violence.

    Cars are upturned, store windows smashed in. The boba tea emporium appears to be out of boba tea. The apocalypse has arrived. Bigs grabs a small taco salesman and spins him around just as a jumbo jet falls from the sky, barely missing a dreadlocked travel influencer.

    “Señor,” Bigs cries, “what is going on?”
    “The internet, the internet!” the little guy blubbers. “Someone made an Instagram post last night so popular that it caused the whole network to explode.”
    “Someone broke the internet?”
    “Sí, señor, someone broke the internet!”

    “What time was the post made?” asks Bigs, but he already knows the answer.
    “11:48pm.”

  • La Mano Verde, San Pedro, Guatemala

    La Mano Verde, San pablo La Laguna, lake Atitlán, Guatemala

    Gnarled, quinoa-stained fingers reach towards us from behind an intricately-carved and eminently-Intragrammable mahogany doorway, and then the yoga pants-clad creature claws its way towards us.

    Eyes rolling within its peeling skull, tongue flapping in its mouth like a dying fish, the hippy shuffles forth, muttering obscenities about ayahuasca and the patriarchy. The stench – an acrid mixture of blueberry vape smoke and unwashed armpits – is enough make me gag.

    All seems lost, until the ghoul pauses momentarily to perform a short TikTok dance to strains of Paint the Town Red by Doja Cat, giving Bigella time to throw a sourdough oregano-and-onion scroll in the opposite direction, providing a brief chance to escape down the twisted, claustrophobic alleyways of San Marco La Laguna.

    Bursting, gasping from the cluster of tourist shops and spiritual healing clinics, the Guatemalan jewel of Lake Atitlán opens up before us in all its splendour, the cerulean waters giving way to the towering Volcán San Pedro. A brief moment of contemplation gives way to terror as a bearded freak, rainbow-hued pantaloons flapping in the breeze as he twirls an ornate firestick, attempts to recruit us into his percussion troupe.

    “Get in the boat!” I scream to Bigella. “And watch out for the stream of sewage! It would really mess up your handcrafted boots if you stepped in that!”

    Fearlessly, I grab the beardy weirdy by the JBL speaker hanging around his neck and flip him off the pier, then plunge into the boat, resurfacing between a bloated middle-aged couple from Wisconsin and a sunburnt German tourist who moistly introduces himself as Günter. The boat sets off across the lake towards a clutch of brightly-painted buildings in the distance.

    “Bigs,” gasps Bigella, her billowing breast giving away the fact that she finally sees me as the action hero the world knows me as. “I now understand why you warn people never to visit a place without a Big Thing.”

    “Fortunately, Bigella,” I say with a splash of my trademark winning smile, “we’re on our way to San Pedro La Laguna, home of the legendary La Mano Verde.”

    A Big Hand for the Little Lady

    Breathing in the crisp mountain air, I gesture towards the ramshackle concrete village that races up the incline behind me. Colourful flags flap from haphazardly hoisted lines. Mayan women, each four-foot tall and five-foot wide, sashay through the buzzing traffic, baskets perched on heads, their ornate purple-and-gold tunics gleaming in the sunshine. Mercifully, there is nary an unwashed hippy in sight.

    “See, Bigella,” I croon, “there’s a calmness, a serenity that cloaks any place that houses a Big Thing. It’s as if –”

    I’m rudely cut off by half-a-dozen drunken British tourists with matching vomit stains down their shirts, marching past chanting bawdry soccer anthems. Not one to put up with such uncouth behaviour, I pluck off my bright pink sunglasses and give them a really stern look as if to say, ‘wind your necks in’ – enough to quieten them down and hopefully give them something to think about as they nurse their ill-gotten hangovers.

    “As I was saying, it’s as if Big Things are the answer to all life’s problems. A few more of them and we’d have world peace, an end to the housing crisis and people could finally appreciate the works of Taylor Swift without looking at them through the lens of her business acumen. Anyway, let’s head up to La Mano Verde. Toodle-pip!”

    San Pedro is a swarm of contradictions, where ancient cultures clash with Guatemala’s nascent tourism industry. Asian fusion restaurants in one street, starving children in the next. Motorbikes spew black smoke as they criss-cross the cobblestone streets, whilst street dogs and touts and lunatics meld together.

    One can easily become discombobulated amidst the maze of festively-painted streets, but I’m a world traveller so, after a short detour in the wrong direction, I allow Bigella to bundle me into a tuk-tuk, and soon we’re hurtling up the side of the volcano, dodging pot holes and chickens, heading into the heaving bosom of the jungle.

    He’s Got the Whole Universe in this Hand

    Until recently untouched by the hand of man, the vista from Mirador Nido del Colibrí (The Hummingbird’s Lunch, for those uncultured swine who are bereft of an understanding of Español) is enough to fill one’s soul to the point of bursting.

    Volcanoes scratch at the sky. Impenetrable forests wrestle with the brutal concrete of San Pedro. It’s an ancient land, a rugged land, a splendid land rich in treasures that will charm even the most world-weary adventurer. We drink it in, Bigella and I, reflecting upon the twisting, turning journey that brought us here. A journey that would crush the spirits of lesser people.

    The majesty is only slightly dampened by the portly chap behind me who keeps poking me with his selfie stick to move further up in the line for a photo with La Mano Verde. Chill out, Francisco!

    Forty-five long minutes later – enough time for us to admire the lookout’s other attractions, such as a set of butterfly wings and a cutout of a bird – it is the turn of Bigella and I to step sanctimoniously out onto the massive mitten. A lifetime spent scouring the planet for the most bodacious Bigs has carried me towards this moment and, as I pass the wrist, I am overwhelmed by emotion. It is all too much and, reduced to a blubbering mess, I collapse upon the vast emerald palm, my body shaking with the grandeur of it all.

    If Bigella is repulsed by my very public breakdown, she doesn’t show it. She simply trots off to the tuk-tuk and races back to town, probably to tell her girlfriends about how ruggedly masculine I am.

    Finally pulling myself together after my existential crisis, I press my ruddy cheeks to La Mano Verde and listen to his spiritual essence. He speaks to me, telling me stories dating back millennia, to the dawn of the Bigs, that open up windows into my soul. The universe changes, morphing into something new and strange and wonderful. The manic words of the hippies, once so vulgar and contrived, find clarity within my bended mind.

    I have, after eons in the darkness, achieved Big-lightenment.

    And then Francisco goes and pulls me from my metaphysical odyssey, sending me plummeting back to Earth and deep within a pit of despair, by poking me with that dang selfie stick again.

    I hope your photo was worth it, Frank!

  • Lenny the LGBee, Manchester, England

    Lenny the LGBee, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Cute, camp and draped in the rainbow hues of the pride flag, Lenny the LGBee should be the queen of Manchester’s buzzing gay community. Sadly, when I arrived for our playdate, this not-so-creepy crawly was locked within a cage of his own sexual and genderial repression.

    Honestly, it would be honey if it wasn’t so tragic.

    Lenny can be found in a quiet corner of Sackville Gardens in the seductive Gay Village, where the city’s effervescent gay, trans, non-binary, intersex, and furry folk congregate. There’s even a statue dedicated to renowned homosexual and self-confessed Big Thing tragic, Alan Turing – yas, queen, he who inspired the nearby Manchester Lamps.

    To reach the Gardens, sashay your way down Canal Street, head past A Monument to Vimto, and take a left at the public toilet. During the day the park is a great place to play fris-bee with a blue-haired omnisexual with a fluro g-string and xi/xim pronouns – hi, Crispin! – but becomes a real hive of activity after dark.

    Not that I’d know anything about that – teehee!

    A statue as grand as Lenny should be honey to the bee for any Bigs fans. When myself, Bigella, Gordon and Gideon the Guacamole visited, however, we found him gazing longingly at his fellow gays from betwixt the bars of his steel cage of oppression, tears of ignominy cascading down his chubby little cheeks.

    Insecurity and societal pressure had forced him to bow to the toxic whims of heteronomativity. But how did a would-bee gay icon find himself in such a perilous position?

    There’s No Place Like Honeycomb

    Lenny is a handsome, unique creature, but he’s just one of more than a hundred similar bees that spread their wings across Manchester as part of the 2018 Bee in the City Festival. Delightfully detailed one and all, none have captured the imagination quite like Lenny.

    He was installed by some of the area’s brawnier transmen during a weekend-long working bee, and revealed to a curious public in a ceremony attended by prominent pollenticians, wrestler Sting and Land of the Bigs reader/astronaut Buzz Aldrin.

    Hard rock group The Bee Gees even sang their hit single, Stayin’ A-Hive.

    “The LGBTQ+ Bee design is a symbol of LGBT Pride,” local chap Carl Austin-Behan bee-med. “The legacy and poignancy of Alan Turing’s life is mirrored in the eyes of this beautiful Bee. Street names and landmarks tell the story of the Bee’s new home at the heart of the Village. This sculpture inspires us to accept, embrace and celebrate life in all its glorious forms. The ultimate message is love is love.”

    Bee’s here, bee’s queer, get used to it! But it would take someone with a special talent – not just for finding Big Things, but for helping semi-closeted insects negotiate the labyrinthine alleyways of the sexuality spectrum – to make Lenny believe that.

    The Emancipation of Lenny the LGBee

    With the cold metal wires of cishet indoctrination rising like a wall of self-flagellation between Lenny and his community, I looked the bee-hemoth in the eyes and presented him with a sad, knowing smile.

    “Look, babe, you can’t stay inside that cage of philosophical constraint forever,” I cooed. “I hope that one day you can be as comfortable with your gender-bending sexual fluidity as I am with my rugged, unbridled heterosexuality.”

    Bigella and Gordon chuckled. I assume they saw a funny-looking dog or something. Lenny simply stared at me through the steel bars.

    “Lenny,” I continued, my words carrying more weight than ever, “repeat after me because it’s affirmation time. I am valid and deserving of love and acceptance for who I truly am. My gender and sexual identity is beautiful and unique. It deserves to bee respected. I have the right to express myself authentically. I am courageous for embracing my authenticity and continuing to grow into myself.”

    Lenny mumbled the words at first, not quite bee-lieving them. Then as Bigella and Gordon and Gideon and a small collection of open-minded folk crowded around in support, his words became louder. Clearer. More robust. The real Lenny the LGBee was starting to reveal himself. And what emerged from that crysalis of emotional seclusion wasn’t just beautiful.

    It was fabulous, darling.

    By the time we left Sackville Gardens, with the ruby-red sun sinking below the adult shops and vegan cafes of Canal Street, Lenny had take his rightful place as the Queen Bee of Manchester. The Summer of Buzz, my friends, is upon us.

  • Chango Con Banjo, Ciudad de México

    Chango con Banjo, Ciudad de México, México

    Hey, hey, he’s a monkey!
    And people say he monkeys around
    But he’s too busy singing
    In the middle of México Town!

    With his outlandish dance moves and carnal passion for raucous bluegrass music, Chango Con Banjo is chimply irresistible! Famous for boogying up a storm on the renowned Avenida Juárez, this funky monkey has been a real ba-boon to the tourism industry since arriving in 2017.

    Beloved Méxican artiste José Sacal constructed Chango from bronze, with the aim of bringing a little levity to a chaotic corner of México City. With his preposterous proportions and oversized guitar (which appears to be a Gibbon Les Paul), this Big really is capuchin-credible!

    At three metres tall, Chango dominates the streetscape and attracts of steady stream of curious, yet delighted, admirers. His madcap antics are certainly more palatable than the area’s other street performers, who consist of tone-deaf accordion players and street urchins dressed as Spider-Man.

    Chango’s behaviour may be colourful, yet his complexion is anything but. He rocks an understated copper hue, which belies his extravagant personality. Call me crazy, but I think the locals should paint him orange-utan!

    So popular is this hirsute heartthrob that he even dictates México City’s fashion trends. It’s not uncommon to see Chilangos of all ages strolling through the streets with gaudy monkeys perched atop their happy heads.

    Bigella and I, forever the fashionistas, weren’t going to miss out, and blissfully explored the city with colourful critters cuddling our craniums.

    It’s the perfect attire for a day of monkeying about in México!

    Hey, Mr. Tamarin Man, play a song for me!

    Whilst Chango’s bombastic message of love and acceptance comes through loud and clear, this guitar-wielding gorilla does not actually make a sound. I guess José ran out of time to wedge a bluetooth speaker within his bronzed banjo.

    However, one simply needs to close their eyes, block out the noise of the passing traffic, and imagine the ebullient concoction of tunes he would play. (Please be mindful that doing so will leave you open to pickpocketing – a small price to pay for such a wholesome experience)

    Monkey Wrench by the Foo Fighters. Dance Monkey by Tones and I. His cadence is a sumptuous gumbo of virtual pop-punk pranksters Gorillaz, death metal bad boys Part Chimp and rowdy, guitarless garage rock foursome The Apes. Although largely bereft of vocals, when present, they are eerily reminiscent of Bono-bo from U2.

    He then launches into a medley of songs by the rock visionary Warren Zevon – namely Porcelain Monkey, Leave My Monkey Alone, Monkey Wash, Donkey Rinse, Gorilla, You’re a Desperado and the snappily-titled Monkey (which did not, surprisingly, appear on his 1992 live album, The Monkey and the Plywood Violin).

    What can I say? Monkeys made Warren an Excitable Boy!

    Chango’s performance is mesmerising, but would be even better if he was joined by a band primate on a marmo-set of drums!

    By the way, what do you call a 1000kg brass monkey with bananas in his ears? Anything you like, he can’t hear you!

  • El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije, Oaxaca

    El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije, Oaxaca de Juárex, México

    Sizzling, popping, beckoning. Cecina grilling over hot coals awakens something primitive and passionate within even the hardest heart. The smoky aroma, simultaneously sweet and sultry, fills the manic market and tantalises with promises of clandestine desires realised.

    A swarthy man, his moustache dripping with perspiration, roughly tosses the fragrant meat upon a plastic plate and then delicately drowns it in mole, the legendary, intoxicating local sauce. Head spinning, one finds a seat between a pair of satin-wrapped abuelas, takes a first uncertain bite of the cuisine, and allows the complex flavours to become all-encompassing.

    Laughing, shouting, singing, slurping. The cacophony of sounds sprinkles like spice across the dusty floor. Mescal is suppered. Friendships are forged. Mole is allowed to cascade down chin. One rises, reborn by the gastronomical and sonic feast, before plunging headlong into the street to gape in wonder at the rich tapestry of Méxican life.

    This is Oaxaca de Juárez, the land of Seven Moles, and a melting pot of creativity and passion.

    Boasting ocre-hued artworks, this whimsical township is the broiling crucible of Latin culture. History rests upon on every cobblestone corner. Street performers dance amongst the traffic. Mask-clad luchadors fly through the night sky. A seemingly-endless procession of weddings – complete with garishly-painted mojiganga puppets – march down the city’s twisting alleyways.

    Resting at the foothills of the Sierra Madre mountain range and embellished with a heady mixture of ancient Zapotecan ruins and sublime colonial architecture, Oaxaca has long been the ultimate destination for dreamers, drinkers, and digital nomads alike.

    And now you can add Biggies to that list! For Oaxaca is home to a trio of intricately-carved animal heads, El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije, more alluring than the rest of the sights and sounds combined.

    And they can all be found atop the legendary – nay, mythical – gift shop known simply as Huizache.

    Alebrijie, alakazam!

    Turning a corner in Oaxaca’s raucous downtown precinct, one is overcome as El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije burst into view in all their festively-decorated glory. Astonishing. Altruistic. Mesmerising. They are, of course, oversized representations of alebrijies, México’s beloved multi-coloured statues of mythical beasts, examples of which are found in abundance within Huizache’s confines.

    The three heads, fastidiously carved over a period of many months, symbolise the natural wonders of Oaxaca. The first Jaguare has been painted a blazing gold like the fiery sun. The second, the shimmering emerald of the cascading rainforests. The third, a deep azure like the cloudless skies.

    The bosom of the store proves to be no less enchanting. In a world of disposable nik-naks, Huizache offers something to cherish. The selection is overwhelming, the quality sublime. As the warm desert breeze marinates the store in the melancholy aroma of acacias, one struggles to reach a decision on which statue to take home. A crab, perhaps? Or maybe a shark?

    Whatever you choose, the store with the big cat heads out the front is the perfect place to jag a bargain – teehee!

    A stranger, satin of hair and porcelain of skin, brushes skin lithely against skin whilst reaching for the same painted iguana, and one briefly contemplates entering terrain hitherto unexplored. One turns, palms clammy, to be met by the beguiling smirk of knockabout Aussie larrikin – and longtime Land of the Bigs devotee – Vince Sorrenti.

    Dapper as ever in his tailored suit, Vince insists on posing for a photo with El Trio de Jaguares Alebrije, before launching into a soliloquy of outrageous puns.

    “I just bought some food from a Méxican restaurant, but didn’t have time to eat it there,” Vince enthuses, his impeccable timing drawing in a handful of curious locals. “So I ordered it taco!”

    One gazes from Vince, to el Jaguares, back to Vince, and the world seems just a little brighter.

  • El Caracol Immenso, Chetumal, México

    El caracol Immenso, Chetumal, Quintana Roo, México

    Wander along the esoteric streets of downtown Chetumal, as the ocean breeze rustles through the palm trees, and you’ll discover a seashell conch-siderably larger than the rest. This, my friend, is El Caracol Immenso.

    Or The Really, Really Big Conch Shell for us gringos – and I’m here to shell you all about her!

    Serving as a tribute to both the vibrant local culture and the gleaming shells synonymous with the mystical Yucatan Peninsula, this Big features eye-catching artistry and mar-shell-ous attention to detail. Statuesque and suitably spiky, he really is the shell of the ball!

    So colossal is this cowrie that, if you shell be fortunate enough to press your ear to his curvilinear whorl, you won’t simply hear the waves, you’ll hear the entire ocean!

    So marvellous is this mollusc that one might expect a crab to scurry out at any moment. Clawdia, however, prefers sipping on mimosas up in Cancun.

    Thankfully, there’s no need to shell out for this attraction, because it’s free to visit. And that’s cause for shell-elbration!

    I’m on the highway to shell!

    Despite his exquisiteness, El Caracol doesn’t enjoy the shell-ebraty status afforded to similar structures in Tewantin and Terrigal, Australia. Surrounded by rustic houses in a quiet back street, most who pass through the sultry paradise of Chetumal shell never revel in his glory.

    Although I’m the world’s foremost expert on Big Things, I knew not of the shell’s existence upon arriving in México. In fact, I stumbled upon him whilst navigating the labyrinthine alleyways in search of a vegan tostada. You could say I was shell-shocked to find him! Nachi Cocom and Monumento al Renacimiento may command prime real estate upon the city’s world-famous harbour, yet El Caracol is perhaps the grandest of them all.

    Be wary, Biggies, as there is a bikie gang in the area. But don’t worry, because the Shells Angels are more likely to steal a photo of their favourite Big Thing than you wallet. My visit did birth a moment that shell long hang heavy in my psyche, however.

    As I was taking a cute shell-fie with El Caracol Immenso, I was approached by a swarthy Land of the Bigs groupie who invited me out for an alcohol-free margarita at one of the town’s vibrant seaside bars, but my cloddishness caused me to decline. Oh, the life of an involuntary shell-ibate!

    Okies, that’s enough shell-arity for one day. Toodles!

  • Majestuoso Tecolote, Ciudad de Guatemala

    El Majuesto Tecolote, Ciudad de Guatemala, Guatemala

    Looking to cross a majestic Big off your list and grab a competitively-priced home loan for your Guatemalan chalet at the same time? Then head to any branch of Banco Industrial, where you might find El Majestuoso Tecolote, a festively-decorated owl of epic proportions, right next to the ATM.

    I’m talon you, it’ll be worth the trip!

    Twenty-two of these enormous creatures were created by sculptor Sebastián Barrientos and art critic Christian Cojulún as part of the 2016 TecoArte exhibition, with each decorated by a celebrated local artist. They were funded by the generous bankers and captured the hearts of all Guatemalans – a wing-wing situation for all involved!

    This particular species of Giant Tecolote, found perched in the trendy neighbourhood of Zona 14, was embellished by the enigmatic, offbeat, and always-controversial Lauro Salas – quite a feather in his cap.

    The tecolote – the indigenous name for the nocturnal birds of Central America – represents luck, prosperity and abundance in Guatemalan culture. The locals even store their heard-earned money in ceramic owl banks rather than piggy banks. Sadly, there were no Big Coins to be found inside the Big Bird – cheepskates!

    Irritable Owl Syndrome

    Guatemala City is a zesty metropolis of three million that is, unfortunately, often overlooked in favour of trendier tourists spots like Antigua. For dedicated Big-thusiasts, though, it proves to be one of the world’s great destinations.

    El Majestuoso Tecolote is not owl by himself, with El Quetzal, Priscilla la Silla, Monumento a la Paz, El Diente Gigante and many other Bigs nearby. Ebony y Ivory, a set of brash hummingbirds, are just an hour’s drive south – or less if you can fly! – so it’s certainly no birden to visit Ciudad de Guatemala.

    Hoping to take a happy snap with all the Tecolotes? Then you may spend more time in the city than expected. Unlike Chinute Chinute the Big Owl, who has guarded Darwin’s Supreme Court for many years, the Giant Tecolotes are migratory birds, fluttering between Banco Industrial’s hundreds of branches nationwide.

    Each spends a few months standing proudly in front of a bank, attracting parliaments of budget-conscious admirers, before being loaded onto a truck and whisked, as if by magic, off to another corner of this mystical land.

    The only way to find them all is to glide, heart aflutter, into each and every Banco Industrial location in the country. The owls are endangered, with less and less to be found each year, so it’s nest to look for them as soon as possible. Don’t scowl – go see an owl!

    Beware of searching for Tecolotes in the city’s more dangerous areas, however. You’d hate to be the victim of a drive-by hooting!

  • Ebony y Ivory, Los Pocitos, Guatemala

    Ebony y Ivory, Los Pocitos, Guatemala

    Guatemala is home to a vast array of birdlife, from quetzals to macaws to toucans, earning it a reputation as a feather fancier’s favourite place in Central America.

    For lovers of hummingbirds – known as colibri in the local dialect – Guatamala is without peer. On warm spring afternoons, the air becomes heavy with sound of their hovering. There are 38 varieties of the flamboyant avians, which lay claim to being the world’s smallest.

    But there’s one variety of hummingbird that certainly wouldn’t fit in your hand, and they can only be found in the remote jungle village of Los Pocitos. Twitchers flock to this rustic scrap of concrete, which lays in the shadow of the simmering Volcán Pacaya, to marvel at Ebony y Ivory, Los Colibríes Gigantes.

    Trust me, you won’t need a pair of binoculars to spot these beaky behemoths!

    Frozen in the glory of eternal flight, Ebony y Ivory warmly welcome visitors to the sprawling Finca el Amate ecotourism resort. Chiseled from concrete and loving painted in exotic hues, their beautiful plumage is the personification of Guatemala’s sumptuous natural delights.

    These lusciously curvy critters serve as a commentary on Guatemala’s ethnic diversity, and are a battle cry for racial harmony. If these two birds – one as white as the driven snow, the other as black as the gnarled lava fields that surround the town – can live together in perfect harmony, oh Lord why can’t we?

    Humming the bassline

    As they’re located outside Finca el Amate’s front gate, one need not pay to enter in order to enjoy Ebony y Ivory, but it’s highly recommended to do so. Inside you’ll find mind-boggling Bigs such as the brutally masculine Icus Kanan and the whimsical, oft-misunderstood El Anciano del Bosque. Guat a way to spend an afternoon!

    There are several more humongous hummingbirds scattered around the finca’s verdant parkland, and it’s a joy to wander around, heart aflutter, searching for them. The spiritual home of the Bigs in Guatemala, Finca el Amate proves to be an intoxicating experience that’s sure to titillate visitors of all ages and fitness levels.

    Keep your wits about you, however. There is a herd of elegant, yet somewhat bombastic, horses who roam the complex’s leafy car park. Great for taking fabulous photos of as they frolic past the radiant volcano; not so pleasant to step in their droppings whilst wearing thongs. Gordon, get me a sponge!

    I’m a hummingbird, beautiful and free

    It was whilst scraping some particularly robust droppings off my flip-flop that Gordon gestured to the ornately-arranged stone wall surrounding the birds and we sat down together.

    “Bigs,” he sighed wistfully, “seeing Ebony y Ivory, two disparate species of hummingbird, put their differences to one side in the name of love, makes me mourn the loss of my own interracial relationship.”
    “You’re talking about Brandy Norwood?” I asked gently. “Known mononymously, of course, as Brandy?”

    “Yes. The media labelled us GorBran, but it never really caught on.” Gordon’s shoulders slumped under the weight of perceived failure. “I allowed societal pressure and ingrained colonialism to cloud my judgement and destroy what could have been a beautiful relationship built on mutual love and respect. I wonder if…”

    “The last I heard, Brandy was taking a break from dating after her tumultuous relationship with award-winning pop star Sir the Baptist,” I reasoned.
    “And she did take out a restraining order after that eggnog incident,” the little guy responded.
    “TMZ had a field day.” I took Gordon in my muscular arms and we watched the sun set behind the giant hummingbirds, its rays reflecting on their wings as we reflected upon our failed love lives.

    “You’re not the only one to weep for passion unrequited with a satin-skinned celebrity,” I said tenderly. “Not a moment passes that isn’t filled with endless pining for own stalled relationship with -“

    “Hey, Bigs!” Gordon interrupted, a huge grin spreading across his furry face. “Do you think Grace Jones is available?”

  • La Bota Gigante, Pastores, Guatemala

    La Bota Gigante, pastores, Antigua, Guatemala

    This boot ain’t made for walkin’
    He’s just a work of art
    But one of these days this boot is gunna
    Walk into your heart

    Next time you need of a pair of handcrafted purple-and-green cowboy boots whilst travelling through Guatemala, pop into the charming industrial village of Pastores. Whilst there, you can’t possibly miss La Bota Gigante, an enormous boot that stands proudly at the entrance to the town.

    Built to attract customers to the town’s many shoe shops, La Bota Gigante has been a massive sock-cess and is a shoe-in as the greatest attraction in Central America. With a heartwarming, guileless aesthetic that perfectly represents the hardworking ethos of Pastorians, this large loafer really is the heart and sole of the town.

    Although its location on a busy intersection can clog up traffic, one can’t help falling head over heels in love with this fifteen-foot-tall footwear!

    Known as La Ciudad de las Botas – The City of Boots – Pastores is just a 10 minute drive from the tourist hotspot of Antigua. It makes for a pleasant escape from the hordes of waddling American tourists and festering, mannerless French backpackers who have overrun the cobblered streets of the historic citadel.

    I have a sneakering suspicion you’ll love it!

    You’re boot-iful, it’s true!

    La Bota Gigante isn’t the only giant boot around – there’s The Big Doc Martens, Hat ‘n’ Boots, The Big Shoe and The Big Ugg Boots – but it’s the only one that’s home to a policeman! Yes, as Bigella and moi were posing for these wholesome happy snaps, we were delighted to see a robust law enforcer emerge from the small room beneath the boot, rubbing sleep from his eyes after a well-earned nap. If you see Constable Guillermo when you stop by, say hola to him for me!

    As it turns out, I could have used his assistance, as my journey to Pastores almost ended in my untimely demise. Gather round, kiddies, for Bigs has a tale of woe in intrigue to tell!

    After poring over the shoe shops for several hours, Bigella finally settled upon a set of garish Guatemalan galoshes that really popped against her outfit. I, however, opted for a pair of bespoke pink rhinestone pumps with vetted tassels, which I felt were a fitting tribute to my luminescent personality – and certain to get tongues wagging!

    Eager to break in my boots and show them off to all and sundry, I laced them up for a strut through some of Antigua’s more impoverished suburbs.

    Hoping to raise the spirits of the poor and vulnerable with my vibrant fashion choices, I was instead treated to an afternoon of terror when a couple of local tough guys, bubbling with unrestrained machismo, bombarded me with wolf whistles and lewd intimations.

    Geez, if I knew that was all it took to get a bad boy’s attention, I would’ve bought the boots years ago – teehee!

  • Priscilla la Silla, Ciudad de Guatemala

    Priscilla la Silla, Ciudad de Guatemala

    Guatemalans are, statistically speaking, the tiniest people on the planet, so it should come as no surprise that their chaotic capital city has been built around an effigy of a high chair.

    Priscilla la Silla, as she is known to the eclectic mix of street urchins and aristocracy who gather at her feet, serves as an opus to the hopes and aspirations of the deeply spiritual hoi polloi, who are forever looking to the skies, daydreaming of a better life.

    Bereft of grandiloquence and with a haughty, bordeline-alturistic aura, Priscilla combines the ribald optimism of Mayan folklore with the mischievous spectre of Spanish colonialism.

    The giant chair‘s four legs, each of equal length, represent Guatemala’s quartered and eternally fractured narrative; the ancient, the awakening, the present and the unfolding.

    Surreptitiously obscured betwixt a jaunty thatch of evergreen ferns, this remarkable piece marks the zenith of Guatemala City’s famed Zona 14, where sun-kissed coffee shops filled with the magniloquent noblesse hang like incandescent baubles before antediluvian volcanoes.

    Priscilla, Queen of Guatemala

    The name, Priscilla, was chosen amongst much conjecture. It’s an ode to the much-loved yet ever-controversial Priscilla Bianchi, whose range of wholesome hand-spun quilts and associated haberdashery have become dernier cri for Central American glitterati, and lionised the Guatemalan diaspora.

    The seat’s sublime design, though impractical, is not condescendingly so, and thus boasts a sanguine vivacity that will satiate the peccadilloes – no matter how audacious – of even the most fervent scholar of the Bigs.

    Priscilla offers a discreet place to sit and ponder the nature of things, after a life-affirming day spent wandering through the city, admiring El Quetzal, Joaquin the Dog, and the sumptuous Gran Grifo.

    Reminiscent of the early works of Alexander Calder, Priscilla eschews astringency in favour of benevolence. A soliloquy to a simpler time, perhaps?

    My colleague Gordon, ever the malcontent, offered his own conclusion. “Maybe,” he pontificated, caressing Priscilla la Silla’s oblique intersections with a single flocculent hand, “it’s just a really big chair.”

  • The Big Pineapple, Bathurst, South Africa

    The Big Pineapple, Bathurst, Eastern Cape, South Africa

    In the deepest, darkest heart of South Africa, amidst the marauding elephants and rugged mountain, lies the golden soul of the Rainbow Nation – the plump and delicious Big Pineapple. Welcome to Bathurst (no, not that Bathurst!), a quaint and unassuming rural village in the country’s Feastern Cape just so happens to be home to the largest pineapple in the whole wide world.

    Whaaaat!? The biggest in the whole dadgum world? Yes, my friend, there is no grander.

    The Big Pineapple stands an astonishing 16.7 metres from top to tail, making him 70 centimetres taller than the comparatively tiny Aussie version in Woombye, Queensland. As an Australian that’s hard to admit, because we like to think we have the most impressive Bigs around. As an aficionado of all things BIG, however, I simply couldn’t be happier.

    He lives, quite appropriately, on a peaceful pineapple plantation overlooking the sea. With his realistic rind and provocative crown – both of which are lovingly maintained and oh-so-colourful – he appears to have sprouted from the fertile soil. The Big Pineapple is at one with his surroundings, yet his grandiose stature is decidedly otherworldly.

    There’s a two-storey muse-yum hidden within The Pineapple’s bulbous belly with a small selection of souvenirs, and he offers a viewing platform with spectacular views over the plantation. Whilst he’s open all year round, this South African superstar is best seen during summer and spring-bok.

    But how did a gigantic pineapple – a near-dentical reproduction of a building so entwined in Australian culture – end up on a humble farm in a quiet corner of Africa? Well, my friend, that’s a story of love and loss and international espionage…

    Barrie to the Rescue

    During the 1980s, the once-prosperous South African pineapple industry was in freefall. Maligned for their meagre seasonal yields and embarrassingly southern latitude, the region was fast becoming a joke in pineapple circles.

    Enter one Barrie Purdon, a debonair gentleman whose name still echoes throughout the Eastern Cape. Taking leadership of meeting of despondent local pineapple growers, Barrie concocted an outrageous scheme to draw attention to the region’s favourite fruit. The farmers would pool their Rand together to build the largest pineapple humanity had ever seen.

    “But Barrie,” one compatriot probably said whilst chomping on a stick of biltong. “There are already two pineapples of extraordinary size in Australia.”
    “One claims to be the world’s tallest,” one farmer fretted.
    “And the other the world’s widest!” a second farmer wept.

    “Then ours shall be the tallest…” Barrie probably announced, before pausing for dramatic effect, “and the widest!”

    Pineapple Perfection

    The plan was likely met, at first, by conspicuous silence, before a lone agriculturalist at the back – a lantern-jawed individual of few words – began to clap slowly. As his rhythm grew in tempo, another farmer joined in, and another, until rapturous applause permeated across the pineapple paddies.

    And then a loan voice, trembling yet adamant, cut through the cacophony.
    “But Barrie,” a small man said, fidgeting with the wide-brimmed hat he clasped to his chest. “We don’t know how to build a Big Pineapple. We don’t even have any plans.”
    Barrie nodded knowingly.

    “Maybe if we ask the Aussies really nicely, they’ll let us borrow their plans?” a hayseed suggested.
    “We’ve tried that, but they were not amenable,” Barrie chuckled. “They wish to hold onto their record with an iron fist.”
    “Then, Baz, that’s it,” another chap wailed, tears pouring down his world-weary cheeks. “Without the plans there’s be no Big Pineapple. No resurrection of the local agricultural industry. I’ll lose my farm!”
    “Settle down, bra, the plans have been there all along,” Barrie most likely responded, peering into the distance. “Right there in Queensland, Australia.”

    Details of what transpired next remain murky, but the tale told by wide-eyed teenagers around braais from Tsitsikamma to Port Alfred involves Barrie rappelling, Mission: Impossible-style, into the belly of the Aussie Big Pineapple, stealing the construction plans, and escaping the country in a hot air balloon.

    How much of the story is true remains the topic of heated debate, but nobody can question that Barrie returned home a hero, with construction on the Pineapple beginning in earnest. Australians were left to rue this lapse national security, and utterance of the name ‘Barrie Purdon’ has been punishable by death in Queensland ever since.

    The Piña to Your Colada

    Construction on The World’s Biggest Pineapple began in 1990, with fibreglass outer skin draped over a steel and concrete superstructure. Just 12 months later, the behemoth was opened to an apprehensive, yet enchanted public. They didn’t quite know what to make of the five-storey fruit, but it soon became the pineapple of their eye.

    Spurred on by the success of their very own Big Thing, Bathurst’s pineapple growers enjoyed unprecedented prosperity, leading to an age of enlightenment in the region. If this is what apartheid can achieve, it wasn’t all bad, eh?

    These days the crowds have petered out and when I visited, on a bright and sunny afternoon in mid-May, I was the only Biggie in attendance. I was able to clamber to the top of the succulent sweetheart, drink in the luscious information boards, and admire his remarkably well-preserved outer shell at my leisure.

    Unlike Australians, who worship the Big Mango, Big Strawberry and Big Pears, it seems that many South Africans just don’t get the appeal of massive bits of fruit. It really rinds my gears!

    This is an extraordinary example of oversized architecture and one of the finest roadside attractions the world has ever known. If the boundless natural and cultural wonders of South Africa aren’t enough to convince you to make this your next holiday destination, then I’m sure The Big Pineapple shall be the tipping point.

    I’ve been pining for this large legend ever since I left him, and hope I Afri-can visit him again soon!

  • Canoli the Cocky, Wagga Wagga, NSW

    Canoli the Cocky, Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, Australia

    Holey moley, check out Canoli! Cheeky, colourful and charismatic, this king-sized cockatoo is as irresistible as the ricotta-laced desert he’s named after. With his devil-may-care attitude and trendsetting mohawk, the wooden Big is widely regarded as the mascot of Wagga Wagga – the town so nice they named it twice.

    Canoli is the crowning achievement of Justin McClelland, a gifted yet enigmatic artist who expresses his unique world view through the medium of chainsaw. In a moment of inspiration, Justin transformed an everyday log into this perky parrot during the 2017 Ganmain Show – a miracle the locals still speak of in hushed tones.

    “I learn every time I start a new project,” Justin told a beguiled reporter from Regional Lifestyle Magazine. “I love timber and working in the bush, but it’s always challenging. When I start the chainsaw, things start to flow and I’m in my own little world.”

    Justin, you really are a cut above the rest!

    He’s cockatoo hot to handle!

    Proving to be as generous as he is talented, Justin gifted his beloved Canoli to the people of Wagga, and he’s guarded the entrance to the city’s picturesque zoo ever since. Though smaller than nearby Bigs such as The Giant and The Playable Guitar, this sulphur-crested heartthrob makes up for it with his rugged good looks, along with a hint – just a hint – of the cocksure swagger alluded to in his name.

    Canoli looks right at home amongst the grass trees, cloaked by the ever-present chatter of native birds. A more peaceful, down-to-Earth Big you could never hope to meet. My much-anticipated journey within the bowels of the zoo, however, was not so tranquil. Looking forward to a quiet morning admiring the emus and peacocks, I was instead accosted by a cantankerous duck named Wendell.

    This insufferable oaf, with his incessant quacking and braggadocious attitude, disrupted what promised to be a life-affirming encounter with the donkeys in the petting zoo. I wanted to feed them some hay!

    I’m not usually one to resort to violence but Justin, if you feel like carving another bird with your chainsaw, I’ll look the other way!

  • Blue Perspective, Southport, QLD

    Blue Perspective, Southport, Queensland, Australia

    Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s learnin’ how, come see Blue Perspective with Biggsy (and Bigella, Gordon and Gordina!).

    Surf’s up, dude, so wax up your board and don’t forget the shark spray, because this perspective will blue you away! With skin and hair as azure as the Pacific, this three-metre tall surf rat is hard to miss. She stands alone in Southport’s Broadwater Parklands, gazing earnestly towards the ocean. If you’re paddling past, give ‘Bluey’ a wave!

    Chic and stylish, yet bright and bubbly, Bluey superbly encapsulates the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the modern-day Gold Coast. A positive vibe and clean, healthy attitude make her the perfect role model for kiddies, which is a good thing because there’s a totally tubular playground just metres from her robust thighs.

    Blue Perspective was shaped by the legendary John Cox (yes, he responsible for the nearby Maddie and Mike) for the 2013 SWELL Sculpture Festival at Currumbin Beach. Bluey made such a splash that she remained there for several years after the festivities wiped out. Considering how sunny Queensland is, I hope she had plenty of zinc on her nose!

    Bluey was then purchased by the Big Thing-loving Gold Coast Council, who paddled her north to her current location. I don’t know the date she was installed, but assume it was on a Big Wednesday. The lovingly-presented park, with this immaculate Big, should be enough to tide you through many an Endless Summer.

    Cowabunga, dude!

    She’s blue (da ba dee da ba di)

    Longing for the authentic Surfers Paradise tourist experience during our visit, Bigella and I signed up for surf lessons. Not wanting to spend a morning surrounded by wine-drunk backpackers from Yorkshire, we instead decided to sit beneath the learning tree of the wise and eternal Blue Perspective.

    Of course, I would’ve approached my good chum Mick Fanning, but the surfing legend has some pretty ripe views about The Big Wheelie Bin. You might’ve punched a shark, Mick, but you also punched a hole in our friendship!

    With Gordina and Gordon (complete with super-cute flotation ring!) in tow, we were delighted to discover that Bluey is as charismatic as she is iconic. Her ample bosom and lithe, feminine curves aren’t usually to my taste, yet aroused a corporeal longing deep within my soul that had me yearning to hang ten compliments upon her generous hips.

    “Blue Perspective, the transcendent and career-defining opus of John Cox, shreds with a cobalt angst that belies her carefree visage,” opined Bigella, who had obviously been working her way through the thesaurus I’d bought her for Christmas.

    “I’m just jealous of her bikini line,” added Gordina.

    Our surf lesson went splendidly, until Gordon pretended to drown in a desperate attempt to lure one of Queensland’s bosomy, bikini-clad lifesavers in to rescue him. Oh, how we laughed when he was instead dragged to shore by Waldemar, a six-foot-four Lithuanian bodybuilder with a toothy grin and a pair of Speedos two sizes too small.

    I hope they’ll be very happy together.

  • The Big Rocking Horse, Gumeracha, SA

    The Big Rocking Horse, Gumeracha, South Australia

    To journey into the Land of the Bigs is to see the world through the eyes of a child, with all the wonder and excitement that brings. The massive melons and mega marsupials, scattered haphazardly across Australia like toys on a playmat, harken back to a more innocent age. They make us feel small again.

    Never is this more true than when standing in the shadows of Gumeracha’s Big Rocking Horse.

    Rising 18 metres above the verdant knolls of the Adelaide Hills, this 25-tonne pony is a grandiose tribute to the playful, whimsical and – dare I say it – immature nature of the locals. Upon first seeing the Rocking Horse, who reins supreme from above the treetops, one can’t help but be overwhelmed by his immense size and robust, idiosyncratic construction.

    But the full majesty of this Big can only be appreciated by clambering to the viewing platform atop his handsome head. This epic endeavour costs just $2, and those valiant enough to make the journey shall be rewarded with a certificate. Yes, there’ll only be one long face when you’re atop The Big Rocking Horse, and it shan’t be yours!

    If nothing else can convince you to load up the wagon and gallop over to Adelaide, consider this your invitation. As local singer-songwriter – and lifetime admire of all things Big – Paul Kelly once sang,

    All the Big Horses and all the Big Men
    Would certainly drag me back again
    To Adelaide for some orange marmalade, sitting by The Big Apple in the shade, thanks to The Big Hills Hoist my day’s been made

    Or something like that. Thanks, Paul!

    Between a Rocking Horse and a Hard Place

    With his carefree grin and enchanting eyes, you could be forgiven for thinking this Big has nary a care in the world. Living so close to Scotty the Big Scotsman and The Big Pigeon, why would he? There is, however, a rocky story behind this horse.

    When local businessman Wal Wilkinson opened a toy shop in Gumeracha in 1973, he was not met by the expected scenes of jolly jubilation. Facing an uphill saddle to attract customers, he dug into his toybox and produced a kinda-sorta-large effigy of a giraffe, which he plopped outside the front door.

    When this foaled – oops, I mean failed! – to yield results, he turned to a series of wooden rocking horses, the first three metres tall, the second five. They drew in a few curious onlookers, but one thing had become abundantly clear; if Wal wanted to make it big, he had to go BIG.

    In 1980, Wal enlisted David McIntosh Taylor, a structural engineer of great repute, to build a gee-gee large enough for people to climb. A night-mare task for some, but not for this savant of roadside attractions. Not wanting to rock the boat, David rolled with the request, and the resultant stallion took eight months to build at the respectable cost of $100,000.

    Criminy, you wouldn’t be able to get a Bangladeshi-made hobby-horse for that price these days!

    The brumby-lievably big bronco was officially opened in 1981, and immediately became a colt hero. Wal’s vision was off to the races, and his business was finally financially stable.

    Disaster struck in 1999, however, when the viewing platform was shuttered after a youngster, brimming with youthful exuberance, took a tumble whist navigating the Rocking Horse’s labyrinthine staircase. A tragedy, sure, but is the potential for a few maimed kiddies reason enough to prevent the rest of us from enjoying the view?

    Oh, you think I’m being selfish? Get off your high horse and quit nagging me!

    It’s Only Rockin’ Horse (But I Like It)

    The Big Rocking Horse has been bought and sold more times than a narcoleptic racehorse. The complex was sold to dapper South African chap Anthony Miller for almost a million dollars in 2004, who subsequently passed it on to fellow Saffers Frans and Lyn Gous in 2009. Maybe they thought he looked like a Big Springbok?

    This Aussie icon is now back in Aussie hands, with Mell and Mark Penno taking over in 2023. Their unbridled passion for the horsie means they have big plans to expand the park, which already has a large gift shop, animal park and cafe. Try the lamingtons and thank me later!

    This ex-steed-ingly vast horsie stands as one of the biggest – neigh, the biggest – children’s toy around, and was even recognised by Guinness World Records as the largest rocking horse on the planet. What was an immense source of pride for all South Australians became a state-wide sore spot when, in 2014, The Big Rocking Horse was unceremoniously stripped of the prestigious title, which was handed to a proportionately petite plug in China.

    Some say the Yi Jinping ordered the change as part of his merciless war on the West, others say it was simply because the oriental version is actually able to rock. Either way, our little friends in the People’s Republic don’t have democracy or the ability to go to bed at night without being watched by the government, so we’ll let them have this one!

    If I mysteriously disappear, you know I’ve been dragged off to the Big Laogai – teehee!

    Rock, rock, rockin’ on heaven’s door

    Amidst the island of misfit toys that was my youth, only one person was there for me through the really dark times; Gordon. Whenever my dysfunctional home life became too much, Gordon and I would hide away out of sight, dreaming of all the slot cars and Barbie dolls we so dearly wanted but knew we would never own.

    More than anything, we yearned for a rocking horse. Oh, how easy things would be, sitting astride a wooden pony, swinging back and forth, galloping away from life’s complexities.

    Come Christmas morn each year we would emerge from our bedroom, eyes full of hope, and timidly tiptoe towards the pile of cheerfully-wrapped gifts placed ‘neath the glittering tree.

    And each Christmas morn our little hearts would break as the pile shrank, the other family members laughing and smiling as they tore open their treats. But there would be no holiday cheer for Gordon or I. No Thunderloop Thriller. No Peaches ‘n’ Cream Barbie. Certainly no periwinkle rocking horse with lime green tassels. Just jeers and torment from my uncles and grandparents.

    “Maybe next year,” Gordon would say, a tear in his eye

    But the rocking horse never came and we were dragged, kicking and screaming, into adulthood. Psychiatrists have pointed to those hellacious festive encounters as the catalyst for my litany of personality disorders. I prefer to think that it simply added a few stitches to the ritch tapestry that is Bigs Bardot.

    So it was with hearts aflutter that Gordon and I rolled into Gumeracha in the Bigsmobile and then stepped, blinking, into the crisp country air.

    The Big Rocking Horse was more than we could have imaged; more than we dared hope for. His magnitude beggars belief, his majesty is all-consuming. Gordon, understandably, was reduced to a blubbering mess. We stood, clutching each other as we had all those years ago, and soaked in the majesty of the moment. For one sun-dappled afternoon, we found our lost childhood.

    “Looks like we finally got that rocking horse, buddy,” Gordon finally said, his voice cracking under the weight of the situation.
    “Sometimes,” I trembled, “stories do have happy endings. I love you, Gordon.”
    “I love you too, Bigs.” We walked, hands clasped together, to the top of the enormous horse, and stood there for the longest time in complete silence. Gordon flashed a bittersweet smile and put one furry arm across my shoulder.

    “Come on, dry your eyes and let’s go get something to eat,” he posited. “I know a place in Cudlee Creek that makes the world’s best jalapeño poppers.”
    “Lead the way my brother,” I grinned, taking one last look back at The Big Rocking Horse, “lead the way.”

  • The Giant Koala, Dadswells Bridge, VIC

    Sam the Giant Koala, Dadswells Bridge, Victoria, Australia

    As Victoria burned during the horror 2009 bushfires, the world gasped as one when heartwarming footage emerged of a brave koala guzzling water from a drink bottle. Sam, as her admirers came to know her, climbed out of the flames and into our hearts. The plucky little survivor became the furry face of the tragedy; a chubby-cheeked sliver of hope.

    Sadly, Sam soon passed away from chlamydia (it happens to the best of us), but she was not to be forgotten. The owners of another famous Victorian marsupial – The Giant Koala in Dadswells Bridge – made the stirring decision to rename the statue Sam, in honour of Australia’s favourite bushfire survivor.

    Assigned male at birth, it was a moment of clarity for the 14-storey-tall rural icon. But the story of this beloved arboreal herbivore goes back much further than that. Way back to the the late-1980s, when a couple of visionaries had a dream to erect a gormless koala on a lonely stretch of the Western Highway, halfway between Melbourne and Adelaide, smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

    Grab a bottle of water, load up on gum leaves, and settle in for the mesmerising story of Sam the Giant Koala.

    How much can a koala bear?

    With a population of 69 people (and a few koalas), Dadswells Bridge has never been a hive of activity. So in early-1988, local legends Beryl and Jim Cowling did something drastic to draw visitors to their salubrious Koala Kountry Motor Inn and the adjoining roadhouse.

    Inspired by the success of other icons such as Ploddy the Dinosaur and Scotty the Big Scotsman, they tapped Ben van Zetten – yes, he responsible for the ruggedly handsome Map the Miner – to build them a koala of immense proportions. Sure, they could’ve gone for two-for-one schnitzels on Tuesdays and some of those flappy tube men, but I’m glad they decided to go BIG instead.

    The Giant Koala was constructed on site out of koala-ty materials including bronze and fibreglass, wrapped around an immense steel structure. The head was built separately and attached crane at a later date, with a revolutionary fibreglass paste used to create the koala’s eerily-realistic fur.

    There’s even a viewing platform inside the koala’s beautiful bonce, but it never opened because of the lack of a fire exit. Honestly, the risk of burning to death in a concrete sarcophagus is a small price to pay to be able to peer out of a giant koala’s eyes.

    The plump, maudlin beastie took almost a year to complete, which is much longer than it takes for a real koala to gestate. But they’re born visionless, hairless and fairly useless, so it’s a good thing Ben took the extra time to get things just right.

    The Giant Koala opened to rapturous applause in December of 1988 (what a Christmas present!) and proved so popular that – in a moment none present shall ever forget – the gift shop ran out of koala-shaped key chains. There were even rumours the population of Dadswells Bridge might expand to 70 people.

    Let’s see schnitzel night achieve that sort of success!

    All’s well that Dadswells

    Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Dadswells one balmy summer afternoon to find no cars full of koala-obsessed groupies backed up bumper-to-bumper across the bridge. No riots outside the motel as the ‘no vacancy’ sign went up. Not even a braying mob jostling for position to take a photo with the village’s most famous resident.

    The Giant Koala, to my dismay, was abandoned. Gordon was reduced to a blubbering mess as well, and not without reason. Our journey to rural Victoria served as a pilgrimage for our adopted son Rory, who identifies as a koala and uses Blinky/Bill pronouns. As co-parents, Gordon and I agree that it’s important for Rory to interact with other members of the LGBTQIA+ (lesser bilby, glider, bandicoot, Tasmanian devil, quokka, island kangaroo, antechinus) community as he discovers his true self.

    We’ve also taken Rory to visit the Big Koala Family in Port Macquarie, of course, and shared stories of our dalliances with Phascolarctidaes in Salt Ash and Doonside, New South Wales. But I digress.

    Rory was devastated to discover the gift shop betwixt Sam’s powerful hind claws shuttered, but found solace inside the nearby Koala Tavern, with its small selection of souvenirs. After a hearty steak sandwich and an oh-so-creamy cappuccino, he was ready to open up his heart to us.

    “Dads,” Rory said quietly, choosing Blinky/Bill’s words carefully. “Your commitment to helping me discover my species identity means the world to me, but my burgeoning mammalia dysphoria may dictate that I won’t always want to be a koala. Perhaps I’ll transition into a platypus, or even another genus entirely – like a snake. It’s a little scary, a little thrilling, but it’s my unique story – and I’m alright with that.”

    “Maybe you’ll choose to identify as a handsome, charismatic alien, like your old man?” said Gordon with a small shrug.

    “There’s always a chance, Pops,” our trans-species offspring replied with a sanguine smile. “As long as I have your support and a healthy dose of species-affirming hormone therapy, I can’t go wrong. I don’t know what I am just yet, but I do know who I am. I’m Rory, and I’m loved.”

    “You are loved, Rory,” I wept, ruffling the ragamuffin’s fur as the three of us cuddled in Sam’s shadow. “And you’ll always have a home here in the Land of the Bigs.”

  • Dream, St Helens, England

    Dream, St Helens, England, United Kingdom

    Wander into the roughest pub in St Helens, amigo, and tell the toughest hombre you find that he has a big, fat head. Go on, padre, do it! You’ll be delighted to discover that, rather than break a pint of Old Speckled Hen over your cabeza, he’ll thank you for your kindness, take you by the hand, and lead you on a whimsical journey through the sun-dappled streets of northwest England, before the two of you plunge, giggling like la niñas, into a verdant garden clearing caressing a massive cranium that’s been cast from sparkling white Spanish dolomite.

    Or at least that’s what will happen if you whisper such sweet nothings to Doug the plumber who hangs out at the Zoo Bar, señor. I no promise the other local thugs will be quite so gregarious (or have such smooth, inquisitive hands).

    But where is mi manners? It is I, El Grande Gonzales, most bonita luchador in all México! I am here to tell you all about Dream, the 20-metre-tall, 500-tonne-heavy sculpture that I encountered in the Sutton Manor Woodland that magnífica afternoon. Sí!

    This maravilloso example of baroque architecture was created by the incomparable Catalonian sculptor – and my former wrestling tag team partner – Jaume Plensa. Who could forget our infamous barbed-wire hardcore match against the formidable pairing of Hulk Hogan and Louise Bourgeois?

    “When I first came to the site I immediately thought something coming out of the earth was needed,” Señor Jaume explained during a rare moment when he wasn’t crafting one of his signature giant heads out of rock or bashing someone’s skull in with a steel chair. “I decided to do a head of a nine-year-old girl, which is representing this idea of the future. It’s unique.”

    Maybe ‘unique’ is stretching it, Jaume, because you has created dozens of similar statues all over el mundo. But whatever help you sleep at night, chico!

    Sí, Dream is mucha attractiva, but I wouldn’t want to be nearby when she blow her nose!

    Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

    Like the nightmares I have about walking out to the wrestling ring without my tights, this Dream came about due to too much television. In 2008 the good gringos of St Helen took part in a program called The Big Art Project, which aimed to present some English towns with gigantic artworks. I do not know all the rules because this program conflicted with my favourite telenovela, Mi caballo, mi marido.

    The people wanted an artwork to revitalise their home, a former coal mining town which had been a bit sad since all the mines go away. But Gonzales think they really want a giant head to scare away evil spirits and werewolves. This why we build build Big Things in México.

    When St Helen was announced as a winner, the town celebrate with an all-day drinking session. Or maybe this is just because it was a Tuesday. ¡Arriba, Arriba! ¡Ándale, Ándale!

    Dream cost 1.8 million English pesos, and was moulded out of 90 concrete pieces. She was completed in April of 2009 and, finally, St Helens took its place as one of the world’s great cultural cities. Take that, Widnes!

    Señor Jaume had plan for a beam of light to shoot out of the top of Dream, with the original title being Ex Terra Lucem (“From the ground, light”). But then some spoil sports claim the lights may cause car accident. I don’t see what is big deal. In México is muy bien to have car crash outside house – you no have to put on pants to go steal hubcaps!

    Tell Her She’s Dreamin’!

    Dream is estupendo, and the highlight of any vacation to England. Forget Big Benjamín, Henge de la Stone, or the White Cliff Richards dos Dover – just fly straight to St Helens and spend your entire European holiday there. Thank me later!

    The sculpture even featured in the popular television drama Stay Close. Again, I do not watch because of Mi caballo, mi marido – oh, the love between Pamela and Señor Biggles bring tears to this old luchador’s eyes. Not even Equine Herpesvirus can keep them apart.

    Whilst St Helens has since become a place of love and laughter, my visit was ruined by the actions of the repugnant. It was with a heavy corazón that I discover a local bad boy, in a disgusting display of depravity, had graffiti a big, veiny penes on the side of Dream’s supple neck. Gonzales know that if the locals see this desecration they will riot, but chill out dude! I track down the pervert responsible, put him in a chokehold and call in my amigos from the cartel.

    Next time someone take their dog for a walk in Sutton Manor, they find one more disembodied head amongst the trees – teehee!

  • Big Dog, Dunkeld, New South Wales

    Big Dog, Dunkeld, New South Wales, Australia

    How much is that Big Doggy in Dunkeld? The one with the ethically-sourced recycled metal tail? He’s free to visit but pawsitively priceless! This labradorable fellow can be hound out the front of the pupular Dunkeld Park Pet Hotel, in the terrier-riffic Bathurst hinterland. Say hello to Big Dog, your new best fur-riend!

    With his rugged, steampunk sensibilities and smooth, canine lines, Big Dog is the handiwork of local artist Jane Tyack. She didn’t base Big Dog on any pet-icular breed, but did make sure he was out of the corgi-nary!

    Big Dog was completed in 2020, at the insistence of hotel owner Brendan McHugh, as an out-of-the-boxer way to promote his business. Brendan, not surprisingly was Rover the moon with the result.

    “When we saw it finished we thought, ‘Oh my god, that is fantastic’,” Brendan yapped to a bewildered reporter. “It’s made from old recycled metal, old tools, a tractor seat, brakes from a car – you name it, they found it.”

    Contrasting sharply with the secluded scenery, Big Dog shines with an austere benevolence that’s as confronting as it is beguiling. And by collie, is he big! At 2.44 metres tall and weighing more than a tonne, Big Dog’s a little larger than the hotel’s other guests. But he’s a good boy, and just wants you to give him a nice, sloppy pooch on his cheek.

    And there’s more than a kennel of truth to that!

    Blue Heeler the World, Make it a Better Place

    Despite being made of rottie-ever was lying about, the realism of this Big defies belief. It’s a testament to Jane’s skill and passion that she was able to capture the rollercoaster of emotions that every dog exhibits in this genre-defining piece.

    “He wanted it anatomically correct, he wanted the paw up,” Jane said of Brendan. “It’s exactly how a dog would sit when it’s got one foot up.”

    “I started to make the head, Shane [Jane’s beloved husband] did a lot of the internal framework,” she added. “Its eyes are a mine ball cut in half and its eyebrows are off old railway tracks. I’m very happy with it, it took a lot of tweaking.”

    Some Biggies have said it’s a pomer-pain-ian in the mutt to find Big Dog, because he’s tucked away off the main road, around ca-nine kilometres west of The Big Gold Panner Man – but the map I’ve included should kelpie you find him. Just pug the coordinates into your GPS and, if you’re beagle-eyed, you’ll be wondering chow-chow you ever missed him.

    And relax, because there’s plenty of space to bark your car nearby. No need to thank me for my assistance, but a small dalmatian to your local animal shelter would be appreciated.

    Dachshund out to see Big Dog today!

    Mutts Ado About Nothing

    Gordon was far from his usual sprightly self as I eased the Bigsmobile into Dunkeld and pulled up beside Big Dog. He took an all-too-brief glance at the statue, then hung his little head.

    I took Gordon’s tiny hand and gave him my warmest smile, knowing exactly what was going through his mind. Gordon felt scared and abandoned, as I was putting him up in the pet hotel whilst I attended the 32nd Annual World Bigs Convention in downtown N’Djamena.

    “Maybe I can come with you, Bigs” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes.
    “Gordon,” I soothed, “you know they’ll never let you back into the People’s Republic of Chad.”
    “I know, and I don’t blame them, considering what I did to the Monumento de la Independencia last time I was there,” Gordon said, then looked up at Big Dog. “And anyway, they don’t have a Big Bow-Wow over there.”
    We embraced, and I wiped a single tear from my friend’s chubby little cheek.

    “You’ll love it here,” I cooed. “The staff are exceptional; the amenities spotless, and the kibble wouldn’t be out of place at a Michelin-starred restaurant.”
    “Sounds like you’re talking yourself into staying,” Gordon grinned, handing me an elegant set of dog ears. “My kennel’s big enough for two, you know.”

    I breathed in the crisp country air and admired the fawning landscape. It was a long way to Chad, and there was a comfy bed waiting for me just through the gates…

    “You’re right, Gordon,” I chuckled, placing the ears atop my head. “N’Djamena can wait until next year. And with my propensity for walking on all fours and constant desire for human attention, even the highly trained experts inside will think I was a dog… but I get the top bunk!”

  • Norbert the Yellow Dragon, Mooroopna, VIC

    Norbert the Yellow Dragon, Mooroopna, Victoria, Australia

    ‘Bert, the magic dragon lived near Ernie
    And frolicked in the autumn sun in Shepparton, you see
    Little Bigs Bardot loved that rascal ‘Bert
    And brought him strings, and funny things, and even peach yoghurt

    Norbert the Yellow Dragon is friendly chap – and the Gaffy family, who constructed the creature as a holiday art project, couldn’t be more disappointed. If they had their way, Norbert would be a soul-devouring, fire-breathing, child-scaring thunder lizard who destroys anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.

    “There were talks of installing flame-throwers on it,” David Gaffy told a concerned journalist when the dragon was unveiled in 2017. “But perhaps that’s not the best idea.”

    What, David, no chainsaws or death rays or vats of bubbling oil that boil visitors? As the patriarch of a brutally creative family, David wasn’t alone in his fanciful plans for this very unique-looking Big.

    “I was actually thinking of it being 50 times bigger than it is,” his eight-year-old son, Hamish gloated. “It’s the dragon from Harry Potter.”

    Young Hamish came up with the idea for Norbert whilst visiting his pop’s farm just outside Shepparton, and wasted no time sketching the plans for the golden goliath on a bit of paper. Generations of Gaffys then descended upon the ranch to make the little boy’s dreams come true.

    “Hamish really enjoyed the fact it became a whole family project,” David beamed. “Uncle Tim helped with the welding, Grandpa came up with the idea for the tail. The opportunity to get our hands dirty was too good to pass up.”

    I would’ve helped, of course, but I was getting my hair permed that day. Maybe next time! And there will be a next time, because Hamish has BIG plans for a space rocket and a phoenix to join Norbert, who lives on the corner of Pyke Rd and Mooroopna-Murchinson Rd.

    Next time you’re passing, make sure to give Norbert a hearty, “Yellow, mate!”

    How to Restrain Your Dragon

    Driving the Bigsmobile between my bachelor pad in Shepp’s leafy north-west and my weekender in Waranga Shores, my heart skipped a beat as I heard the dulcet tones of a damsel in distress. With little concern for my own safety I screeched the van to a halt, popped on my most menacing pair of pineapple-shaped sunglasses, and prepared myself for the worst.

    Imagine my surprise when I came face-to-muzzle with the normally-placid Norbert – wild of eye and flaxen of skin – with my best chum Gordon Shumway betwixt his powerful jaws. This was not the gregarious dragon I’d so often shared strawberry soufflé with at the Shepparton Gentlemen’s Club.

    “Oh, Norbert,” I gasped, “all this snarling and snatching innocents isn’t really you, is it?”

    The fire in Norbert’s eyes dimmed and his shoulders slumped. He placed Gordon down on an especially pulpous thatch of grass, then hung his enormous head in shame.

    “My sincerest apologies, Biggsy,” Norbert wept. “I buckled under the irresistible weight of peer pressure and, against my better judgement, became the one thing I’ve always despised. I transformed into a brutish cliché of a dragon. Overflowing with testosterone and toxic masculinity, I lashed out at those I love most.”

    “I forgive you, Norbie,” I cooed, then gestured towards Gordon. “But someone else might take a bit more convincing.”

    Gordon dusted himself off and shrugged nonchalantly.

    “You’re forgiven, dude,” the little alien grinned. “I’m just glad Dave didn’t end up giving you that flame-thrower!”

  • Nachi Cocom, Chetumal, México

    Nachi Cocom, Chetumal, Quintana Roo, México

    Nachi Cocom was a brilliant and inspirational Mayan chief who led his people with a stern yet fair hand, before standing up to the Spanish conquistadors as they raided his lands. He also looked really cute in a loin cloth, which is much more important – tee-hee!

    Unveiled in 2018 before dozens of shirtless admirers, this statue depicts Nachi in his traditional battle attire, ready to deliver the Spaniards a good ol’ knuckle empanada. The five-metre-tall warrior cuts a handsome figure against the swaying palms and azure Caribbean water of Chetumal’s world-famous harbour.

    The Nachi-ral born thriller stands with a slight inclination not because of scoliosis, but to lure his adversaries into a false sense of security. Apparently that’s something trained pugilists do. I wouldn’t know because, when startled, I burst into tears until the bully leaves in disgust. It’s surprisingly effective!

    But back to Nachi. He is, in a word, concupiscible. He even has a pet iguana, just waiting to be kissed. Due to his disconcerting two-dimensional proportions, however, I was unable to provide the lizard with his own entry on Land of the Bigs.

    Chetumal is a heavenly slice of the real México, a world away from the botoxed lips and digital nomad cafes of nearby Cancún and Tulum. The city is a haven for Biggies as well, with La Gran Caracola and Monumento al Renacimiento just a few minutes away from Nachi.

    I must confess that my rudimentary grasp of the Spanish language led me to believe I was going to visit ‘The Big Nacho’, and turned up with corn chips and guacamole. Ever the chameleon, I quickly disrobed instead, but my hardline pescatarian diet meant I was unable to eat my delicious, yet ultimately useless, props.

    Oh well, the López family seemed to enjoy their free meal.

  • Bird in Hand, Jemalong, NSW

    Bird in Hand, Jemalong, New South Wales, Australia

    A bird in hand is worth two in the bush, and Bird in Hand is waaaaaaaaay out in the bush! Handcrafted by sculptor Mike Van Dam, this beautifully-manicured chainlink mitt can be found near Jemalaong, by the side of the endless Lachlan Valley Way. It’s a glovely quiet spot on the edge of the outback, so there’s not a lot of palm trees around.

    Whether you’re finger-male or female, this exquisite statue is the perfect place to stop for a well-earned wrist, or simply paws for a moment of quiet introspection. The juxtaposition of rugged, industrial steel against the gentle brown and green hues of the wilderness makes for a striking visage that is, hands down, one of the most memorable and unique experiences Australia offers – pinkie promise!

    “This sculpture reminds viewers that we need to preserve and protect this important environment,” Mike clapped to a flummoxed reporter, “and its future state, such as native birds and all fauna, are in our hands.”

    The sweet, wattle-scented air cloaking the 6.5 metre, 3.5 tonne hand – which cradles a great white egret – is heavy with the cascading trill of waterbirds. Goannas, clinging to gently-swaying gum trees, peer out upon the vast and ancient land. That should be enough to hold your attention!

    Everybody’s hear about The Bird (in Hand)

    Mike really knuckled-down for this project, which he completed single-handedly. The amount of work that went into it really is mind-thumbing.

    “This piece was made from 1600 meters of 10mm, 316 marine-grade, stainless steel chain, with 38 links per meter and 4 welds per link,” Mike enthused. “This equates to just over 243,000 welds, which took eight months to complete.”

    My apologies if any of those statistics are incorrect – I’m relying on second-hand information here.

    Bird in Hand isn’t the fist Big between Forbes and Condobolin. Varanus and Heart of Country are also elbowing in on the action along the mesmerising Sculpture Down the Lachlan trail. When complete, 25 oversized artworks will be dotted along the remote stretch of road. It can be hard to come to grips with how exciting this is!

    There’s also a global arms race going on, with Big Hands in England, Ireland, Uruguay and Guatemala. All together now, ‘We’ve got a whole world of Big Hands!’

    Won’t someone lend me a helping (Bird in) Hand

    As the setting sun transformed the steel girders that make up Bird in Hand into an ethereal silhouette, Gordon and I realised that we’d lost hours exploring the sculpture’s intricacies.

    Rather than set off into the desert in the inky twilight, we settled in for a night in the bush, amidst a cacophony of bird calls, insect squeaks, and marsupial meanderings. Out here, in the ancient and eternal soul of the country, everything is alive. Even the statue seemed to bend and sway and worship the sky as the light moved over it.

    With a distinct lack of Michelin-starred restaurants in Jemalong, Gordon and I feasted on a smorgasbord of witchetty grubs and dung beetles as the stars and planets and comets rolled out above us. Ah, you’ve gotta love finger food!

  • Paco el Sharko, Zicatela, México

    Paco el Sharko, Zicatela, oaxaca, México

    Just when you thought it was safe to go back for another mango and jalapeño margarita, along swims a Big who’ll leave your JAWS hanging wide open in horror. Please put your pectoral fins together to welcome Paco el Sharko – and this time, it’s personal!

    Serving as an ostentatious anomaly betwixt the swaying palms and braying hawkers of Puerto Escondido’s beachside entertainment precinct, Paco resonates with an ethereal bombasticity that captivates and repulses in equal measure.

    Brash, garish and wonderfully vulgar, this must-sea shark’s head is the centrepiece of a gaudy art installation by Zicatela’s world-famous beach. You’ll find pink flamingos, a marlin, and even a strapping young man in a boat. There’s even a wonderfully kitschy concrete wave a few minutes walk away that’s totally tubular, dude!

    The massive marine mouth is framed, not drowned out, by these other attractions. He’s tacky in all the right ways – and that’s the tooth!

    As the entryway to the Dorada Bar ‘n’ Gill, Paco seduces unsuspecting visitors with his bad boy mystique and promise of cheap food and drinks. The menu is sure to mako you smile, and won’t take a bite out of your budget. All of this is lovingly served by the best-looking busboys in town (hola, Ramón!).

    Trust me, after an evening spent swilling two-for-one cocktails you’ll be wishing you were only eaten by a shark!

    Even if we’re just dancing in the Shark

    Paco looks wonderful during the day, but is truly some-fin to behold under the cover of sharkness. The resturant really comes to life after the sun goes down, and a full moon over an illuminated fish’s head is enough to flake all your dreams come true.

    After a big day of signing autographs for my legion of loco latin limpiezas (that means admirers, for you gringos!) I retired to the balcony with a table for one and drinks for two. It’s a hard life, travelling the world in search of the Bigs!

    I’m not one to drop names but, as I languidly nibbled on a pollo and chorizo tlayunda I did send a text message to my good friend – and self-confessed Biggie – Amy Shark. The ARIA-award-winning popstar was surprised when I told her I’d met one of her family members in México and then delighted when, after waiting an appropriate length of time to set up the joke, I sent her a photo of Paco. That’s the sort of thing you can do when you rub shoulders with beloved celebrities – but I’m not one to brag.

    Oh, how I laughed as I ladelled spoonfuls of deliciously rich molcajete into my gaping maw which, by the end of the night, was hanging as wide open as Paco’s.

    Eek, after all that food I think I’m gonna need a bigger pair of trousers!

  • The Big Strawberry, Elimbah, QLD

    The Big Strawberry, Elimbah, Queensland

    Roll up, roll up to the ravishing Rolin Farm, where you’ll find a truss-see attraction – The Big Strawberry! This plump, juicy fruit stands four metres tall from rambunctious receptacle to perky peduncle, and is sure to in-stem-tly find a place in your heart.

    The Strawberry was crafted to draw attention to the farm’s pulp-ular store, which is open from June to October each and every year. It’s certainly been a fruitful venture, with throngs of Biggies lining up to have their photo snapped with this Big, before heading inside to stock up on jams, marmalades, ice creams and other goodies.

    For those who can pluck up the courage to get their hands dirty, it’s possible to pick your own strawberries. From just $6 a bucket, it’s hardly daylight strobbery. Don’t punnets yourself by missing out!

    It was a pit-y, however, that the Strawberry wasn’t looking particularly fresh when I visited in early-2023. With cracking calyx and peeling paint, she was a pale imitation of the bright ‘n’ beautiful Strawberry in Koonoomoo. Thankfully she hasn’t deteriorated to the extent of the Luddenham Strawberry, but I remain berry concerned for her welfare.

    There has been word that the owners will repaint the Strawberry when they get a break from picking fruit, so I’ll try my harvest to remain positive.

    Keep Rolin, Rolin, Rolin, Rolin!

    Who’s in the strawberry patch with Bigsy? Bigella’s at the Strawberry with me! Gordon and Gordina are also here. ‘Neath the shade of the old apple tree!

    My apologies for bursting into song, but my inner Tony Orlando always swaggers forth whenever I’m confronted by a truly straw-inspiring Big. The four of us had the Strawberry to ourselves, as we visited out of season, and so were able to soak in the spectacle of this Queensland icon.

    Our encounter with The Big Strawberry, as she hung like a blood-red dew-drop in the autumnal twilight, was a provocative, solemn, incongruous and super juicy experience that was every bit as scrumptious as the fruit she’s based upon.

    Gordina, the on-again-off-again lady friend of Gordon, was berry impressed by this Big’s ex-seed-ingly large size, and was more than happy to fill the role as our very own strawberry shortcake for these fascinating photos.

    So enraptured by The Big Strawberry were Bigella and I that we made the snap decision to become strawberry farmers. Rolin Farms is a working plantation and always on the lookout for eager employees, so our gaggle trotted up to the front door, caps in hands. Gordon, in his most deferential voice, pitched our value to the farm.

    Unfortunately the only jobs on offer involved actually picking the strawberries, rather than taking cute photos of them for Insta. I’d just had my nails done, so we piled back into the Bus of the Bigs and set off for greener pastures.

    “Well,” Gordon said with a world-weary sigh as we drove into the night, “there goes my chance of being on the next season of Farmer Wants a Wife.”

  • SLOTH, Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica

    SLOTH, Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica

    Slothfulness, the Bible tells us, casts one into a deep sleep, and an idle person will suffer hunger (Proverbs 19:15). Well, it might be time to update the Good Book, because this sizeable sloth guides the way to one of the finest eating establishments in Costa Rica.

    Known by the mononym of SLOTH to his galleon of admirers, this happy fellow forms the entrance to the quirky, Insta-friendly, yet wholesomely down-to-Earth Igloo Beach Lodge, and the adjoining Casa Planta cafe. Let me assure you, there’s nothing slothful about the service, or the resident chef’s fanatical attention to detail.

    With his cheeky grin and obtuse thatched wooden façade, SLOTH offers a friendly – if somewhat imposing – welcome to this culinary hotspot. His deep, caramel eyes will leave you slothed for words!

    Just minutes from the lush rainforest and howling monkeys of Manuel Antonio National Park, Casa Planta is renowned for its hearty dishes and lackadaisical ambiance. The crystal clear water of Playa Espadilla is only metres away, and Puerto Viejo – home of La Iguana Grande – a mere 11 hours by chicken bus.

    Casa Planta offers a moreish slice of pura vida. There’s no better way to spend a lazy Tuesday morning than sipping on an apple daiquiri and nibbling a Caribbean queen ceviche whilst watching Emiliano the pool boy go to work in the shadows of SLOTH’s smiling face.

    Sure, you might have to sell a kidney – or own the world’s most successful Big Things website! – to afford an octopus and mango poke bowl, but that’s par for the course in this part of the world these days. Costa Rica? More like Costa Heapsa!

  • Aslan the Lion, Belfast, Northern Ireland

    Aslan the Great Lion, Belfast, Northern Ireland

    Once there was a super cute fellow with a slight bad boy edge whose name was Bigs Bardot. This story is about something that happened to him when he was sent away from Australia – and its wonderful collection of Big Things! – due to his family refusing to accept that he’d rather take selfies with The Big Bandicoot than slave away at an office job, get married and have a bunch of children like his brother Damien did.

    Not everyone’s like Damien, Mum! And he and Renee aren’t that happy together anyway!

    Bigs was sent to the brutally industrial, yet oddly charismatic, city of Belfast, in the heart of Northern Ireland. Far less than ten miles from the monument to Finn McCool and two miles from The Big Fish he discovered the whimsical C.S. Lewis Square.

    It was home to an astonishing assortment of elaborately-crafted statues dedicated to the many oddball characters from the novel The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. (Their names were Maugrim, The White Witch and Mr and Mrs Beaver, but they do not come into this story much).

    The mane attraction was Aslan, a very large lion with shaggy, bronze hair which grew over most of his face as well as on his head, and Bigs liked him even before he burst forth from the the grim bowels of Belfast and into the fairy tale expanse of the lion’s den.

    Livin’ Nextdoor to Aslan

    The first thing Bigs saw upon entering the park was a homeless man on the side of the open space. He was a wonderful homeless man, especially with the cantaloupine sun shining on the sardine cans he was using as shoes. While he was looking at him, Bigs heard the sound of single mothers squawking to his right. Turning in that direction, Bigs saw what he came to see.

    Aslan stood proudly above a crowd of chavs. Bigs barely knew what to do or say when he saw him. People who have not been in Belfast sometimes think that a thing cannot be good and terrible at the same time.

    If Bigs ever thought so, he was cured of it now. When he tried to look at Aslan’s face, he just caught a glimpse of the expert craftmanship apparent in his solemn, overwhelming eyes; and then he found he couldn’t look at him.

    Bigs stepped up to the lion and said:

    “I have come – Aslan.”

    “Welcome, Bigs, son of, umm…,” said Aslan. “Well, your lack of a reliable father figure is hardly important now.”

    “Tell that to my therapist!” replied Bigs.

    Aslan chuckled, and his voice was deep and rich and seemed to calm Bigs. He felt very glad now, and not at all awkward.

    “Where is the small alien, Gordon, who you’re always having adventures with?” asked Aslan.

    “His visa was denied,” said Bigs. “There was some… unpleasantness, at the airport.”

    Aslan said nothing either to excuse Gordon or to blame him. He simply stood looking at Bigs with his unchanging eyes. And it seemed to both of them that there was nothing more to say.

    “Please, Aslan,” said Bigs, “can I take a delightful photo with you for my award-winning website, Land of the Bigs?”

    “All will be done,” said Aslan, “but you have forgotten to do up your fly.”

    It was true. Bigs thought it was a bit rich for Aslan, who didn’t even wear pants, to pass judgement on his fashion choices, but let it slide. The last thing he wanted was to get on the wrong side of a magical space cat.

    Belfast and Furious

    The large lion had been birthed by the uncompromising brilliance of Irish artist Maurice Harron. Aslan was created as the centrepiece of an expansive, £2.5 million redevelopment in East Belfast that quickly become a favourite place for the young and young-at-heart.

    “I’m delighted to step ‘through the wardrobe’ and take on the challenge of recreating the magic of Narnia, right on C.S. Lewis’ own doorstep,” Maurice told a clearly perplexed reporter from the Irishowen News. “These artworks will be central to the civic square and provide a fitting tribute to one of Belfast’s most famous sons.

    “I want to recreate the emotions within Lewis’ world, so that – like Lucy, Edmund, Peter and Susan – you never quite know what’s around the corner.”

    Aslan, standing three metres from superbly-rendered claw to handsome head, offers a slice of whimsy to an, at times, harsh city. Perched atop a small hill, he takes pride of place above the other monuments and commands the respect of all who pass. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lion to you!

    The Lion, the Bigs and the Wardrobe

    As soon as he had said good night to Aslan and sequestered himself away from East Belfast in favour of his salubrious five-star accommodation in the heart of the city, Bigs sat alone, peering earnestly out upon the blinking lights, sipping languidly at a peach daiquiri. He thought about The Giant Fisherman, and Luke Kelly, and all the bizarre creatures he’d met in a seaside village in Wales. Bigs was tired, but he was content in a way he never could have imagined before.

    And that is the very end of Bigs Bardot’s adventures with Aslan. But if Abdul, the checkout operator at the Nando’s down the road from the square was right – and he usually was – it was only the beginning of his adventures through the Land of the Bigs.

    What personal demons did Bigs face, what confronting and, at times, deeply unpleasant realisations did he come to? Well, that’s Narnia business!

  • The Big Beaver, Wilberforce, NSW

    The Big Beaver, Wilberforce, New South Wales

    Every chap in Western Sydney has seen this Big Beaver! She’s hairy, wet and open for inspection every day of the week. Best of all, you won’t have to waste money on flowers and a KFC meal before you’re allowed to see this Beaver.

    Sure, the Big Beaver has seen better days and been around the block a few times, but that just gives her character. And most fellows can’t resist a Big Beaver no matter how battered she looks. Any mole’s a goal, as they say.

    It’s not only the menfolk who like to gently caress The Big Beaver, either. Women are also welcome to grope this Beaver. There’s even rumours that Hollywood actress Beaverly D’Angelo popped in for a visit a few years back.

    Sadly, it’s common for cretins to make putrid jokes at the Beaver’s expense but, as you can see, I don’t find anything fanny about such behaviour. Thankfully Raelene, Beaver’s ever-beguiling owner, had some sensible, mature comments to make when I visited her.

    “Everyone’s loves my Big Beaver,” Rae chuckled when I arrived, giving me a cheeky wink.

    “Oh Rae, why did you have to lower the tone?” I lamented, whilst writing down her joke to shamelessly steal later.

    Leave it to Beaver

    The Big Beaver can be found in all her buck-toothed glory out the front of Wilberforce’s otter-ly charming Butterfly Farm (which, delightfully, also features some moths). It’s a peaceful, leafy place for a Big, with plenty of picnic tables overlooking the Hawkesbury River. There are even campsites for those who, unlike myself, don’t require five star accommodation with an all-inclusive buffet breakfast.

    The Beaver was created a few decades ago to star in a maple syrup commercial. She was made from a styrofoam mould, and was due to be disposed of once the cameras stopped rolling. That’s when Rae stepped in. She snapped up the Beaver, slapped on some weather-resistant paint, and placed her proudly on display. The result was sweeter than the syrup that bore her.

    Tragically, the Beaver’s makeshift construction has meant that she’s aged poorly and is currently falling apart. When I visited she was missing an ear and, outrageously, one of her gorgeous footsies had fallen off.

    The Big Beaver has a gaping hole, which is often occupied by one or more peckers. Honestly guys, quit it – I just mean that Rae’s Big Beaver sports a cavity in the side of her head that’s become home to a family of kookaburras. If you find anything rude about that, you might want to seek the assistance of a psychiatrist.

    Busy as a Beaver

    Disaster struck Wilberforce in early 2021, when the river to breached its banks and flooded the area. Homes were destroyed, hearts were broken. The happy little lives that the locals had cherished were washed away in a rain-soaked instant. But the worst was yet to come.

    The Big Beaver, a beacon of hope in these most tumultuous of times, was to be the storm’s greatest victim. The Butterfly Farm was swallowed by the gurgling brine. The Beaver, laden with styrofoam, was torn from her base and carried away by the raging waters.

    It was feared this Western Sydney icon would be lost forever. Sure, beavers are usually right at home in the water, but most of them aren’t three metres tall and just as cute as a button.

    And then a miracle happened.

    “We tried our hardest to save the Beaver, but the water was too rough for us,” Rae fretted. “But then the townsfolk came together to rescue her. We put her in a safe position until the water subsided. Most of our facilities were wiped out, but at least we saved the Beaver.”

    Yes, with the assistance of several sweaty gentlemen, and with silent prayers of, “Oh God! Oh God!” the moist adventures of the Big Beaver came to a gushing and mutually-satisfying climax. I’m just glad that the boys were able to pull off the impossible so this story received a happy ending – and all without a single double entendre!

    “What can I say,” Raelene smirked. “Everyone loved getting their hands on my wet Beaver!”

    Oh, Rae!

  • YININMADYEMI, Sydney, NSW

    YININMADYEMI - Thou Didst Let Fall (The Big Bullets), Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

    Drawing a blank on what to do this weekend? Are you locked and loaded for a Big that’ll make you go ballistic? Then it’s time to pull the trigger and shoot off to Sydney’s sprawling Hyde Park, where you’ll find seven big bullets of supreme size.

    And you thought you’d have to venture into Sydney’s southwest to find a bunch of spent cartridges strewn around a local park!

    Snappily titled YININMADYEMI: Thou didst let fall, this revolver-lutionary sculpture was created by Tony Albert, an indigenous artist who has many tricks in his arsenal. It celebrates the selfless contribution of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander service men and women, and can be found a few hundred metres from the famous Anzac Memorial. The whole precinct really is a barrel of fun!

    But that’s not all there is to this story – not by a long shot! Tony was inspired by the experiences of his grandfather Eddie, a war hero who escaped a brutal German concentration camp. Now, let us rifle through this incredible tale.

    The Magnificent Seven

    “Using his agility and speed, Eddie escaped the prison grounds and crossed Germany’s southern border into Italy,” Tony elucidated. “In Biella, a town in the northwest of Italy that lies at the foothills of the Alps, he and six other escaped Australian soldiers took refuge in a remote farmhouse on the outskirts of the town. Early one morning in late April, Italian soldiers found Eddie and the other escapees hiding in the farmhouse.

    “Captured again he found himself in the worst situation to date – the men were ordered to line up side by side to be shot one by one. After the execution of the three men before him there was a halt in gunfire.

    “An Italian Officer-in-Charge ordered his men not to shoot. He identified the men as Allied soldiers and that they must be returned to Germany. Miraculously, Edward Albert and three of his companions survived the ordeal.”

    A harrowing experience, to be sure, that has been vibrantly brought to life in The Big Bullets.

    The battle, however, had only just began for Eddie. The tribulations he faced when he finally returned home provided ample ammunition for his grandson when he was planning this icon. I guess I should bite the bullet and tell you that dark part of this story.

    War, huh, yeah! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing… unless you’re a fan of the Bigs!

    Even after giving the Nazis a good ol’ walloping, racism continued to ricochet throughout Australia. Alright, you may have already read about this in a magazine, but please, don’t shoot the messenger.

    “When service men and women returned to Australia, they were given land for their service,” Tony explained. “However, not only was Eddie and his fellow Aboriginal soldiers not given any land, their land was still being taken away.

    “Eddie and fellow Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander men and women defended our country, they were prepared to fall but upon returning, they were left to fall again – ‘yininmadyemi,’ thou didst let fall. I envisage this memorial in Hyde Park to be a special and powerful place for contemplation and remembrance, a space for all our stories to be heard and recognised.”

    Emotionally confronting, thought-provoking and perched upon the precipice of a great cultural awakening, The Big Bullets are also super fun to take photos with. For this shoot I chose a modish army jacket that an acquaintance left at my house after a big night at a local dance club. I was also fortunate enough to have Grant, a luminary of the local homeless population, camped nearby to provide feedback on my poses and life choices.

    So inspired by YININMADYEMI was I that, in a military lapse of reason, I marched straight over to the nearest Army boutique to enlist. Oh well, hopefully there are plenty of Big Things for me to visit in Mogadishu!

  • The Black Ant, Kin Kin, QLD

    The Black Ant, Kin Kin, Queensland, Australia

    Nobody wants ants to turn up during a meal, but you’ll love sharing your food with this irrepressible insect! The Black Ant was brought to life by legendary local artist Steve Weis and can be found, appropriately enough, outside the Black Ant Gourmet Cafe in the verdant Sunshine Coast Hinterland

    With his homespun charm and quirky, indigenous-inspired paintjob, The Black Ant is right at home in the rustic village of Kin Kin – which means ‘plenty of black ants’ in the local Aboriginal dialect. Sadly, the handsome chap’s eyes had fallen off shortly before I arrived, giving him an alien, dystopian veneer.

    Far from detracting from the experience, however, this merely establishes the metallic marvel as a constantly-evolving art piece, forever eroding and evolving like the surrounding hills.

    Ever the crowd-pleaser, the Black Ant was designed to be ridden by weary travellers. He boasts a comfortable – yet well-worn – saddle, allowing him to blend in with the motorbikes that are so often found in front of the cafe. A more interactive Big it’s hard to imagine.

    Those days, sadly, are behind him. The relentless Queensland sun and some overly-rambunctious admirers have left him in a delicate state. Please, I implore you not to climb atop The Big Ant, no matter how many likes you believe the resultant photo shall garner on Instagram. Insect him from a safe distance to ensure he’s able to inspire generations of Biggies for generations to come.

    The Ant is not the bulkiest citizen of the Land of the Bigs – especially compared to the massive Matilda, who lives just down the road in Traveston. But, like similarly-proportioned Big Red Bug, he has a friendly personality that renders him eminently approachable. Just don’t offer him an alcoholic beverage – you don’t want him to end up alitrunk and disorderly!

    Ants in Your Pants

    The Black Ant Cafe has been the lifeblood of Kin Kin for more than a century, originally serving as a general store. It was only when renowned chefs Richard and Kirsty Mundt took over a few years ago that it metamorphosed into the finest restaurant in the region.

    The menu is a veritable treasure trove of piquant pastas and bespoke burgers, with hearty portions sure to satisfy after a long day searching for Bigs. Best of all, many of the cafe’s arcadian tables offer panoramic views over the ant sculpture.

    As a reflection of my brawny, tough guy mystique, I treated myself to the ploughman’s lunch. The trio of cheeses were as aromatic as they were velvety, the pickles crunchy and oh-so-zesty, and the generous selection of meats to die for. I’d describe the handmade chutney, but fear I may drool all over my keyboard!

    My compatriot for this trip, Bigella Fernadez Hernandez, was so engrossed in her smoked salmon, paired with a delightfully sticky lemon meringue tart, that she was unable to find time to pose for a photo with the Black Ant. Well, that and the fact she accidentally smeared the rich tomato paste down her fresh tunic.

    As a side note, the cafe offers the most spacious, clean and well-appointed restrooms I’ve ever encountered during my travels through the Land of the Bigs. The sprawling subtropical plants and delicate selection of scented soaps provided a serene oasis for a moment of quiet reflection.

    If I could sum up my afternoon at the Black Ant Cafe in one word? Brilli-ant!

  • The Big Pie, Hamilton, VIC

    The Big Pie, King's Bakery & Cafe, Hamilton, Victoria, AUstralia

    Got a BIG appetite after a BIG day tracking down BIG Things? Then head to the shop with the pie on top! King’s Bakery & Cafe has been an institution in Hamilton since 1913, feeding the masses with a splendid selection of cakes, pasties, sausages rolls, slices and sandwiches.

    It’s the square meat pies, however, that truly tickle the tastebuds. Steak and kidney, chicken and veggie, even the vaunted egg and bacon – each sumptuous parcel of golden, flaky pastry is full to the brim with juicy, tender meat and a heady mix of herbs and spices that will make you think you’ve pied and gone to heaven.

    So revered are these pies by the good people of the Grampians that the owners had no choice but to install a massive meat pie on the roof of the bakery. The eerily-realistic representation of the beloved snack serves as a beacon for the throngs of pie-lovers making their pilgrimage to this sacred site, and can be seen from all corners of Hamilton. After arriving, it’s all gravy!

    The Big Pie is at once both robust and saucy, demanding one’s attention with its severe angles and voluptuous, well-maintained torso. The only pie in the ointment is that, due to its position, this Big can be difficult to take a photo with. But, to be honest, being hit by a car as you trot across the Glenelg Highway is a small price to pay for such a wonderful photo op!

    When the moon hits your eye like Hamilton’s Big Pie – that’s amore!

    Feeling a bit cheeky, I pushed my hardline flexitarian diet to one side and gorged myself upon a brash, yet ever-so-slightly pompous beef burgundy pie with a generous dollop of tomato sauce. The service was snappy, my piping-hot meal served with a smile just as large as The Big Pie.

    As the rich gravy dripped down my chin, I was sequestered away upon a savoury tapestry of meaty scrumptiousness that would delight and tantalise even the most fastidious gastronomist. I knew that every decadent calorie was worth it – and I’m pretty sure I burnt off a week’s worth salivating over the nearby Big Bandicoot, anyway!

    Scoffing a mouthwatering cheese and onion pie as you take a selfie with this tempting treat should be enough to send anyone into a scrumptious food coma but, if you’re still hungry for more Big Pies, they’re certainly out there. Yatala’s Big Pie is widely regarded as Queensland’s greatest tourist attraction, whilst The Bilpin Apple Pie is a crust-see for those with a sweet tooth.

    Whichever Big Pie you choose to visit, I’m sure it’ll bake all your dreams come true!


  • The Manchester Lamps, Manchester, England

    The Manchester Lamps, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Looking for something to light up your life? The head oop norf, because there’s never a dull moment when you visit The Manchester Lamps! The quintet of elaborately-designed nightlights were installed within the cosy confines of Piccadilly Place in 2021. But please be warned that they may turn you on!

    Lanternationally-renowned art collaborative Acrylicize really caught lighting in a bottle when they created this bulbous bunch. Each has its own quirky, roguish personality that holds a mirror up to Mancunian culture. From centuries-old relics to sleek contemporary office furniture, it’s their time to shine.

    Best of all, each lamp doubles as a bench, so you can bask in their glory whilst nibbling on a heavenly vegan blueberry croissant from the nearby Coffee Hive. Try it with a decadent dollop of locally-sourced honey – go on, I won’t tell anyone!

    This monument is light fitting – oops, I mean quite fitting! – because lamps are the only thing the locals enjoy more than football hooliganism. But don’t worry, there’s nothing shady about them!

    I was fortunate to visit the Manchester Lamps with my growing gaggle of Land of the Bigs groupies – Gordon, Gideon and my roadside attraction-obsessed half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez. It was heartwarming to see their little faces light up at the display.

    Yes, I certainly give these Big Things my lamp of approval!

    I love lamp!

    Whilst the rest of us were content to gawp in wonder at the Manchester Lamps, it was Bigella who had spent months – even years – researching their significance.

    “¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale, ándale!” Bigella yelped, whilst munching on a black pudding-and-eccles cake taco. She paused, disposed of the remains of her meal, and took a deep breath. “My sincerest apologies for lapsing into a comical depiction of a common Méxican. It happens whenever I get particularly emocionada about a Big. So you can imagine that a collection of five giant lamps can make me mucho loca.”

    “It’s perfectly understandable,” I assured Bigella. “I was so overcome by emotion upon first encountering The Big Watermelon that I took to behaving like what’s commonly known as a ‘bogan’. It took several years of quite invasive therapy to snap me out of it. But I digress.”

    Unperturbed by my display of self-flagellation, Bigella perambulated over to the nearest Lamp and gestured dramatically towards its arcuate base.

    “Please allow me to shed some light on the fascinating stories behind these Lamps. The Art Deco-inspired Lamp, with its flagrant use of blue and oranges, salutes Earnest Rutherford, whose research at the local university led to the splitting of the atom.”
    “A noble cause,” I intimated. “Well, except for all the bombs and death and pollution and misery his work inevitably led to. But please, Bigella, continue.”

    “Ensconced in the loving embrace of books and pens, the Art Nouvea Lamp serves as a homage to the nearby Chetham’s Library.”
    “The oldest in the English-speaking world?”
    “The very same.”
    “Hmm, I wonder whether they have the autobiography of Estonian stage, film, television and voice actress, Anu Lamp?”
    “Oh Bigs! Despite what people say, you really are quite humorous.”

    Lady and the Lamp

    “With its quirky, aphrodisiacal honeycomb lattice, the Mid-Century Bedside Lamp harkens back to Manchester’s famous – yet morally ambiguous – worker bee mantra,” Bigella lectured. “For a more literal representation of this, the extremely intere-sting Big Bee can bee found in the nearby Sackville Garden.”
    “That’s un-bee-lievable! And the Green Desk Lamp? It wouldn’t be a flamboyant tribute to the cult of personality that is Alan Turing, would it?”

    “You sure know your socially and professionally-divisive theoretical biologists, Bigs.”
    “Alan was convicted of gross indecency for being a homosexual, you know. He was sentenced to chemical castration.”
    “Don’t worry, Bigs,” my younger sibling imparted, placing a reassuring hand upon my shoulder. “They overturned that law years ago”

    “And as for the chic Anglepoise Lamp? Does it cast our minds towards Manchester’s impact upon the European fashion industry? The sporting triumphs of these proud people? The brash, yet melodic, music industry for which the city is synonymous?
    “It’s just a Big Lamp, Bigs. Not everything needs to have some deeper meaning.”

    National Lamp-oon’s Vacation

    As we were departing the Manchester Lamps for an opulent meal at the nearest Weatherspoon’s, Gordon and Gideon, Land of the Bigs’ mascots, stopped me in my tracks. Their impish grins told me they were up to something.

    “I found the display quite….” Gideon piped up, “illuminating!”
    “Yes, it was very…” Gordon added, with his trademark comedic timing, “enlightening!”
    As Bigella groaned, I hurried the kids to a quiet corner of the square and sat them down.

    “Guys,” I said gently, ruffling their hair, “I know you mean well, but I find your pithy attempts at humour to be both purile and rather condescending. The Big Lamps hold a place of great significance to me. I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but, since I was a child I’ve slept with the bedside lamp on.”

    “That took great courage for you to admit, Bigs,” Gordon assured me. “But it’s still pretty strange.”
    “I don’t know,” I replied with a smirk. “I think it makes a great hat – teehee!”

  • The Golden Dragon Lotus, Bendigo, VIC

    The Golden Dragon Lotus, Bendigo, Victoria, Australia

    Nǐ hǎo, dear reader! Looks like you’ve caught me Peking at the extra-orchid-nary Golden Dragon Lotus! Built in 2010 as the centrepiece of Bendigo’s Dai Gum San Chinese district, the mandarin-credible specimen stands five metres tall and weighs about wonton. But really, it’s more than the dim sum of its parts.

    The wok-manship is simple yet elegant, like the finest Mao suit. The Lotus is lovely in any season, but is especially delicious during spring roll. If you become dis-orient-ed by the flower’s immense size, feel free to take a seat within its ovaries and petal yourself down.

    Interestingly, the Lotus was originally designed to have a much paler complexion, but the couple of Asian chaps who painted it accidentally used red paint instead. I guess it goes to show that two Wongs don’t make a white!

    After admiring such a big flower, it’s only Hunan to want to experience more Chinese art and history. Head Jinping-side the nearby Golden Dragon Museum, if you have the beef chow means to afford a ticket. It’s definitely worth the rice of admission.

    The only problem is that one hour after visiting the museum, you’ll be hungry for more Chinese culture!

    I like Chinese! I like Chinese!
    They only come up to your knees
    Yet they’re wise, and they’re witty, and they’re ready to please

    The Golden Dragon Lotus is surrounded by the Yi Yuan Garden, a peaceful oasis that feels like a happy little slice of the People’s Republic – with slightly less systematic torture, forced labour camps and midnight ‘disappearances’.

    Although a five-foot-tall lunatic who was passing by did scream at me to work a 90-hour week in an iPhone factory or he’d waterboard my family, which added a welcome element of authenticity.

    Keep walking, mate! This is Victoria, where the locals won’t put up with being placed under constant surveillance, abused by the police, hunted down for speaking out against the government, and locked up for years without committing a crime – teehee!

  • A Monument to Vimto, Manchester, England

    A Monument to Vimto, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Are you ready to shlurple the purple? Wait, wait, come on now, don’t call the police! I’m not being uncouth, I’m merely repeating the long-time tagline attached to an utterly bonkers northern English fizzy drink named Vimto.

    Crafted from grapes, raspberries and blackcurrants and mixed with a zesty blend of herbs and spices, Vimto tastes like heaven on earth, with a subtle hint of cough medicine drained through a fisherman‘s sock. The locals are obsessed with it, though, and are known to box the ears of anyone who disparages their favourite drink.

    Created in Manchester in 1908 by a flamboyant chap named John Noel Nichols, Vimto was originally marketed as a health tonic. Sadly, the only noticeable health effects were a reduction in teeth and an increased risk of diabetes, so it was quickly repositioned as a soft drink. Bizarrely, it found widespread adoration in the Arab world as a staple drink of Ramadan. Apparently the locals refuse to Du-buy anything else!

    The Vimto factory was relocated in 1910 and the grounds handed over to the University of Manchester, and it’s on this site you’ll find the venerated Monument to Vimto. Won’t someone think of the children? How are they supposed to concentrate on their tutorials when there’s a giant bottle of Vimto outside their classroom, just waiting to be worshipped?

    Carved from oak by the incomparable Kerry Morrison, this masterpiece was installed in 1992. It’s just as bright and bubbly as a goblet of icy-cold Vimto, having been fully restored in 2011, and is complimented by cheeky representations of the fresh fruit used in Vimto’s production.

    The monument’s whimsical nature, coupled with its unabashed enthusiasm for the source material, make it the ultimate destination when visiting England’s glamorous north. No wonder Mancunians are so full of Vimto and vigour!

    The Fruitiest Big I Know

    Whilst a cool glass of Vimto on a balmy Manchester afternoon is a truly holistic experience, a pilgrimage to the monument that bears its name proves to be anything but. When my Latin-American half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez and I arrived, with clear eyes and full hearts, we were outraged to discover that a gang of layabouts had taken up residence at the base of the statue.

    With lips and teeth stained a sickening vermillion, the gypsies had obviously spent a decadent afternoon overindulging on bottles Vimto, which littered the surrounds. Anyone unfortunate enough to venture nearby faced the full extent of the thugs’ wrath, as they hurled insults and plastic flagons of Vimto with equal ferocity.

    Personal safety, however, must come second to reporting on Big Things. Bigella and I did our best to ignore their catcalls as we posed for some surprisingly delightful happy snaps, focusing on the bottle’s intricately engraved details to take our attention away from the deranged lunatics. If you look closely, you can see the fear etched across our faces.

    But then things got personal.

    Seriously Mixed-Up Hobos

    “Maybe yer lady friend would like to share a cup of Vimto with us?” one particularly unscrupulous reprobate heckled, moistening his sun-chapped lips with a lascivious tongue as he rattled a jug of the berry-flavoured treat. I noted, with a touch of horror, that he was consuming the concentrated variation – and he didn’t seem to have added much water. “Plenty to go around. We’ve got all the flavours.”

    “Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant?” I asked, my interest piqued.
    “Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant,” the lecherous hobo responded with a monstrous smirk. “Ice cold, just the way she likes it.”

    The vagrant took a liberal swig of the ruby-red nectar, allowing a hedonistic portion to dribble down his unshaven chin. His mates, eyeballs spinning in their skulls from their sugar highs, raised plastic cups full of Vimto to us. I was hypnotised by the drink’s effervescent beauty as it sparkled in the dying light. So sweet, so refreshing, so economically-priced.

    “Bigella,” I bellowed, a thin veneer of bravado masking my inner turmoil. “Run for it. I’ll stay here to hold back these troublemakers!”
    “But Bigs,” my sister squawked, sweat pouring from her brow, “I can’t leave! You’re too pretty – these pervertidos will eat you alive!”
    “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I yawped, pushing Bigella into the streets of Manchester. “Now run away and never look back!”

    As the first, succulent drops of Vimto cascaded out of the homeless chap’s flask and poured, luxuriously, down my gaping maw, I realised that I’d plummeted to a new low in my life.

    But what can I say? I’m just a guy who likes to shlurple the purple!

  • The Big Bandicoot, Hamilton, VIC

    The Big Bandicoot, Hamilton, Victoria, Australia

    The Big Bandicoot? More like The Big Bandi-CUTE! This hyperactive heartbreaker is the beloved mascot of the Bandicoot Motor Inn, just minutes from the vibrant centre of Hamilton. Caught forever in mid-stride, the mega-sized marsupial is poised to bound his way into your heart.

    Whimsical, cheeky and deliciously kitsch, the Bandicoot really pops against the backdrop of this quintessentially mid-60s guesthouse. The owners pride themselves on offering the cheapest rooms in Hamilton, but the sprawling complex proves to be comfortable, fun and the best value in town.

    After all, does the Ritz-Carlton down the road have a Big Thing to admire whilst you’re waiting to check in?

    For those unfamiliar with the most widespread of Australia’s endemic peramelemorphias, a bandicoot is basically an adorable rat with a pointy nose and a giant set of hind legs that are just made for jumping. The males also possess the most bizarre appendages in the animal kingdom – but, mercifully, that hasn’t been reproduced here.

    Despite their chubby little cheeks and inquisitive personalities, bandicoots are anything but the rockstars of the Australian wildlife community. Budding Bigthusiasts are far more likely to find massive kangaroos, koalas and Tassie Devils as they traipse around this wide, brown landicoot. Thankfully the good people of the Southern Grampians have bandied together to rectify that situation!

    Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Bandicoot

    It wasn’t love at first sight between my alien companion Gordon and The Big Bandicoot, however. Seeing someone just as charming and furry as himself, Gordon threw a tantrum, returned the car and refused to come back out.

    “He’s not that big anyway,” the big baby sulked. “I’d argue that he’s not even a Big Thing at all.”
    “He’s several thousand times the mass of a regular bandicoot, Gordon,” I countered.
    “That’s still not very big.”
    “Well, the parmigianas at the motel’s adjoining restaurant are very big indeed.” I handed my friend a laminated menu. In time, he accepted it. “But I suppose you’re not hungry anyway.”

    The little alien peered out the window, surveying the Big Bandicoot, who shone handsomely in the dying twilight. Gordon nodded his head and gave me a small smile. “I guess I can put my preconceptions to the side in the name of breaded chicken and an accompanying salad.”

    Taking Gordon by the hand, we took our places in the well-appointed restaurant. I opted for the vegetable lasagne whilst Gordon, ever the picky eater, went for the Chef’s Special Parma, topped with hot salami, bacon, ham and pineapple.

    “I’m sorry for my outburst earlier,” Gordon said whilst mopping up some melted cheese with an extra-thick steakhouse-style chip. “My ex-wife’s been seeing a bilby, and I allowed that to not only prejudice my feelings towards The Big Bandicoot, but to impact on your enjoyment of the occasion.”

    In the early hours of the morning, as the crescent moon dipped below the eucalypts, I peeked out the window of our air conditioned twin suite to see Gordon warmly embracing The Big Bandicoot, and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

    The locals say that a decadent smear of parmigiana sauce remains on him to this day.

  • The Big Emus, Strathfieldsaye, VIC

    The Big Emus, Strathfieldsaye, Victoria, Australia

    Let me tell you of an interview with The Real Big Emu
    He’s one of the most gorgeous Big Things, but the poor old fella ain’t got no wings
    Aren’t you jealous of The Big Wedge-Tailed Eagle? – dom ba da little da da da

    “While the eagle’s design is very sound, I keep my two feet firmly on the ground
    I can’t fly, but I’m telling you, I can run the pants off Kat the Kangaroo”.

    Doo dee ba doo doo doo, boo da Ugg Boot doo doo doo
    He can’t fly, but I’m telling you, he can run the pants off The Tassie Devil, too

    Well he was the model for the fifty cents – oom ba da little da da da
    Even though Stanley might’ve made more sense – oom ba da little da da da
    “If you take a look, it’ll prove to you, I ran the pants off Matilda the Kangaroo“

    Doo dee ba doo doo doo, boo da Bigfoot doo doo
    Take a look it’ll prove to you, he can run the pants off The Big Koala, too

    You’re a bigger nerd than The Big Bowerbird – Oom ba da little da da da
    And you’re not as pleasant as Bruno the Pheasant – Oom ba da little da da da
    “You silly galah, I’m better by far, than The Big Honeyeater or that chook that sells cars;
    They squeak and squawk and try to talk, I have more in common with those really big forks”
    Ba da da doo dee ba doo doo doo…Boo da da doot doo doo doo
    He can’t fly but I’m telling you, he’s almost as large as The Big Shoe

    Well the last time I saw The Real Big Emu – Oom ba da little da da da
    He was in Imagine Estate with a female he knew – Oom ba da little da da da
    As he swaggered past I heard him say, “She can’t fly, but I’m telling you
    She could run the pants off The Big Poo”

    Ba da da doo dee ba doo doo doo doo dee ba doo doo doo… The Big Strawberry’s in Koonoomoo!
    She’s can’t fly but I’m telling you, she can run the pants off Katey Seagull, too

    Well there is a moral to this ditty – Oom ba da little da da da
    Chickaletta can’t sing even though she’s pretty – Oom ba da little da da da
    Pelican Pete can swim, but he can’t sing, nor can The Pigeon on the wing
    Emu can’t fly, but I’m telling you, he can run the pants off The Big Moo-Moo

    Well the kookaburra laughed and said “It’s true, oom ba da little da da da,
    Ha Ha Ha Humpty Doo, He can dance the pants off Chinute Chinute, too!”

    Thanks to Aussie rock icon – and self-confessed Big Thing tragic – John Williamson, and his legendary ditty Old Man Emu for the inspiration. Can’t wait to catch up again soon, John!

  • The Big Cherries, Pages Flat, SA

    The Big Cherries, pages Flat, South Australia

    For a cherryfic experience that’ll really cherry you up, head out to Pages Flat to see the cherrybly handsome Big Cherries. Plump, sweet and oh-so-juicy, these are two of the most cherrysmatic Bigs you’ll ever meet – and I’m not just being cherrytable when I say that.

    The Big Cherries sit atop a rustic wagon in front of Fleurieu Cherries, which is just 45 minutes from the centre of Adelaide (although it might take a bit longer if you travel by horse and cherryot). You should cherrysh the opportunity to fully explore this very incherryesting facility.

    There’s a shop, reception area, and the encherryanting opportunity to pluck your own farm-fresh fruit. Concherry to popular belief, it’s not a cherrybly expensive activity; at $17 a kilo it’s perfect for those with budgetcherry concerns

    Don’t cherry your head in the sand, because you might not get a second bite of the cherry!

    Although, if this has piqued your cherryosity, you might want to visit other Big Cherries. There’s a lovely bunch in Young, and the legendcherry sunglasses-wearing Cherry in Wyuna. With so many options, you might have to cherry-pick which ones you want to see – although I’m a cherryleader for all of them!

    You got the way to move me, Cherries
    You got the way to groove me

    Sadly, whilst The Big Cherries remained on their wagon during our visit, Gordon well and truly fell off his. After an extraordicherry afternoon spent exploring the sprawling meadows of the Fleurieu Peninsula, the little alien stumbled upon a wedding between two lovely chaps, Brett and Nyoman, where he overindulged on a bottle of the seasonally-available cherry Moscato.

    Gordon’s drunken shenanigans did little to endear him to the congregation, which included pop singer Eagle-Eye Cherry, screenwriter Cherry Chevapravatdumrong and rugby league heartthrob Daly Cherry-Evans.

    The surviving members of Warrant were so appalled that they were barely able to make it through a rousing rendition of their seminal 1989 hit Cherry Pie.

    After a momencherry lapse of reason in which he passed inappropriate commencherry about the grooms’ wardrobe choices and started a fight with a flower girl, Gordon was, mercifully, escorted from the premises by a couple of burly farmhands.

    He was cherry embarrassed by his behaviour the next day!

  • The Ponderer, Canillo, Andorra

    The Ponderer, Canillo, Andorra

    If you’ve been pondering a visit to the picturesque European microstate of Andorra, don’t put it off for another second. For there, high in the Pyranees mountains, rests the handsome and mysterious Ponderer, forever gazing out over the verdant valleys of this remote oasis.

    Mirador Roc del Quer is a tranquil viewpoint that sits hundreds of metres above the charming village of Canillo, and it’s here that The Ponderer can be found. A surveillance platform – which is surely one of mankind’s finest architectural triumphs – extends an awe-inspiring 12 metres from terra firma, providing and experience that won’t simply take your breath away, but which will make you question everything you know about the world.

    To stand upon this belvedere, gazing down in slack-jawed wonder as life trickles by hundreds, if not thousands, of metres below, is to truly find the meaning of life. The panorama is constantly evolving, challenging the observer as it transforms from the verdant greens and yellows of summer, towards the flamboyant whites and purples of winter. To share such a soul-defining moment with The Ponderer shall fill your heart to the point of bursting.

    The road to the summit, which meanders through captivating farms and traverses sheer mountain drops, is certainly daunting. Getting there, however, is not. Comfortable buses travel from the town to the top, and the cheery drivers are a highlight of any journey (hola, Luis!). A short walk up the hill is required after disembarking, with a stylish vendor selling refreshments in preparation for the epic encounter to come.

    After that, all there is to do is strap in and prepare for the feeling of soaring, unencumbered by the stresses of modern life, eons above the valley floor.

    The Ponderer was created by Miguel Ángel González and arrived in 2016. His stoic, yet melancholy personality simultaneously comforts visitors in their spiritual journey through this landlocked principality, and confronts them to step out of their comfort zone.

    Sí, he really is Andorra-ble!

    Intermission: The Ponderer (to the tune of The Wanderer by Dion DiMucci)

    Oh well he’s the type of guy who will never make you frown
    High above Canillo, looking down upon the town
    After seeing him and kissing him you’ll never be the same
    This shirtless, bronzed Andorran hunk is known by just one name
    They call him The Ponderer, yeah The Ponderer
    He’s big and brown and brown and brown and brown and brown!

    The Ponder years

    Joining me on my playdate with The Ponderer was my Mexican half-sister – and self-confessed Big Thing tragic – Bigella Fernandez Hernandez. Our moment of quiet reflection atop the mountain was, sadly, shattered by the arrival of a vulgar gang of lower-class Spaniards who, hooting and hollering, wasted no time posing for risque selfies with the poor Ponderer.

    Hopped up on cheap sangria, one particularly pompous playboy placed an ornate Flamenco cap upon The Ponderer’s proud head. Then, in a moment of madness, he reached betwixt the bars of the fence to snatch several coins that had been left as tribute to this God of the mountains.

    “Yo, chico, I need this dinero more than he does,” the thug smirked, slipping the change into his oversized shorts as his padres chuckled. “After all, holmes, this gringo isn’t worth the cinco Euros. Viva la raza!”

    I’ve had nary a violent urge since converting to Buddhism 15 years ago, but had to be held back by Bigella after witnessing this sicko robbing this most elegant and gregarious of Bigs.

    After taking a few minutes to return to my ‘happy place’, as my bhikku had directed me, I pointed the lout out to a group of hotblooded Catalan youths who sat, mouths agape, as I ran through his litany of misdemeanours. Once I’d finished, they put down their empanadas, tore off their shirts, and prepared for battle.

    “Stealing from Andorra’s notoriously underfunded National Parks is one thing,” the leader barked, “but dishonouring the work of Miguel Ángel González is simply going too far. We must defend the honour of Andorra!”

    Not wanting our serene afternoon spoiled, Bigella and I turned our backs to the impending violence. As we settled in at the cafe for a mocaccino and a sumptuous serving of tocino de cielo, the screams from below left us in no doubt that the thief’s debts had been repaid in full.

    It might take a long time to climb up the mountain to visit The Ponderer, but it only takes a few seconds to get back down – teehee!

  • Signalling Change, Mount Gambier, SA

    Signalling Change, Mount Gambier, South Australia

    Howdy pardner, spare a dollar for a po’ ol’ down-on-his-luck cowboy? This is all what’s left of your ruggedly masculine buckaroo, Biggie the Kid. Strap yo’sef in, this tale’s just as sad as the day is long. Some time back I lassoed myself a steam engine and rode the rails on into Mount Gambier, lookin’ for cheap moonshine an’ cheaper womenfolk.

    Oh, an’ Big Things – ain’t nothin’ that warms the cockles of this ol’ gunslinger’s heart quite like an anatomically-correct representation of two praying mantids. Yee-haw!

    By the time I’d kissed all the moonshine and drunk all the womenfolk, the dadgum train line had been tore up. I was stranded in Mount Gambier with no way of getting home! Sure, there’s Uber, but with my 3.4-star rating and penchant for spitting tobacco all over the back seat, there was little chance of getting a ride.

    Setting up camp in the town’s fancy-pants new Railway Lands park, broke an’ tired an’ down to my last pint of root beer, I prayed to the skies for a miracle. The Lord must’ve took pity on me, ‘cos paint me pink an’ call me a buffalo if I didn’t spot the largest set of railway signals in the whole wide world!

    Of course I’m more comfortable punchin’ cows and swaggerin’ around in crotchless chaps than I am driving trains, so I have no idea how much bigger they was than a regular set of train signals. But shoot, they looked mighty fine to me!

    Known as Signalling Change to the townsfolk, this remarkable piece was created by local artists Trevor Wren and Danica Gacesa McLean, who installed it on the grounds of the old train station. That day certainly signalled change for good ol’ Biggie the Kid…. in the worst darn-tootin’ way possible!

    The Signals They Are A-Changin’

    Exploring the substantial signals, with their playfully-painted portions and delightful-yet-functional seating options, the words of the artists’ flowed through this cowpoke’s brain like magic. Alright, maybe I was just ‘membering somethin’ I read online, but all that matters is that I’m going to share those quotes with y’all.

    “This piece celebrates Mount Gambier’s rich railway history by referencing railway signals, crossing barriers and indicator lights,” the dynamic duo explained shortly before the unveiling in 2016. “Its larger-than-life scale invites visitors, the local community and especially children to explore and investigate railway visual communication through shape, colour and light.”

    That’s exactly what I was going to say, pardners!

    “Signalling Change will make a prominent statement both night and day, and be highly visible from a distance through its physical height and bold colour,” the artists continued. “The piece is child-friendly and offers tunnel-like apertures through which children can safely crawl and play.”

    The only person who wasn’t provided with a safe space, however, was this handsome cowboy.

    Biggie the Kid vs Literal Kids

    I was posing for some super-cute – yet still really macho – photos, when a long, scary shadow fell upon me. Looking up, I spotted a posse of the meanest-lookin’ cattle rustlers I ever did see. There musta been half-a-dozen of ’em, each seven-foot-tall with rippling muscles and full beards.

    Alright, alright, so maybe they was pre-teens on scooters, but they still looked really tough. The children started by hurling abuse about my effeminate sunglasses and ostentatious short-shorts, and progressed to hurling tin cans and dog poo-poo at me.

    One particularly cruel street urchin, egged on by his chums, took my ornate wild western-inspired headdress and, in an act of insanity, trampled it.

    It’s a sad world when a grown man can’t swagger flamboyantly through a children’s park in a pair of Daisy Dukes, thrusting rhythmically for the camera whilst twirling around a set of giant railway signals, without being the subject of hatespeech from a bunch of ruffians. Bigs not bigotry, as I like to say.

    The bullies, who were joined by a smattering of parents and pensioners who really should’ve known better, only allowed me to leave after I hopped on one foot whilst singing I’m a Little Teapot through a waterfall of tears.

    It was not my finest hour.

    If only those no-goodniks put their energy into researching and admiring Big Things rather than petty street crime, the world would be a better place. Yee-haw!

  • The Big Olive, Tailem Bend, SA

    The Big Olive, Tailem Bend, South Australia

    Death threats, fraud and deplorable hygiene standards – The Big Olive is at the centre of the most bizarre and shocking scandal in Australian history, and has become the most controversial roadside attraction on the planet.

    Built on love and good intentions, the decadently-crafted Big Olive has been dragged through the tabloid media, casting a dark shadow across the rugged South Australian landscape.

    The delicious duo stand silent, locked behind a barbed-wire fence, as beautiful as they are shameful. What should serve as a beautiful, bulbous celebration of Tailem Bend’s blossoming olive industry, instead divides and humiliates the locals.

    Pour some wine, bring out the cheese board, and strap yourself in as we explore the dramatic rise and tragic fall of The Big Olive.

    Lie-renzo’s Oil

    It all started so innocently. The Big Olive (which technically should be called The Big Olives, but that’s a debate for another day) was crafted by the oliving legends at The Newell Group, and erected on April 15, 2005. The two olives – one a welcoming green, the other a mysterious, suave graphite – sent shockwaves through the Big Thing community with their eight-metre height and weight of more than a tonne.

    They were conceived to draw attention to a world-class olive oil processing plant that promised to transform the region. There was a sense of hope in the crisp, country air as hundreds of well-wishers descended upon Tailem Bend for the Olives’ unveiling.

    With a bouncy castle and plates of stuffed olives with little skewers poked through them, it was a day nobody would ever forget. Rumours abounded that Jamie Olive-er would be present to whip up a selection of mouthwatering antipasti.

    Life was good. Little did the locals know, however, that a nightmare were just around the corner.

    For not everything was as delicious as it seemed at the Big Olive factory. Shady business deals, grotesque working conditions and substandard products were the oil on which the company ran. And then, in early-2012, the little town of Tailem Bend found its way onto every television in the nation.

    Oils ain’t oils

    Hard-boiled Today Tonight reporter Frank Pangallo broke the outrageous story about what was really going on at The Big Olive, and the country gasped as one. The oil being produced there was, upon testing, not olive oil all. It was of such poor quality as to be unfit for human consumption and should only have been used as lamp fuel.

    Expired bottles of oil were illegally relabelled, meaning they’d hit the shelves three or four years after their use-by-date. Employees who questioned these practices were berated, belittled, and bullied.

    The depths of the depravity were alarming. It was common for production workers, possibly crazed from hunger due to long work hours, to slurp oil straight from a bottle, pop the cap back on and then send it off to the customer. As a result, thousands of Australians may have unwittingly drizzled saliva upon their bruschetta.

    Pangallo, a fearless scribe who has built a career on standing up for the little guy, was the target of brutal death threats. But he wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t back down. The story caused widespread outrage and ushered in a new era of stringent regulation in the notoriously crime-riddled olive oil industry.

    For a company that marketed their products as ‘Australia’s health gift to the world’, the fallout was terminal. The Big Olive Company was fined an incredible $13,000 and the factory, which had promised so much, was shuttered forever. This corruption, this misery, happened under the happy visage of The Big Olive.

    It all seemed like such a waste.

    Olive and let die

    A visit to The Big Olive is a conflicting and, at times, harrowing experience. The monument is well maintained, easy to find, and every bit as mesmerising as the day it was first shown to an awestruck population.

    The olives are massive, delightfully shiny, and incredibly lifelike. I particularly enjoyed the addition of a rustic, undulated stem, which perfectly frames the olives against the dusty backdrop whilst emphasising their immense size.

    Their Rococo-inspired lines and simple, almost austere carapace make them perfect for a fun photo. Like any plump, fresh olive, they compliment, rather than overwhelm, the experience.

    But the fact that they’re locked behind a fence, amidst an incomplete and windswept industrial complex, tosses these olives into a mediterranean salad of misery. Knowing what went on in that factory, the betrayal and the abuse, makes it difficult to truly enjoy The Big Olive in all its majesty.

    The factory tours are long gone, as are the oil tastings and cooking classes that once made it a highlight of any trip through South Australia. Sure, it’s possible to lean against the fence, guzzling olive oil from a bottle, but it’s just not the same.

    Hopefully one day the facility can be taken over, revamped, and re-opened. It’s time for The Big Olive to once again stand proud alongside The Big Pelican and Map the Miner as an Aussie icon. The Big Olive is a wonderful attraction and deserves to be seen and enjoyed in all its sumptuous glory.

    I guess you could say olive them so much it hurts!

  • Scotty the Big Scotsman, Adelaide, SA

    Scotty the Big Scotsman, Medindie, Adelaide, South Australia

    What’s beneath a Scotsman’s kilt? Head to Scotty’s Motel, in the northern Adelaide suburb of Medindie, to find out. There’ll you’ll encounter the five-metre-tall Big Scotsman, who makes up for his lack of trousers by having a truly remarkable story to tell.

    Scotty, as he’s known to his clan of admirers, is a beloved citizen of the city and a must-see tourist attraction. Brimming with old-world charm and quirky effervescence, he’s sure to melt your heart. Sure, he can be tricky to take a snap with due to the hordes of cars that crawl past day and night, but he’s worth it. Oh, is Scotty worth it!

    Despite scarcely looking a day over 21, this handsome highlander holds a tenuous claim to being the very oldest of the Bigs. Scotty first blew his bagpipes in 1963, the same year as Ploddy the Dinosaur was revealed to a curious public and 12 months before the owners of The Big Banana jumped on the Big Thing bandwagon.

    Who came first, the Scotsman or the Diplodocus? It’s a question that’s caused heated debate between South Australians and New South Welshpeople for generations. Plod-Plod is a few months older, but don’t tell fans of this haggis-fuelled heartthrob – they’ll tartan feather me!

    Now, join me in a journey back in time, to discover the legacy of this trailblazing Big. Oh, and I might be kilty of peeking betwixt Scotty’s muscular legs, but I swear it was only for research purposes – teehee!

    The Scotland Down Under

    Adelaide was a very different place back in the early-60s. Long before emerging as a cosmopolitan oasis with a thriving arts scene, there wasn’t a single overside roadside attraction to be found. It was a dark time, an uncouth time, but the winds of change were beginning to blow.

    When budding entrepreneur Tommy Meiken was designing his minimalist motel on the fringe of the CBD, he wanted something BIG to make it stand out from the pack. The answer, after a Scotch-fuelled brainstorming session, was obvious – a Scotsman of epic proportions who would lurk atop the front door, beckoning weary travellers inside.

    Come for the giant European gentleman with the wispy moustache, stay for the moderately comfortable beds and à la carte breakfast, you know how it works.

    After an exhaustive interview process, Paul Kelly – no, not the popstar! – was chosen for the job. Despite being a successful artist, a manufacturing a monstrous Scotsman was a sporran concept to Paul. Modelling the sculpture on a particularly robust chum, he built Scotty in three pieces over the course of several very special months.

    “People thought I was mad and I thought, ‘Oh, no, bugger it all. I’ll do it’,” chuckled Paul, who is obviously a Glasgow-half-full kinda guy. “I took up the challenge and it worked.”

    The results were astonishing. Simple one-bedroom rooms, priced at hundreds of dollars per night, were booked out months in advance. South Australia’s glitterati mingled with international celebrities – including that other famous Scotsman, Sean Connery – by the swimming pool. The motel had been transformed into a veritable Garden of Edinburgh.

    Soon Adelaide would welcome The Big Pigeon and The Big Hills Hoist, cementing her place at the apex of world culture.

    And then darkness descended upon this part of the world.

    Nightmare in Adelaide

    Thursday, January 20, 2022, is a day that that no South Australian will ever forget. Daybreak painted the summer sky an intoxicating tapestry of pinks and purples, but also illuminated a scene so ghastly, so vile, that it caused grown men to fall to their knees in a cascade of tears.

    Bloodthirsty thugs, intent on destroying all that’s good and pure in the world, had attached a set of googly eyes to Scotty’s face. The city, and its most beloved resident, had lost their innocence.

    Scotty’s Motel manager Greg Hobson witnessed a gang of four men and one woman using a cherry picker under cover of darkness to commit the hate crime. Understandably, he was too terrified to approach the goons.

    “What started as a light-hearted prank has turned slightly more serious as poor old Scotty has sustained some damage,” Greg wept. “His sporran appears to be quite loose and there appears to be some damage to the side panels.”

    The proud Scotsman, who had endured so much, had suffered a near-fatal 1.5-metre tear down his left leg. There was even talk, in hushed tones, of an amputation.

    “He’s sustained a lot of pranks over the years, but this is probably the most damaging one we’ve had so far,” Greg continued. “He’s such an icon. It’s going to be quite upsetting to a lot of people that he’s been hurt in the process.”

    The lunatics responsible were later revealed to be a couple of useless shock jocks named Liam and Ben, who immediately went into hiding.

    In times of yore, it was common for the adversaries of highlanders to be hung, drawn and quartered for their misdeeds. That’s a fate too good for the punks responsible, but don’t worry. The locals have a way of dealing with such matters 😉

    Scotty doesn’t know, but Scotty has to go

    Scotty’s endured more than any Big ever should, but he may succumb to the inevitable march of progress and our unquenchable thirst for overpriced inner-city tenements. The hotel is likely to be bulldozed, so Scotty’s looking for a new home.

    The motel’s owner, Yanka Shopov, is determined to do all she can to keep this little slice of Australiana alive.

    “People love it,” Yanka told a perplexed reporter from the BBC. “Years ago I remember little kids used to cry if we were booked out and they wanted to sleep under the Scotsman. But the thing is he is very expensive. He is exposed to the weather day and night and it costs $7,000 to $9,000 to have him painted. It’s not cheap but he draws attention to the business here.”

    Ms Shapov, a kind-hearted woman and one of the most gregarious hosts one could ever wish to meet, has intimated that she’s willing to donate Scotty to the History Trust of South Australia should he be forced from his longtime home.

    They can take our lives, but they will never take our BIG SCOTSMAAAAAAAAAAAAN!

  • Bertha the Bunyip, Murray Bridge, SA

    Bertha the Bunyip, Murray Bridge, South Australia

    Those who wade unwarily into the windswept waters beneath Murray Bridge risk being ravaged by something truly frightening. Frighteningly fantastic, that is, because Bertha the Bunyip is both an ancient indigenous spirit guardian who devours those foolish enough to take a dip in the Murray River, and a proud, brave trans woman.

    Meanwhile, I have a doozie of a time keeping up with two Netflix shows at the same time – teehee!

    Assigned male at birth, this mesmerising monster was known as Bert when she first appeared in 1972. She was lovingly created by local chap Dennis Newell as the major attraction for the Weerama Festival, which was held on the Australia Day long weekend each year. Lamingtons, party pies and a rendezvous with slimy water imp, does it get any better?

    With $2250 from the council and $500 from the local Jaycees club, Dennis spent months constructing the adorable abomination in his shed. Designed to emerge from a pool of water and roar ferociously at anyone silly enough to peek inside his cage, Bert was certainly unique amongst the Bigs.

    “Everyone thought he was a little bit crazy,” Dennis’ wife Marlene told a captivated reporter. “Dennis recalls much controversy emanating, with heaps of media comment and ratepayer meetings.”

    Despite his ghoulish appearance, Bert was an immediate hit. Curious onlookers lined up to drop 20c into Bert’s bucket to watch him squeal. Dozens – perhaps hundreds – fainted during the outrageous encounter, but thousands of dollars were raised for the community.

    So successful was the attraction that Dennis made a tidy profit selling Bert t-shirts, coffee mugs and school lunchboxes, and even hatched grandiose plans for a bunyip-themed board game. Bert-a-mania was gripping the nation but, deep inside, the star of the show was living a bunyip-sized lie.

    Bert or Bertha?

    The good people of Murray Bridge needed to adjust to living alongside a hideously deformed creature of superhuman size and strength, but Bert was dealing with something even more ghastly – gender dysphoria.

    On December 5, 1981, the world was shocked, yet delighted, when Bert introduced her lovechild, Graham. The smaller, yet equally gruesome bunyip caused a new wave of Bigthusiasts to flood into this vibrant rural community.

    But a bombshell would soon be dropped upon an unsuspecting public. Bert, famous for brash masculinity and tough guy charm, now identified as a woman. And so she revealed her true self, Bertha, a curvaceous and feminine swamp monster who delighted and frightened in equal measure.

    Her bravery inspired many in Murray Bridge to bare their own sexualities, with several burly tradies and members of the local Aussie Rules team also coming out as trans. It was an age of enlightenment in the region, and it was all thanks to an animatronic swamp creature.

    Being an icon of pride did not, however, vaccinate Bertha from the twin terrors of bigotry and stupidity. In 2000 a group of transphobic alt-right hatemongers broke into her cage and, in an act of domestic terrorism, brutally bashed Bertha and kidnapped poor Graham. The beautiful rainbow child, a symbol of hope to all gender-diverse Australians, was never seen again.

    Scarred beyond recognition, Bertha required a complete reconstruction. She emerged some time later bigger and more beautiful than ever, with her trademark ruby lips and provocative expression luring in lovers from all walks of life.

    The members of the anti-trans death squad were, fittingly, dragged to the icy depths of the Murray River, their bodies never recovered. Which brings us to the violent, bloody, vicious legend of the Mulyawonk.

    Sun’s out, the Bun’s out!

    To truly appreciate Bertha’s legacy as the grand poobah of Murray Bridge’s flourishing LGBTQIA+ scene, we must go back thousands of years, to the Dreamtime. Pomberuk, as the area was known to the local Ngarrindjeri people, was a popular meeting place for hunting and fishing and all those those icky things that a lady of leisure such as myself wouldn’t dream of doing.

    Sadly, this little slice of paradise was destroyed by some Selfish Simon who came along and took all the fish from the river, leaving none for the others. I feel their pain – the same thing happened at West Gosford Sizzler back in my youth, when a very young Guy Sebastian would scoff all the salmon fajitas, leaving crumbs for the rest of us.

    Thankfully the elders, tired of this cretin’s shenanigans, transformed this Greedy Gus into a mulyawonk – a sort of half-fish, half-man detestation. Geez, imagine the impact on the Australian music scene if the security guards at Sizzler had been able to do that to Guy Sebastian!

    Whilst I am Australia’s most beloved cultural historian, I’ll hand it over to Rita and Michael Lindsay to tell the rest of this horrendous morality tale, through the eternal words of The Mulyawonk Song.

    We know the Mulyawonk, lives in the caves and rivers
    He watches and he waits for the ones that he can take
    Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways
    Our elders sang

    Take only what you need, for you and your family
    Don't go swimming alone, or fishing on your own
    Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways
    Our elders sang

    Mulyawonk is still there, you should look everywhere
    Mulyawonk makes the sound, in deep water he is found
    Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways
    Our elders sang

    Murray’s Darling

    A visit to this verdant township is always a delight, so when I was summoned by Gerald Wang, president of the Murray Bridge Commerce and Culture Advancement Society and proud trans man, I wasted no time heading there. Huddled outside a well-regarded coffee shop for a skinny cap and a vanilla slice, Gerald clasped my hands within his and leant in close.

    “Bigs, mate, the town needs your help,” he spluttered, a thin film of froth quivering on his top lip.

    “Plenty of towns need my help, Gerald,” I responded, blowing the froth off my beverage. “Be specific.”

    “It’s Bertha, mate, she’s stopped working,” the non-binary businessperson blabbered. “Since being damaged in the floods she just lays there in the water! Our booming tourism industry’s ground to a halt. Without the threat of being eaten by a robotic goblin, fish thieves are running rampant. And with the region’s only source of entertainment busted, our teenagers are being lured away by the bright lights of Adelaide. We’re gonna lose the town, Bigs!”

    “Not on my watch, Gerald,” I reassured him, before guzzling the remains of my scalding hot drink and flouncing off to put on my scariest pink unicorn bonnet. Taking up residence in front of Bertha’s cage, I snarled and slashed at anyone imprudent enough to wander near. Not surprisingly, entranced sightseers were soon lined up all the way to Tailem Bend.

    Unfortunately I was a little too scary, causing several pensioners to have heart attacks after chasing them through the streets of Murray Bridge.

    “No big deal,” shrugged Gerald. “We’ll just toss their bodies into the river and say the mulyawonk did it!”

  • Adam (and Eve), New York, New York

    Adam sculpture, Columbus Circle, New York, United States of America

    New Yorkers, I’m sad to say, are a pack of perverts. Adam here simply wants to live a peaceful, naturist lifestyle amidst the hustle and bustle of The Shops at Columbus Circle. With his robust physique and cheerful disposition, even his lack of genitallic girth can’t wipe the optimistic smile from his dial.

    But it seems the locals can’t stop molesting him.

    Adam, 15 feet of brawn and bravado, was created by the irrepressible Fernando Botero in 1990 and took up residence in The Big Apple in the early 2000s. He’s paired with the equally statuesque Eve but, ew, who would want to look at a gigantic naked woman? Especially one as bosomy as Eve.

    Since Adam first came, so many sickos have rubbed, clutched and stroked his doodle that the bronze paint has been stripped away, leaving a shiny gold penis in its place.

    Honestly, New Yorkers, act your age and not your shoe size!

    Making things worse is the fact the Center’s management do nothing to stop this dispoliation of such a congenial Big. In fact, they encourage this foul behaviour, claiming that groping poor Adam might bring good luck.

    I can assure you that anyone I catch giving Adam an unwanted hand shandy won’t be blessed with any good luck at all. They’ll find themselves sleeping with the fishes in the Hudson River, wearing a fancy new set of concrete slippers – so keep your hands to yourself.

    The Man with the Golden Gun

    My threats of ultraviolence towards those who interfere with Adam’s willy proving futile, I sought the advice of beloved New York thespian Paul Reubens, who I befriended whilst bussing tables together at the Dairy Queen in Yonkers back in the early-80s.

    Nobody back then could’ve guessed that we would each reach the apex of our chosen careers – Paul as a quirky character actor and I as the world’s foremost expert on Big Things and roadside attractions.

    Paul’s ballooning ego in the wake of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure had driven a wedge between us, of course, but we’d since rekindled our friendship during a bawdry soiree thrown by our mutual friend – and fellow Dairy Queen alumnus – Bronson Pinchot.

    Oh, look at me, dropping names quicker than an upper-eastside lawyer drops her standards after her second cosmopolitan!

    Paul had been ordered by a court of law to ‘keep his hand off it’ after a moment of madness in a movie theatre several years earlier, so I felt he was the man for the hand job.

    Paul’s words, however, touched me in the most private parts of my soul.

    “Bigs,” Paul said in his sweetly sanguine cadence, as we wandered down Fifth Avenue, munching on freshly-baked pretzels. “You can’t fight nature. Trying to stop the people of New York from abusing Adam’s appendage is as futile as asking the East River to stop flowing.”

    “Wise words from a wise man. But surely there’s something we can do? Soon that remarkable man’s pee-pee shall be worn away to a nub. A nub!”

    “Mauling Adam’s member is the one small sliver of hope and joy in these people’s lives. Without that, who knows what may transpire? Adam’s reproductive organs are, indeed, the thin gold line between tranquility and anarchy in this city.”

    “You’re right, as always,” I squelched, biting into the pretzel’s piping hot flesh. “The very fate of New York rests betwixt Adam’s zaftig thighs.”

    Pee-wee’s BIG Adventure

    With the final, decadent inches of pretzel dangling precipitously from my gaping maw, I pushed my prejudices to one side and approached Botero’s husky masterpiece. The penis, resplendent in the fading afternoon light, beckoned me with its whimsy and candour.

    I gulped, not noticing the pretzel fall to the marbled floor, and reached out for the famous phallus. Time stopped as I touched it for the first time. The cold, yet supple metal warmed my very essence, and a sense of peace washed over me that I had been seeking my whole life.

    If touching a a blubbery bad boy’s golden gigglestick is dong, I don’t wanna be right!

    To poke Adam’s pecker is, in fact, to live. To waggle Adam’s weenie is, in truth, to love. I learnt more about myself in that single moment of casual groping than I had in a lifetime of electroconvulsive therapy and substance abuse.

    Taking me gently by the elbow, Paul flashed one of his trademark smiles. “I knew you would see the light,” he cooed. “Now, let me shout you to a movie to celebrate. There’s a cinema out at Uniondale that hasn’t banned me… yet.”

    “Are you paying for the choc tops?”

    “Of course, Bigs,” Paul smiled warmly. “Anything for you.”

    A word of warning…

    If you’re the sort of creepazoid who thinks you might be able to paint yourself bronze and stand next to Adam in the desperate hope that someone will accidentally fondle you instead, don’t bother.

    All you’ll get is some really unfortunate remarks from New York’s brutish schoolkids and a swift beating from some overly aggressive security guards.

    Trust me on that one.

  • Private Passage, New York

    Private Passage, New York, New York

    Ayy, I’m drinkin’ here! Grab a slice o’ pie and raise a zesty glass of cab sav as we toast Private Passage, a bottle of wine so massive it’s sure to arouse even the most grizzled New Yawker.

    I’m your sommelier, the irrepressible Bigs von Bubbles; effervescent Upper East Side socialite, lifelong substance abuser, and self-indulgent wine snob. But then you already knew that, ya putz!

    Private Passage is a truly bombastic vintage, carefully curated by Malcolm Cochran in the sun-dappled summer of 2005. Eminently approachable yet amply idiosyncratic across the tongue to demand introspective exploration, this most remarkable variety can only be experienced at the evergreen Hudson River Park.

    The regal, almost clandestine shape of the bottle is emphasised by its rhapsodic proportions – measuring 30 feet from classy cork to bulbous bottom. Womanly curves are, at once, both sensual and functional, luring in the unsuspecting with an irresistible siren call.

    Tapered edges and bold, zaftig angles create a sense of place and space, consummately connecting Private Passage to its Bohemian surroundings.

    “I was able to work closely with the landscape architects,” Malcolm Cochran explained, “to site the bottle smack in the middle of the granite esplanade and without visible support to suggest impermanence. That it might have washed up or could float downstream into the Atlantic. Passage is intended both on a literal and figurative level.”

    Or something like that. Hick!

    Malcolm in the Middle (of a lot of Big Things)

    For Monsieur Cochran, a proud Ohio man who has dedicated his life to fermenting oversized attractions, Private Passage presented an opportunity to return to the very womb of his cultural and artistic gestation.

    “When considering this commission I knew I would want to explore my personal relationship to the Hudson River Park site,” the vionary wined. “In 1955 my father had a Fulbright to teach English in Helsinki. We sailed from New York to Europe that summer (I was six years old) and returned the following year on the Maasdaam, a Holland-American liner.

    “The interviews for artists were held at the HRP Trust offices in Pier 40. I realized on entering the lobby that it was a former Holland-American Line terminal; I had disembarked in that building 45 years earlier.”

    You truly were destined to birth this exquisite design, my friend. Just as it’s destined that I shall guzzle three bottles of Cab Franc this evening and then crash my Prius into a hot dog vendor’s cart over by 45th and 3rd. Hick!

    You’re always on my wine

    Those adventurous enough to peak betwixt the Bottle’s stately portholes shall be treated to an opulent representation of an interior stateroom from the legendary ocean liner, the Queen Mary. Fashioned from sheet metal in a monochromatic colour scheme, it’s sure to leave you dripping with nostalgic wonder.

    “The cabin is outfitted for a single individual, and it contains no personal effects,” Malcolm pulpiteered. “I aimed to create the sense that the room was ready to be occupied, that the viewer could project her-or-himself into the space and imagine a solitary journey.”

    Fearless yet considered, vibrant and complex, this carafe de vino is a truly sumptuous expression of purity and balance. A decadent experience across the palate with fine, quasi-baroque tannins, Private Passage provides the perfect accompaniment to a debaucherous platter of ocean-fresh shrimp and a visit to the nearby Spot the Dog statue.

    With subtle hints of dark cherry, gooseberry and black olive, this most elegant of the Bigs boasts earthy nuances and a zesty bouquet of urine and hobo socks.

    Yes, there are other varieties of Big Wine Bottles, such as those found in less civilized regions of the world, such as the comparatively ghastly Pokolbin and Rutherglen in Australia. But honesty, as a member of New York’s cultural elite, I’d rather slurp water from a dog bowl than be seen with swill like that that.

    Whilst your common New Yorker, with his brash and braggadocious attitude, may bristle at the suggestion, I believe it’s time to distance this cultural hub from a nickname so boorish as The Big Apple. The Big Bottle of Full-Bodied Merlot Boasting Deep Purple Hues and Incandescent Memories of Nutmeg Complemented by Herbaceous Notes and Oaky Flavors, Quirky Textures and a Velveteen Finish sounds about right to me. Hick!

    A word of caution

    If a slightly overweight gentleman in a trench coat approaches you late at night and asks to see your private passage, don’t take him down to the docks for a historical tour of New York’s most unusual tourist attraction. That’s not what he’s after, and he’ll have little interest in an oversized wine bottle other than to use it as the backdrop for his sordid shenanigans.

    Call me sometime, Alejandro!

  • Dune Grass, Blackpool, England

    Dune Grass, Blackpool, England, United Kingdom

    Greetings from Blackpool, where holidaymakers come for the cabaret shows and omnipresent threat of street crime, and stay for the world’s largest kinetic sculptures. Known as Dune Grass, this quartet of superb seedpods are prominently positioned on the princely promenade. They measure an astonishing 35 metres from ravishing roots to gorgeous glass-fiber heads.

    They say a picture plants a thousand words and, as you can see, Dune Grass represents nature spectacularly reclaiming a slice of the English coastline. Since being installed in 2011, they’re all anyone’s been stalking about!

    These vine, upstanding members of the community, who truly are in a grass of their own, were designed by the talented nerds at FreeState Studio. They were tested in a wind tunnel to ensure they could withstand Blackpool’s notoriously inclement weather, and they’re obviously made of ferner stuff!

    The blades bend and sway in the gentle breeze, providing the perfect je ne sais quoi to a day by the seaside. Each is the image of the others, so if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen stem all. Nevertheless, I’m very frond of them!

    Cheer up, it’s not all dune and gloom

    Though their minimalist curves stand at the apex of of contemporary sleekness, Dune Grass splendidly compliments the 19th-century Blackpool Tower, which looms nearby. These structures, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy, elegantly frame Blackpool’s Victorian-era architecture. They turn laneways into waking dreams, and fish ‘n’ chip shops into bastions of infinite possibilities.

    Every teenage mother becomes a princess; every ruddy-faced factory worker in a knock-off England soccer shirt a handsome prince. Never before have four towering representations of marram grass so transformed an ailing Lancastrian resort town.

    Serving as bookends to the legendary Big Bird and Big Parrot, Dune Grass has helped cement Blackpool’s status as a sparkling oasis for any admirer of the Bigs.

    There’s something magical about climbing aboard a streetcar, incandescent in the inky night, and sailing past the grass. Ironically, I was doing just that when I bumped into my good friend, grizzled character actor Norman Reedus. We hugged; the bond formed between us on the set of Styrofoam Soul stronger than ever.

    The Stalking Dead

    “You know, Bigs,” the Hollywood heartthrob snarled in his trademark gutteral tone. “I came to Blackpool searching for a place to belong. Somewhere I could just fit in.”

    “Because your name is Norman Reedus, and this place has enormous reeds?”

    “Exactly, Bigs. You’re eminently aware that, like yourself, I’m a proponent of pithy wordplay. I couldn’t resist the bewitching opportunity to extend my dramatic range by posing as a sentient blade of grass, ensconced in the bosom of the of this legendary resort town.”

    “What better way to shed your tough-guy visage and expose your vulnerable underbelly, Norman.”

    Exhibiting the impeccable dramatic timing that has defined his career, Norman took a final drag of his cigar and then flicked the stub into the gutter.

    “Quite, Bigs. I’ve spent the past few months staring silently out at the Irish Sea, dressed in black, bobbing my head a little, doing all I can to become a part of Dune Grass. But, finally, as I was being abused by a group of particularly unappealing chavs, I came to a realisation.”

    “And what was that, Norman?”

    “I need to stop trying to be the fifth member of Dune Grass,” he muttered, wiping a solitary tear from his craggy cheek, “and be the first Norman Reedus.”

    Cradling Norman in my arms, I stroked his luxurious locks as he finally allowed himself to unleash decades of pent-up frustration, and was reduced to a blubbering mess.

    I guess the grass isn’t always greener on the other side!