Visiting teams must love playing against the mighty Miriam Vale Magpies – because it gives them a chance to check out Owe’e, an enormous maggie who guards their home ground of Gary Larson Oval.
Of course, it must be hard for the players to focus on the ball when there’s a 170cm-tall bird statue watching their every move!
He’s now a beloved member of the local rugby league community, but Owe’e originally represented another footy team. The legends from Natureworks built the bird statue in 1979 as the mascot for Brisbane’s Southern Suburbs Magpies, with his striking posed based on the team’s iconic logo.
From here, things get a bit murky, but the magpie apparently spent time perched atop Souths’ president Tony Testa’s pharmacy in Acacia Ridge. Come for the big ol’ black-‘n’-white bird on the roof, stay for the fantastic deals on Gaviscon!
Despite its popularity with those passing by the chemist, the magpie disappeared in the late ’80s. But where did he go after that? Reach out to me if you know!
But a bird this big couldn’t stay hidden for long. The magnificent magpie fluttered north in 2012, destined to become the centrepiece of Miriam Vale’s brand-spankin’-new $300,000 sport complex.
Dave Halloran restored the statue, added the intricate metal nest, and popped him on the roof of the club house.
“It will stand as a guide and an inspiration which will shine brightly for the future endeavours of both junior and senior sports people in the Miriam Vale Shire and its surrounds for many years to come,” Dave cheered.
So next time you’re travelling through Miriam Vale, stop by for a footy game, a sausage sanga and a photo with a Big Thing. What could be better than that?
He’s my Big Magpie Up on the rooftop, such a sweet surprise Looks so good, make a grown man cry Owe’e the Big Magpie!
Outside game days, the oval is very quiet, allowing visitors to admire Owe’e without other tourists swooping in.
Sadly, it’s not possible to climb onto the roof to get up close and personal with the magpie. Admiring him from the ground is lovely, but it’s hard to fully appreciate his size from down there.
Miriam Vale’s Big Crab also lives on the roof of the local servo, so maybe that’s just how they do things around there?
Bigella, Little Peter Poppins and myself found ourselves admiring Owe’e on a balmy spring morning.
“Wearing a 1986 Canberra Raiders football tunic at Gary Larson Oval was a bold move, Bigs,” squeaked Bigella. “Gary was a member of the North Sydney Bears team that was humbled 22-9 by the Raiders in the preliminary final of the 1994 Winfield Cup. Gary, and the good people of Miriam Vale, were devastated.” “Yeah, Bigs, you’re flying a little close to the sun,” Peter piped up. “You’ll be lucky if the local footy players don’t run you out of town. They worship the ground Gary walks on.”
There was, however, a method to my madness.
“Owe’e represented the Souths Magpies during the halcyon days of the early-80s, when they counted amongst their ranks Gary Belcher and ‘Big’ Mal Meninga,” I lectured. “Those two gentlemen went on to represent the Green Machine with aplomb – so, uh, I’m just wearing the jersey as a sign of respect to The Big Magpie.”
“I get it, Bigs,” yearned Bigella, “but there’s no point poking the bear.” “Or, in this case, messing with the Maggies,” added Peter.
“You’re both right – let’s flap our wings and get out of here!” I agreed, bustling them into the Bigsmobile. “Next stop, Sarina. There’s a giant cane toad there – hand me my NSW Blues jersey!”
Goin’ down to Goomeri? Then you’ve gotta see The Giant Greenstone Pumpkin! The 550kg vegetable dominates the town’s main street and, as you can see, is drop dead gourd-geous!
The Goomeri Goliath sits atop a vibrant mosaic plinth in Market Square, and makes for a fantastic photo op. Look how happy the Bardot Bunch are in these photos, we’re grinning like a bunch of jack-o’-lanterns!
Whilst The Big Pumpkin has become a Queensland icon, its story starts in Indonesia of all places. An adventurous trader – his name long since lost to the sands of time – was travelling through the jungles of Sumatra when he came across the intricately-carved stone pumpkin in a dusty corner of a timeworn bazaar.
With dollar signs dancing in his eyes, the trader purchased the pumpkin and shipped it off to Brisbane, but was unable to find a buyer.
Come on, Queenslanders, who wouldn’t want an enormous south-east Asian pumpkin sitting in their backyard?
The trader then offered it to the Goomeri Pumpkin Festival committee – for a price that made their eyes water. The stone pumpkin was destined, it seemed, to remain in storage forever.
And then Phyllis Hopf stepped in. She paid for the pumpkin, then donated it to the town. She then put her hand back in her pocket to pay for its installation.
Volunteers built the concrete plinth, which was lovingly decorated by Heather May from Amayz Mosaics over a period of 10 weeks.
Gympie Mayor Mick Curran unveiled the statue in March, 2020, and it quickly became one of the Sunshine State’s top tourist destinations. Move over, Big Pineapple, there’s a new pump-king in town!
And then I go and spoil it all by saying pumpkin’ stupid like, “I love you”
Yoohoo, only me! The one and only Gordon Shumway! Yes, I know you were expecting the honeysuckle words of Bigs Bardot, but you’ll just have to settle for the ramblings of his tiny alien sidekick. And there’s a very good reason for that.
This, my friends, is the story of how I asked the love of my life – the divine Miss Gordina – to be my wife.
The Bardot Bunch, consisting of Bigs, Bigella, Little Peter Poppins, Gordina and myself, were enjoying a road trip through the rolling hills of rural Queensland during the dying days of summer. As we admired Seagulls, Bunyips, Gingerbread Men and Oranges, I felt something gnawing away at me. Initially assuming it was botulism from a dodgy servo pie, I soon realised it was something more profound.
The haunting cries of conjugal life had become a cacophony.
Racking my brain to think of the perfect place to ask for Gordina’s hairy hand in holy matrimony, I settled on the most romantic place on earth – the car park out the front of Matilda the Kangaroo.
“You can’t ask her there,” sighed Bigs when I told him my plan. “Oh right,” I whimpered, “because it’s right next to a public toilet.” “No, silly,” Bigs grinned, “because that’s where I asked Bigella to marry me! You need to make this experience your own.”
Bigs is a wise (and handsome!) man, so I heeded his advice. Then I thought of a location – The Giant Greenstone Pumpkin in Goomeri, Gordina’s home town. It was there that, by the silvery light of a crescent moon, we’d shared our first kiss in 2023. Since then we’d supported each other through the highest of highs, the lowest of lows, and my out-of-control Metamucil addiction.
And so, after taking our photos with The Pumpkin, the rest of the gang melted into the background, leaving my love and I alone atop the Giant Pumpkin. I took Gordina’s hand, looked into her eyes, and said the words I’d dreamed of saying for so long.
“Gordina,” I uttered as tears cascaded down my cheeks. “Will you Goo-marry me?”
Everytime I visit Big Vegetables it makes me think of you
The Giant Greenstone Pumpkin may be the #1 tourist attraction in Queensland, but it’s not the state’s only cultivated winter squash – there’s another pretty big one up in Gumlu. And that one’s sitting right next to a Big Watermelon – wowzers!
Head further north and you’ll find Bowen’s Big Mango, along with a slightly smaller replica just down the road. There’s also a Big Banana in Mackay, Big Orange in the Lockyer Valley, and yet another Big Pumpkin in Kooralbyn. But they don’t appear on Land of the Bigs (yet!) so you’ll just have to look them up on our world-famous Ultimate Aussie Big Things Map.
Queensland, hey? Fruit-iful one day, perfect the next!
When life gives you lemons, use it as inspiration to build a Big Lemon! That’s exactly what the good people of Lemon Grove, California, did way back in 1928.
Yes, you read that correctly – nineteen-hundred-and-twenty-eight – meaning this bright-yellow icon is almost a century old! You wouldn’t think so, though, because The Giant Lemon looks as zesty as the day it was built.
Just look how happy the Bardot Bunch are in this photo. Ironically, perhaps, there’s not a sour face to be seen!
Back then Lemon Grove was a thriving farming community, and the local chamber of commerce wanted to let everyone know they had the best lemons around. The best way to do this, they decided, was to construct a lemon of enormous proportions and march it through the streets of San Diego during the Fourth of July parade.
Architect Alberto Treganza stepped up to design the float. But first he needed the perfect specimen to base the lemon off. He invited local farmers to submit their loveliest lemons, then picked a particularly plump ponderosa for his passion project.
It was a bit like American Idol, but for lemons.
Local ranchers helped out with the construction of the lemon, which was made from chicken wire, bits of wood, plaster, paint – and plenty of love. Weighing an astonishing 3000lb, it was plonked on the back of a Model-T Ford and decorated with a sign reading ‘Best Climate on Earth’ – the town’s not-so-humble motto.
On July 4th, 1928, the good folk celebrated not only the birth of the USA, but the arrival of The Big Lemon. Sitting proudly atop the float was Amorita Treganza, daughter of Alberto and the first-ever Miss Lemon Grove.
I bet Amorita – and The Big Lemon – looked absolutely fruit-iful that day.
You’re simply the zest, bigger than all the rest
The Big Lemon became a fixture of San Diego’s festival circuit, appearing in a quintet of July 4th fiestas. The yella fella proved to be so popular that, in 1932, local businessman Tony Sonka decided it should be enjoyed the other 364 days a year, too.
There were a few naysayers, but Tony told them to go suck lemons, and pushed forward with his plans. He had the sculpture plastered, then placed it on a plinth outside his general store in downtown Lemon Grove.
And there The Big Lemon has sat, more or less, for the past 90-odd years. The city shifted the monument a few feet in 1984 to accommodate the nearby trolley tracks. Volunteers have touched up the lettering a few times. But little else has changed. The Lemon is a nostalgic squeeze of the past, wedged in between the traffic and taquerias of modern-day Lemon Grove.
“The Big Lemon of Lemon Grove is a landmark in the center of town,” ruminated Laura Hook, president of the Lemon Grove Historical Society. “Its presence isn’t just ornamental; it anchors the town’s identity and history in one bold, citrusy shape.”
May this fruity fellow stand for another 100 years – or even into the next mil-lemon-ium!
The Good, the Bad and the Citrusy
Bigella, Little Peter Poppins and moi – the inimitable Bigs Bardot! – were able to squeeze in a visit to The Big Lemon during a recent BIG road trip across the United States.
Ample nearby parking gave us easy access to the monument. The Lemon is in a fairly busy spot, but we had no problem taking photos. As we did, one passerby gave us a big thumbs-up and wailed “Geez, Bigs, you could make a lot of lemonade from that one!”
We’ve been to plenty of delicious roadside attractions across California – from Randy’s Donut to The Big Sundae, and even Sir Wafflelot right here in SD. But none are as mouth-puckeringly tasty as The Big Lemon.
“You know, Bigs,” Peter chirped wistfully as we headed home. “I’ve had the lime of my life today.” “Oh Peter!” I gaffawed. “Your ribald sense of humour proves the lemon doesn’t fall far from the tree!
I hate to waffle on, but I simply have to tell you about Sir Wafflelot, a happy-go-lucky anthropomorphic waffle who presides over the legendary Waffle Spot restaurant in San Diego.
I love his chubby little cheeks and eyes full of yearning and wonder. Ooh, what a snack!
Wearing his crown at a roguish tilt, Sir Wafflelot is warm, sweet and just a little bit sticky – much like the deliciously crispy treat he celebrates. He’s drenched in retro charm with a drizzle of whimsy, and what could be batter than that?
Disturbingly, however, Sir Wafflelot is wielding a fork and a contented smile, which suggests he’s planning to – or worse yet, already has – eaten one or more of his fellow waffles.
Oh well, I can forgive a little light cannibalism when the perpetrator is this dadgum cute!
The kind sir points the way towards food fit for a king. The Waffle Spot, is break-fast becoming the city’s favourite restaurant.
Churros, chocolate chip pancakes, burritos, vegetable casseroles, fried chicken, French toast topped with cream cheese and strawberries. You can even have a mimosa or seven to celebrate meeting the famous Sir Wafflelot.
(Don’t hold back – you can always slip into a food coma in the adjoining motel if breakfast leaves you feeling a bit tired and emotional).
But you can’t go past the sumptuous – and really quite confronting – waffle burger, with lashings of egg, cheese and bacon squished between two waffles. Sky-high cholesterol and late-onset diabetes are a small price to pay to eat a mountain of food in front of a statue of a really big waffle.
Even after the restaurant closes, the fun doesn’t stop, because Sir Wafflelot is accessible 24 hours. He really is the definition of all-day breakfast!
Welcome to WaffleMania!
The sun was shining when Bigella, Little Peter Poppins and myself stopped by The Waffle Spot. Sadly, however, a latino tough guy in Armani loafers and a freshly-pressed Hugo Boss shirt was loitering around in front of Sir Wafflelot.
I assumed the stylish thug would move on when we sidled up for a photo. But he just stood there, hands in pockets, equal parts handsome and menacing.
“Let’s just go and get our breakfast, Bigs,” begged Bigella. “A photo with Sir Wafflelot isn’t worth risking our lives for. A poorly-framed snap from the corner of the car park is good enough.” “Look, Bigella,” I snorted. “Good enough is never good enough when it comes to Big Things.”
I don’t normally approach swarthy bad boys in motel parking lots, but the readers were counting on me, so I waffled on over to the feisty photobomber.
“Hola, papi,” I chirped, holding out my hand. “The inimitable Bigs Bardot.” “Juan Carlos,” he sniffed, then went back to just standing there. “I guess you’re here for the chilaquilles and huevos rancheros.” “No, I’m just waiting for someone.”
It seems I’d found myself in a sticky syrup-tuation.
“Look, Juan,” I said tactfully. “I run the world’s leading website dedicated to Big Things. Land of the Bigs – I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I’d love to get a photo with that wonderful waffle. Can I ask you to move?” “You can ask,” he sneered, “but I’m not going to move. Not for you, not for no-one.”
I contemplated correcting his grammar, but decided it would do griddle to improve the situation.
“You seem waffle-ly anxious, Juan,” I burbled. “Is it because Sir Lancelot – for whom Sir Wafflelot is so obviously named – was a knight, not a king, and therefore never wore a crown?” “Yes, I do find that vaguely ludicrous,” the debonair delinquent shrugged. “But I’m still not gonna move. Not for you –” “Not for no-one,” I sighed.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I seized Juan Carlos by his lapel and attempted to drag him away from Sir Wafflelot.
“No-Juan gets between Bigs Bardot and an oversized roadside waffle statue!” I cackled maniacally.
As Juan Carlos choked the life out of me, Bigella and Little Peter Poppins swaggered into The Waffle Spot and tucked into their succulent waffle meals. By the time I regained consciousness several hours later, the restaurant had closed. I never did get to try those Machaca Benedict waffles.
Mundubbera claims to be ‘the citrus capital of Queensland’, and what better way to prove that than by building a Big Mandarin? The orange wonder measures nine metres from dimpled bottom to leafy crown, and can be found in front of the aptly-named Big Mandarin Caravan Park.
And oh-my-lordy, he’s Mandarin-credible!
The Big Mandarin looms large over the tiny town, and is a really cool, old-skool Big. Yes, it’s seen better days. Yes, Mundubbera’s a bit out of the way, and far from the tourist trail. But this roadside attraction is well worth the detour.
Peel back The Big Mandarin’s history and you’ll find a juicy tale. Enterprising locals Graham and Elaine Mergard came up with the idea for The Big Mandarin in 1980, as a way of promoting their holiday park, then known as the Citrus Country Village.
They contacted the talented Neville Roger, who built the mandarin in 10 sections from his workshop in Brisbane, and delivered it to Munduburra aboard a conga-line of semi-trailers. It was then painstakingly welded together on-site.
Sounds like thirsty work – good thing Nev and his mates had plenty of mandarin juice on hand!
Queensland Minister for Tourism, Tony Elliott, officially opened the site on May 23, 1983 – and every man-darin, woman and child turned up!
The Mundubbera Marvel
The Big Mandarin originally housed a tourist information centre offering a selection of souvenirs but, sadly, it was shuttered long ago. The front door was locked when Gordon and I arrived, so we weren’t able to see inside the structure.
“Maybe we should Manda-ring the doorbell,” Gordon chortled. “Yes, maybe someone is waiting Manadar-inside,” I tittered.
Despite this disappointment, we found the caravan park‘s cabins clean and well-priced, so I highly recommend staying in one the next time you’re travelling through the North Burnett Region.
But here’s an idea for the owners – why not convert the Mandarin into a cottage, allowing Big-thusiasts to spend the night inside it?
These days the caravan park is mainly inhabited by fruit pickers from the region’s many citrus farms. Apparently it’s not unusual to see a couple of bleary-eyed Filipinos, the smell of Red Horse heavy on their breath, attempting to pick The Big Mandarin at six in the morning.
And that gave me an idea.
“Gordon, I have a cunning plan,” I gasped. “If we become fruit pickers, we could live here and admire The Big Mandarin every day. Maybe even fall in love with a couple of German backpackers.” “That’s an adorable idea Bigs,” Gordon sighed, “but you remember what happened the last time we became fruit pickers and fell in love with a couple of German backpackers.” “Helga and Gertrüd,” I sniffed, trying to mask the hurt in my voice. “Yes,” Gordon whispered, a single tear cutting a silvery path down his furred cheek. “Helga and Gertrüd.”
Fruit, Glorious Fruit!
The good folk of Mundubbera have a healthy rivalry with the residents of the nearby town of Gayndah. Both villages claim to be the centre of the citrus universe, but there’s something BIGGER to this conflict.
Gaynda, which is just 30 minutes down the road, is home to the beloved Big Orange, which rivals the Mandarin in size and, erm, orange-ness.
But these are far from the only flippin’-yoooooj fruits in the (Queens)Land of the Bigs. There’s the world-famous Big Pineapple in Woombye, The Big Strawberry in Elimbah, and The Big Apple in Thulimbah.
Visiting Brissie? There’s another Big Apple there but, ah, you might want to watch out for the locals.
Where’s Wally the Wren? He’s in the Yiiro Community Garden in Euroa, Victoria! This fantastic fairy wren was built by the metal maestros from Tank & Tobin, and installed in July 2022.
With his vibrant blue plumage, irresistible eyelashes and chubby little tum-tum, Wally is big on personality – if not on size. At around 150cm from golden claws to the tip of his tail, he’s a fraction the height of Euroa’s famous Big Magpie. But that is a good thing.
It means Wally is one of the most approachable Bigs you’ll find. He’s the perfect size for a cuddle and a kiss – or a photo. The individually-crafted feathers give him a sense of realism and gravitas, whilst maintaining a kind of cartoonish charm. Yes, bird fanciers, Wally really is wren-markable!
The community garden is a peaceful oasis amidst the hustle and bustle of downtown Euroa. Wally stands beside a fellow Tank & Tobin masterpiece – a lone metal sunflower. Several murals by proud indigenous artist Aimee McCartney are also worth checking out.
Feeling hungry after a day hunting down Big Things? Then you’re in luck! Fresh herbs and seasonal vegetables spring forth from the garden’s verdant soil, and visitors are welcome to snatch up a handful.
Whilst Bigella plucked parsley and parsnips, I collected carrots and coriander. How wholesome! Now whenever we cook a hearty soup, it transports us back to that warm spring day when we foraged for food in the shadows of a fairly large fairy wren.
The word Yiiro means ‘joyful place’ in the local Taungurung language. I can’t think of a more appropriate name for this happy little corner of Victoria. When you stand with Wally the Wren – one of the cheekiest, chirpiest Bigs you could ever hope to meet – it’s wren-possible to wipe the smile off your face!
Victoria has a six-metre-tall Ned Kelly in Glenrowan. Queensland has a seven-metre-tall Ned Kelly in Maryborough. And now New South Wales has jumped in on the action, because the hamlet of Telegraph Point is home to Australia’s newest Ned – who stands a slightly-less-impressive two metres from boots to bucket.
Such is life, eh, short kings?
The (Not So) Big Ned Kelly stands outside the (former) headquarters of Rampage Marine and Fabrication, pointing his pistols at traffic on Pembrooke Road. I wasn’t aware that Ned had ties to the Mid North Coast, but maybe he swung by for an expertly-welded trailer or a new fishing boat.
Ned looks like he started life as a letterbox but, sadly, he hasn’t had any mail for a while.
When the Rampage team moved up to Queensland in 2025, they left poor ol’ Ned behind. Surely they could’ve fabricated some friends for him before the rode off into the sunset? At this rate, we might have to call him Neddy No-Mates!
The (Aesthetic-Maxxing) Big Ned Kelly
What he lacks in height, this version of Australia’s favourite murderer makes up for in rugged good looks and outlaw swagger. Check out his rusty, yet perfectly-cylindrical helmet.
And that handbag is so this season! The roguish red pops against the brown armour, perfectly encapsulating Ned’s fun, fashionable and – dare I say it – feminine side. Ooh-la-la!
Gordon and myself are widely regarded as the bad boys of Big Things, so we hopped aboard our scooterette and rode out to meet our fellow renegade.
We found The (Not So) Big Ned Kelly to be easy to take a photo with and surprisingly larger than we’d anticipated.
“Bigs, do you think we’d fit in with the Kelly Gang?” Gordon asked as we rode away. “Gordon,” I sighed, “between your lactose intolerance and my pacifist outlook, we’d be lucky to get a start in the Martin Kelly Gang.” “You mean the affable father from popular 80s sitcom Hey Dad..!?” “Yes.” “Hmm,” sighed Gordon. “I think it’s best we stay very, very far away from them!”
Eagle-eyed visitors to Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary will spot something very special indeed – Dream Rider, a wedge-tail measuring 12 metres from wingtip to wingtip and fashioned from THIRTY recycled surfboards.
Talon-ted local artist Mick Brown spent six months piecing together the 400kg colossus. His hard work paid off when Dream Rider took out the people’s choice award at the 2025 SWELL Sculpture Festival.
The Sanctuary then swooped in to buy the sculpture for just $15,000, and installed it – quite fittingly – at the entrance to the WildSkies Bird Show.
“You couldn’t describe a better backdrop for a sculpture like this,” Mick told a scribe from the Gold Coast Bulletin. “I’ve had sculptures installed in other states, so to have Dream Rider local is a real bonus.”
Mick says the enormous eagle is a commentary on ‘the impact of consumerism on the natural world, and carries a hopeful message of connection, respect and care for the planet, habitat and wildlife’.
Bird fanciers, not surprisingly, have flocked to the park since Dream Rider arrived.
“From the minute we saw the Dream Rider statue and the sustainability message, we knew that it just had to come home here,” Wendy Welch, the park’s animal training manager, squawked. “It fits in so perfectly with our messaging of connection and conservation.”
More importantly, Dream Rider looks really cool! From outstretched wings to piercing eyes, forever be scanning the horizon for prey, this is an extraordinary work of art.
And how about those surfboard feathers! This is the finest use of recycled materials I’ve seen, and the sculpture brings together air, sea and bushland beautifully.
Even better, Bigella and moi were able to seek refuge beneath his wings to escape a passing squall. Oh well, any hawk in a storm – teehee!
Run, run as fast as you can, to see the Giant Gingerbread Man! And then run, run a bit further to see another Giant Gingerbread Man.
That’s right, Biggies, you get double the delicious fun when you visit the world-famous Buderim Ginger Factory in Yandina, because there are TWO of these big, burly, biscuity boys!
That should be enough to satiate the appetite of even the hungriest Big Thing afficionado.
The first Ginderbread Man can be found in a lovely sunny spot near the front of the park, guarding the gateway to the legendary Taste of Ginger Tour. Gingers usually burn to a crisp in the sultry Queensland sun, but this lad revels in it.
The second Ginger Giant is, more sensibly, tucked away beneath the rainforest canopy in the belly of the park, sheltered by a cavalcade of umbrellas. Which reminds me, I have heaps of good jokes about brollies – but they usually go over people’s heads!
Like most gingers, the towering twins are even-tempered, happy, and not at all dead-eyed or soulless. In fact, with their impish grins and jovial caps, these towering treats look good enough to eat.
Don’t eat them, though, because these Gingerbread Men are made of fibreglass and metal. So be a smart cookie and stick to the regular gingerbread men sold inside the gift shop.
Let the good times (sausage) roll
Whilst the Giant Gingerbread Men are undoubtedly the highlights of any trip to the Buderim Ginger factory, there’s so much more to see and do. Best of all, entry is free, so you don’t need much dough.
You know, like how there’s dough in gingerbread men. And… moving on.
With the tangy zest of ginger hanging in the subtropical air, it’s a pleasure to wander through the verdant gardens, stopping at ginger-themed cafes and stores. Honestly, if you can put ginger in, on or under something, you can get it here.
There’s so much for the kiddies, with an un-bee-lievably cute bee-shaped jumping castle, several playgrounds, and even a boat ride through a magical, puppet-filled world.
If your footsies get tired from all that traipsing around, just hop aboard whimsical Ginger Train. This leisurely 15-minute trip explores the history of the local ginger industry and, more importantly, provides glimpses of the Gingerbread Men. Toot, toot, all aboard!
The food on offer is gingerrific, with everything from ginger beer battered fish and chips to burgers dripping with ginger jam. Do not, under any circumstances, leave without biting into one of the Ginger Factory’s world-famous sausage rolls. With buttery pastry, zesty meat, and a hint – just a hint! – of farm fresh ginger, your tastebuds will think they’ve died and gone to ginger heaven.
Two Big Gingerbread Men, a flavourful feast and some umbrellas? What a grand day out!
Kenny the Kennebec is a real spud-muffin! With his madcap grin and flamboyant hand gestures, he welcomes visitors to the village of Sassafras, on the fertile northern expanse of Tasmania.
You can’t miss Kenny, because he’s seated rather uncomfortably atop a seven-metre pole. Geez, that looks like it must’ve mashed his potatoes!
Being so high up makes it hard to take photos with the portly potato, so hopefully they’ll lower him sooner or tater.
Kenny started life in the early-80s, when potato farmer Rick Rockliff realised he needed something BIG to promote his roadside potato stall.
“We decided then that we’d build a proper little set up there, and the big spud was part of the advertising campaign,” Rick told a delighted reporter from the ABC.
Rick grabbed a particularly handsome kennebec potato from his farm, chopped it into wedges, then built a two-metre-tall scale model out of wire mesh, cement and fibreglass. But a potato, whilst delicious and nutritious, is a bit boring to look at, so Rick added a face, arms and legs.
And then, for the gravy on top, he added a wide-brimmed hat. The tourists poured in, the potatoes walked out the door – the big guy was a KEN-sation.
But then, one blustery day, the hash brown came toppling down.
Oh my god, they killed Kenny!
During a wild storm in October 2023, the tater tottered and – all of a spudden – crashed to the dirt.
“A truck backed into the pole about two or three weeks ago and weakened it,” a clearly rattled Rick explained. “The strong wind over the weekend finished the job off. But it was always solidly built, so it’s very superficial damage.”
But when the (hot) chips were down, Rick chose to find light in the darkness, turning a tragic event into an opportunity. He gave Kenny a new lick of paint and, after spending time relaxing around the side of a building, the big fella was back on his pole by the middle of January, 2024.
Oh, Rick, you really are a (potato) gem!
Despite being a yam of the people, Kenny the Kennebec isn’t friendly with that other Big Potato in New South Wales. In fact, the two are starch-enemies.
Alright, that’s enough dodgy jokes for one entry, so it’s time to wind things up and give this supersized spud a rating. I give this Big a solid Ken out of 10!
Raymond Terrace is full of colourful characters, but none are quite as bright and bubbly as Gerald the Fish! This myrtle-and-cardinal cutie lights up Terrace Park, on the banks of the shimmering Hunter River.
Gerald is the fish de résistance of local sculptor Greg Salter, and serves as a savage criticism of over-fishing in the region. The aquatic dreamboat first appeared in the Nelson Bay Sculpture Festival in 2013, under his original name of Ode to the Old Fish.
Back then, Gerald gleamed with silver-and-rust hues and – get this – could actually spin around. With his plump underbelly and slightly perplexed expression, Gerald was a hit the locals.
After spending some time on the Nelson Bay foreshore, Port Stephens Council bought Gerald and, determined to transform Raymond Terrace into the next tourism hotspot, popped him in his current location.
But now he needed a new name. Something warmer, friendlier, codd-ier than Ode to the Old Fish.
A competition was held to give the green grouper a new moniker, with 12-year-old wunderkind Nic Bourke suggesting Gerald. Why Gerald, you ask? Well, because he lives right next to the Fitzgerald Bridge.
That’s o-fish-ially the cleverest name I’ve ever heard!
The Fishman Cometh
They say the road to hell is paved with cod intentions. Raymond Terrace never became the next Côte d’Azur, and Gerald the Fish was left to rot away like a forgotten fillet in the midday sun.
Greg painstakingly restored Gerald in 2024 but, sadly, the fish is looking a bit green around the gills again. When I took the Bardot family fvisited in early-2026, we were appalled to discover that that some bottom-feeder had scrawled a grotty message on poor ol’ Gerry’s eyeball.
Whilst the drivel doesn’t bear repeating, it was something about sucking on fish balls – and I’m not talking about the deep-fried southeast Asian delicacy.
I won’t stand for such brutality against Bigs but – after a stern warning from the police not to get involved – I decided to pay someone to do my dirty work for me. Enter Mexican pro-wrestling tough guy Fishman.
And so, one windswept Tuesday evening, Fishman met up with the graffitist behind the nearby public toilets. The pen-pushing pest may have been expecting a night debauchery with a Latino stud, but instead got turned into fish food, filling the bellies of bass and bream from Bar Beach to Buladelah.
Once more, the good folk of Raymond Terrace are safe from texta-wielding perverts. Graciás, Fishman!
When Gordon the Alien Met Gerald the Fish
Hey, Biggies – Gordon here. You remember me, I’m the pint-sized alien sidekick to the inimitable Bigs Bardot. The beating heart of Land of the Bigs, so I’ve been called.
Although you wouldn’t know it, seeing as the Bardots forgot to tell me that they were going to see Gerald. They know it’s always been my dream to see the glittering lights of Raymond Terrace!
Bigella was there. Peter Poppins was there. Even Fishman made it into the photos, and I’ve never even seen him before. Where were you during the Land of the Bigs team building weekend in Dapto, punk?
By the time I made it to The Terrace, the family had moved on. My encounter with Gerald was cordial and, at times, really quite illuminating, but there was something missing.
What’s the point of visiting a Big if you don’t have someone to share it with? That’s why we travel across the country, tracking down giant goannas and dogs and koalas – for the laughs and joy and camaraderie we experience along the way.
Scuttle over to Parkside’s picturesque Burnie Park to find The Giant Freshwater Lobster – an eight-tonne love letter to Tassie’s favourite crustacean.
The colossal crayfish beckons the adventurous. Sitting happily beside a well-appointed playground, it’s not unusual to see little nippers – and not-so-little nippers! – clambering all over him.
But make no mistake, with his manicured mosaic pincers and mildly vexed expression, this four-metre-long yabbie is more than a jungle gym – he’s a work of art-ropod.
Legendary mosaic artist Tony Woodward, that doyen of the Taswegian art scene, created The Lobster in 2002. Tony’s mosaic masterpieces span the length and breadth of the Apple Isle, from the beloved Waiting Room in Rosny to the controversial Mountain Man in Deloraine.
I guess you could say he’s quite versa-tile – teehee!
Tony, sadly, passed away in 2021, but his myriad of mosaic marvels continue to mesmerise the masses. His sister, Margaret, maintains the artworks, ensuring they’ll enthral and delight future generations.
Hopefully The Giant Freshwater Lobster will be on display for many more-nay years to come!
Still A Crayfish After All These Years
I met the Bardot family in Burnie last night Bigs seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled Bigella talked about some old times And Peter Poppins drank all the beers
Still a crayfish after all these years Oh, I’m still a crayfish after all these years
I’m not the kind of aquatic invertebrate who tends to socialise Sometimes people won’t climb on me for days But the Bardots sang me love songs That they whispered in whatever crustaceans have instead of ears
Still a crayfish after all these years Oh, I’m still a huge crayfish after all these years
Four in the morning We were yawning The Bardots finally went on their way I’ll never worry Why should I? They’ll be back one day
Now I sit by my playground, and I watch the cars I feel better about my crabby little life today I now know the world adores me And will greet me with happy cheers
Still a crayfish after all these years Oh, still a crayfish Still a crayfish I’m still an enormous crayfish after all these years
Tasmania is famous for its apples, but my admirers are always coming up to me and asking, “Bigs, why isn’t there a Big Apple down there? The Apple Isle is home to the Big Penguin, Big Cherry and Big Bee. But what about, y’know, an apple? Make it make sense, Bigs. Make it make sense!”
Well, my dear Biggie, fret no longer. I’m delighted to reveal that a fairly large apple can be found in the enchanting hamlet of Spreyton – but you’ll have to keep your eyes peeled to spot it. The Big Apple, in all its deliciously campy homemade splendour, is hidden away on the roof of Spreyton Bakery.
Sure, this isn’t the largest, roundest, brightest or most apple-shaped Big Apple around, but it’s wholesome to the core. To the core, geddit? Teehee!
The craftmanship may be crude, but never veers towards crassness. The fairest apple does, indeed, hang upon the highest bough. Alright, I don’t know what a bough is, either, so let’s just move on.
Whilst this specimen resembles numerous other carpark apples (particularly the example in Acacia Ridge, Queensland), there’s something about this one that makes my heart sing. The ribbing used to construct the fruit is clearly visible, giving the appearance of a giant red piñata. And who doesn’t like piñatas?
That rustic, quirky, but ultimately delicious nature is mirrored by the meat pies, cakes, chicken burgers and fruit loaves offered in the shop below. But the star of the show are the sweet treats, including – of course – their world-class apple pies.
Quite a feat when the bakers must spend all day fighting the urge to race outside and stare in slack-jawed wonder at the giant apple on the roof!
Live in Bundaberg and have a sick sausage dog or a queezy kelpie? Lucky you, because now you can head to Greencross Vets in Walkervale. They’ll patch up your poorly pooch and, more importantly, you can have your photo taken with an enormous mosaic mutt.
Please raise your rum bottles as we toast the one and only Bundy the Wonderdog!
This bone-afide masterpiece is much more than a simple canine, however. Bundy, who appears to be a Dalmatian of some sort, is ensconced in the warm embrace of a loving veterinarian.
At least I think that’s what the big, moon-shaped head behind him is meant to represent.
When the sun shimmers on the thousands of black and white tiles, it’s hard to determine where dog ends and human begins – a post-modern commentary on the timeless bond between man and beast, perhaps?
Bundy was commissioned by legendary local vet David Lever who, along with his wife, ran the practice for many years. Thankfully, when Greencross took over in 2007, they decided to keep the wacky woofer out the front.
They’d be barking mad not to!
Thus far, I’ve been unable to track down the name of the artist who actually created this mosaic monument. Maybe it was Antoni Growl-dí – teehee!
Sadly, like Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família, Bundaberg’s own cultural centrepiece remains incomplete. The bottom half of this statue consists of plain grey concrete, as the tiles were either never installed or have fallen off.
Talk about erect-tile dysfunction!
Just Another Manic Bundy
Greencross Vets are as much a part of Bundy as ginger beer and sugar cane, so when I found Gordon frothing from the mouth and speaking in tongues, I knew just where to take him.
“Rabies,” I muttered, bundling him into the car. “Well, he was bound to catch it sooner or later.”
By the time we made it to the vet, Gordon’s eyes were rolling back in his head. But I wasn’t going to let a little thing like my best friend’s imminent demise get in the way of admiring a Big Thing, so we posed for a few happy snaps with Bundy the Wonderdog before rushing into the emergency ward.
“This tiny alien doesn’t have rabies,” the vet chuckled after taking a peek at Gordon. “He just had too much Bundy Rum last night.” “You can tell that just by looking at him?” I gasped.
“Well, Bigs, I attended the finest veterinary college in the country, have treated thousands of animals…” the vet grinned “… and I also saw Gordon dancing down Bourbong St at 2am this morning with a witches’ hat on his head.”
I grimaced at the little alien. I wasn’t angry, just disappointed.
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” Gordon rasped as he reached for a glass of Berocca. “And when in Bundy, drink as the locals do!”
Sweet, gentle, angular Eli. At just 140cm long and 75cm tall, he’s quite likely the teeniest-weeniest inhabitant of the Land of the Bigs. But he’s a bit larger than a regular baby wombat, and that’s all that matters.
Eli was created by the metal maestros at Gravelly Beach Metalworks – yes the same team who made Doug the Truffle-Snuffling Dog – and is designed to rust and weather with time. Much like the rest of us, his youthful good looks won’t last forever.
But don’t worry, he’s still sooooo dadgum cute. I’m not gunna E-lie – I just adore the little dude!
Quiet and unassuming, Little Eli is currently snuggled up beneath a fern in front of the Cradle Mountain Wilderness Gallery, just a short waddle from another large marsupial – Quincy the Big Spotted Quoll. But run, don’t walk, to see Eli. He’s on sale for the bargain basement price of $7,150, and as soon as some lucky duck snaps him up – he’s outta there!
I’d love to welcome Eli into my home but, sadly, writing about oversized roadside attractions isn’t the lucrative financial venture I’d hoped it would be. Of course, if one of my loyal followers wanted to buy Eli for me as a way of saying thanks for devoting my life to Australia’s beautiful Big Things, I wouldn’t say no.
If you’re wondering about Eli’s mummy, she’s doing well. Also made by the Gravelly Beach crew, her name’s Wasabi and she’s every bit as spicy as the pungent green paste she’s named after.
At just $9,625, you might as well send her my way, too.
Some chaps go for women with long legs and ample bosoms, but I prefer mine to have technicolour moth wings and scrap metal fangs.
It was hardly surprising, then, that I was drawn to Myee the Moth-Woman like some sort of flying insect to a flame.
A highlight of Wodonga’s Crossing Place Trail, this babelicious bogong is forged from rusted metal and cuts a striking figure amongst the swaying gumtrees. The sanguine curves of the feminine form fuse seamlessly with the primeval mystique of the fluttering moth.
It is as though Myee has presided over this bushland for aeons.
She was created by local artisans Treahna Hamm and Michael Laubli. Treahna was inspired by an aboriginal dreamtime story about Myee, a precocious moth (which I’ve reproduced in stunning detail below).
“Being an artist, the best thing I can do is to share my story through the landscape,” Treahna told an intrigued scribe from The Border Mail. “In Yorta Yorta traditional times, our stories were not only painted, they were carved, danced and sung. The best way to teach our culture is outdoors where that connection to country happens.
“To me, if someone appreciates the sculptures in a subtle way or there’s something there that reminds them about their own stories or experiences, it’s a good thing.”
Oh, we appreciate your work, Treahna!
Myee might look big in these photos, but she’s even BIGGER in real life. In fact, she’s exactly 12 million times the weight of a real bogong – but that’s just simple moth-amatics.
The Legend of Myee the Moth-Woman
Our story begins many moons ago, when men were moths and women were also, apparently, moths. Myee, a buxom bogong spirit with wings like stained glass windows, lived happily beside the mighty Murray River with her boring, colourless husband Colin.
At dusk she would turn her compound eyes towards the setting sun, dreaming of visiting the snowcapped mountains in the distance.
“Why would a gorgeous half-woman-half-moth mutant like you want to go up there? It’s cold!” Colin would say, his antennae wiggling erratically.
But Myee – poor, sweet Myee – couldn’t resist the lure of the wintery peaks. One afternoon, while Colin was at T-ball practise, she gave in to her carnal desires and flew into the highlands.
Well she wasn’t going to drive, was she? It was 35,000BC!
The views up there were spectacular and Myee was grateful for a bit of ‘me time’ – or should that be Myee time? – but that’s when disaster struck. A ferocious snow storm rolled in. When it finally passed, Myee realised it had stripped the bodacious hues from her wings.
It had also ruined her perm, which was the real tragedy.
Myee was, understandably, reluctant to tell the worriesome Colin what had happened. He was prone to overreaction and had probably already filed a moth-ing person report. But, surprisingly, he accepted Myee’s new, frumpier look without hesitation.
Their proboscis entwined, proving love truly is blind. Hey, that rhymed!
I Just Called To Say I Moth You
I was so inspired by this tale of passion and acceptance that I asked Bigella to join me on my playdate with Myee.
“I’d love to, Bigs,” she purred wistfully, eyeing off my freshly-pressed tunic. “But all I have to wear is this old moth-bitten sweater. Is that alright?”
“Err, that might be a little, uh, homely for Land of the Bigs,” I replied delicately. “Do you mind staying in the car?”
“But I thought you’d been touched by Myee and Colin’s tale of unconditional love?!”
“Sorry, toots,” I shot back, swaggering off into the Victorian bush. “That was just an urban moth!”
He’s plump, he’s round, he’s very, very red – The Big Raspberry looks good enough to eat! But you can’t gobble this ‘berry because he’s made from recycled farming equipment and wouldn’t taste very nice at all.
Fortunately, you won’t have to go far for a fruity feed, as this Big is out the front of the legendary Westerway Raspberry Farm, home to Tasmania’s finest raspberries. No, no, make that Australia’s finest raspberries.
Actually, you know what? Let’s just say they grow the world’s finest raspberries.
Right-o, that should ensure I never have to pay for raspberries when I’m travelling through Westerway!
The Big Raspberry stands as a juicy expression of the region’s robust sense of community pride. Local legend Uncle Desi and his buddy Randall came up with the idea, whilst welding savant Sam pieced him together from plough disks, 44 gallon drums and a clapped-out tractor exhaust.
Sadly, I couldn’t find the surnames of these fine gentlemen – but I guess that’s just the Wester-way they like it!
Unveiled to a curious, yet optimistic public in December of 2017, The Big Raspberry enchants with his ruffled drupelets, foppish sepal and unwavering adherence to sphericalism. This, my friends, is one very circular fruit.
And he’s not alone, with the bulbous Big Cherry just down the road in Rosegarland. Fruit salad? Yummy yummy!
The Big Strawberry’s farm gate shop is open during the raspberry season – from the beginning of December until the end of May – and offers a treasure trove of berries, jams, ice cream and cheeky alcoholic beverages.
Just think twice before reaching for a second can of the oh-so-scrummy raspberry sour. At a hefty 3.5% ABV, you might wake up with a berry sore head in the morning!
Feel like a loooooooong black? Then grab your largest cup and head over to Deloraine – home of The Big Coffee Pot.
At 25m from base to spout, this prominent percolator could please the palate of even the fussiest bean snob. I can barely espresso how excited I was to see it – teehee!
The mammoth mocha-maker, located a couple of kilometres west of town, started life as a functional, yet rather uninspiring, grain silo. Somewhere along the line some funny bugger added a handle and nozzle and – bazinga! – Tasmania had yet another Big Thing.
You’d be a mug to skip it. Y’know, like a coffee mug. Anyway, moving on.
A coffee shop once brewed away near the base of the Pot, but now there are only auto electricians and tyre shops. Come for the colossal Coffee Pot, stay for a competitively-priced calibration.
The Coffee Pot is fun and easy to take take a photo with, but this cultural icon doesn’t look as fresh as it once did.
Unlike other Bigs near Deloraine, such as The Big Tassie Devil, Doug the Dog, and An Odd Blue Head, the monument is tired, rusty, and falling apart. Much like a service station flat white, that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Hopefully the owners give it a fresh lick of paint before it’s too latte!
The Big Garden Fork can be found in the outdoor landscaping section of Clennett’s Mitre 10 in Kingston, Tasmania. Trust me, you’ll really dig it!
For more than two decades this three storey-tall tool has stood proudly in front of the hardware shop. It’s undoubtedly the tallest Big in Tasmania and, delightfully, is completely free to visit – so you won’t have to fork out money to see it.
But that’s where the good news ends. The Big Garden Fork is poorly positioned behind a chainlink fence and next to pallet of fertiliser, making it difficult to take a photo with.
Nauseatingly, when I visited there was even a banner in front of The Fork advertising tomatoes, waratahs and – worst of all – peonys, so I was unable to admire its delicately-shaped prongs.
That sort of behaviour is un-fork-givable. I’d travelled for days, across the hostile waters of Bass Straight and through the uncharted Taswegian jungles, to take a photo with the Fork… and now late-stage capitalism had dashed my dreams.
I found myself, quite literally, at a fork in the road. Should I swallow my pride and walk away, or should I kick up a fuss?
My inner Karen bubbled forth…
Born on the Fork of July
“The positioning of that fork is an affront – I’m going to march into Mitre 10 and give them a piece of my mind,” I muttered to myself, then trotted through the front door of the shop. I was so indignant that I barely noticed a pallet loaded with 40-litre bags of high-quality potting mix for just $13.50 each.
“You couldn’t make it yourself for that price,” I muttered.
“Bring me the manager,” I barked at the first checkout chick I saw, then allowed my eyes to linger upon the racks of rakes, generators and power tools. My iridescent rage was cooled by the variety, quality and competitive prices.
“Bigs,” the manager said as I admired a Ryobi cordless whipper snipper. “Is there something I can help you with?” “I’m here to report an affront,” I snapped. “An affront?” “Yes,” I chuckled, gesturing around at the store. “It’s an affront that my trolley isn’t full of products. Point me towards the nail guns!”
As I poured my life savings into that trolley, I hoped nobody would realise that I wrote almost the exact same story about The Hardware Man. Oh well.
This Big Thing is causing quite a buzz! The Queen Bee – a mesmerising pastiche of scrap metal and surrealism – can be found a short flight north of the riverside village of Huonville.
‘Queenie’ is a bee-spoke creation of the un-bee-lievably talented Mick Johnson, and was installed outside The Honey Pot in November of 2019. She’s unmistakably handmade, her lavishly-decorated thorax and rusted metal legs pieced together with thoughtful, almost decadent, care.
And what about her carved wooden head? It’s simply bee-vine!
Yes, with her bulging eyes and intricately-detailed forewings – set at a roguish tilt to suggest she may take flight at any moment – Queenie’s no bee-grade roadside attraction.
At one-and-a-half metres from arousing antennae to sultry stinger, Queenie isn’t as large as the nearby Big Axe or Big Garden Fork, but she’s much larger than an actual insect, so definitely bee-longs on this website.
Alright, that’s enough bee puns for one entry. Big Things are serious bee-siness, after all!
Don’t Worry, Bee Happy
The Honey Pot is a hive of activity, and offers a fine range of lollies, jams, clothing and, of course, jars full of sticky yellow stuff – which is all produced in Tassie. The prices are quite reasonable, so you won’t have to spend much honey to get something special.
My apolo-bees for that pun – I promise it was the last one!
The locals, not surprisingly, think the shop – and the black-and-gold Big out front – are the bee’s knees. And so did the Land of the Bigs crew when we rocked up in our Bee-MW (yes, environmentalists, we made sure it was an electronic bee-hicle).
“Bee prepared, Bee-gella… oops, I mean Bigella,” I giggled, as we stepped out of the car, “for something bee-utiful.” “Oh, bee-have yourself, Bee-gs… oops, I mean Bigs,” Bigella retorted. “But I must admit, she’s quite bee-guiling.”
Framed by the snow-kissed mountains of the Huon Valley, Queenie is a dream to take a photo with. She delights from a distance, but it’s only after descending upon the sculpture that the true extent of her majesty becomes apparent.
Each shallow dent, each scrape in her paint, tells the tale not only of her creation but, in turn, of the robust history of Tasmanian honey.
Of course, I didn’t tell Bigella that The Queen Bee and moi have a history together. That’s right – teehee! – we once matched on Bumble!
Hey, Mr. Warrawee Man, play a song for me I’m quite sleepy and there’s a place I’m goin’ to Hey, Mr. Warrawee Man, play a song for me In the cool St Helens mornin’ I’ll come followin’ you…
For the finest bed ‘n’ breakfast in Tasmania, just look for The Warrawee Man! The chap in the hat points the way to the historic Warrawee guesthouse, on the outskirts of the waterside village of St Helens.
Dashing, dapper and – dare I say it – just a little bit debonair, The Warrawee Man enchants with his moustachioed grin and old world charm. From his handsome necktie to his sensible green slacks, this Big likes to dress to impress!
Warrawee owner Eric Lawson created the giant gentleman in the 1980s, piecing him together from leftover plumbing supplies – and he quickly became pipe-ular with locals and tourists alike.
Overlooking the majestic Georges Bay, the Warrawee guesthouse is an oasis of comfort and class along Tassie’s burly east coast. Despite the luxurious beds and peaceful setting, don’t expect a good night’s sleep – you’ll be too busy peeking out the window at the Big Thing in the font yard.
It’s also a bodacious base for visiting the regions other oversized roadside attractions, such as The Tin Dragon, The Pondering Frog and The Big Thumbs Up..
Warrawee is the perfect place to spend the night – or a whole Warra-weekend!
My Weekend with Wee Man
Bigella, sadly, was unavailable for this trip, so I visited with one of her former beaus – beloved Jackass star, Jason Acuña. Better known as Wee Man, he seemed like the perfect comrade to take to the Warrawee Man.
As a bonus, his petite stature would emphasise the grand stature of the hatted heartthrob.
“Oh Bigs, dude,” Wee Man – perched atop a phone book – chirped as we parked outside the bed ‘n’ breakfast. “We certainly make strange bedfellows.” “Well, you won’t take up as much of the bed as Bigella does.” “Yes,” Wee Man sneered, struggling to look out the window, “she ‘s a bit of a bed-hog, isn’t she?”
Ignoring his pithy repartee, I helped Wee Man out of the car so we could take some inspirational photos with The Warrawee Man.
“Dude, I like his top hat,” cheered Wee Man. “Maybe you should get one, Bigs. You know, to cover your bald spot.” “Maybe you should get a top hat, Wee Man,” I shot back. “You know, so people stop mistaking you for a garden gnome.”
Harsh words hung heavy in the sultry St Helens morning. Suddenly, I understood why Bigella jilted Wee Man at the altar.
“Geez, Bigs, I always thought you were cheap,” Wee Man wheezed, gesturing towards the guesthouse. “But I’m impressed you had enough money for us to stay in a bed ‘n’ breakfast.” “Bed ‘n’ breakfast?” I chuckled. “Oh no, Wee Man – when I said BnB, I meant Big Things ‘n’ breakfast. Well, we’ve seen the Big Thing, now I’ll get you a breakfast burrito and pop you on the next ferry back to Munchkinland!”
No trip to the Southern Pie-lands – oops, I mean the Southern Highlands! – is complete without a pitstop at Samuel Gee Pies & Pastries. Just look for the pie-gantic meat pie above the front door!
Lovingly known as ‘Sam’ by his legion of ad-pie-rers, The Big Meat Pie is a photo-realistic recreation of Australia’s national dish. The bulging core, the ruffled edges – ooooh, he looks good enough to eat.
But here’s some news that will bake you a bit sad. Sam has, ap-pie-lingly, been left to fester in the warm Balaclava sun. But, much like a chicken and leek pie found behind the lounge whilst cleaning up for your bi-annual rental inspection, he certainly has his charms.
After leering at The Big Meat Pie for several hours, it would’ve been rude not to step inside and wrap my laughing gear around the savoury treats within. So that’s exactly what myself and my travel-buddy Bigella did.
Not surprisingly, she picked out the brisket bacon and jalapeño. After much umming and ahhing, I settled on a classic – the steak and cheese – then sauntered up to the counter to reverently deliver my order.
“It’s a pie-leasure to ‘meat’ you,” I told the lass behind the counter. “I’d like to order a couple of your pie-ping hot treats.”
My pie-larious joke was met by pie-lence. Maybe she was sur-pie-sed to meet a world-famous Big Thing aficionado.
“See you ’round’,” I snickered as I snuck off with my snacks. “You know, like a pie. Because they’re round.” “Well, except for The Big Pie in Hamilton, Victoria,” Bigellaxxxx. “That’s square.”
The pies were pleasant, but slightly pedestrian and – sur-pie-singly for a shop sitting in the shadows of an enormous pastry – just a little bit petite. Oh well, there’s always Yatala Pies.
Harsh? Maybe. But then again, I’m not here to tell sweet little pies.
Flap on over to Ulverstone’s beloved Dinosaur Park to find Robin. As well as being super cute, she also happens to be one of the most controversial Bigs on the planet.
You see, there are two tribes in Ulvo. There are those who believe this happy-go-lucky individual is a pterodactyl (an enormous, furious, flesh-guzzling prehistoric beastie), and those who are resolute that Robin is, well, a robin (a tiny, friendly, berry-munching finch-like creature).
Here’s my theory; Robin shares the park with a big yellow diplodocus, so I believe she started life as a winged thunderlizard, and has subsequently evolved into the mascot for the local Aussie Rules team, the Ulverstone Robins, who play right nextdoor.
Life does, indeed, find a way.
I don’t want to get hate mail from any pouting paleontologists or frothing footy full forwards, so let’s just call her Robin the Pterodactyl and leave it at that.
It’s an appropriate name – within minutes of stepping foot in Ulvo, this beaky babe will be robbin’ your heart!
Rockin’ Robin
Built in the mid-70s, Robin is cute, camp and more than a little cartoonish. Obviously drawing inspiration from the oafish pterodactyls featured in animated television program The Flintstones, the designers didn’t hold back with her bulging eyes and impish grin.
A more animated Big never shall you find.
The pterrific pterodactyl originally had swings hanging from her wings and could spin around like a top. Whilst the swings are long gone she can, apparently, still rotate – something I learnt long after bidding her farewell.
Some contact the Spirit, I’m heading back to Tassie to spin the big bird! Or the winged lizard. Please don’t send me any more death threats, I’m trying my best here.
Robin is a short flap away from Ulverstone’s world-famous Big Globe and another winged wonder – The Big Penguin – is just up the road in (where else?) Penguin. Time to ptero-duck-tyl down and see them – teehee!
When Bigella, Little Peter Poppins and moi visited, Ulverstone was so cold I thought we were entering another ice age – so Robin must’ve felt right at home.
After spending what seemed like 65 million years taking the perfect photo, I gathered the gang around to share one of my famously ribald – yet always family friendly – witticisms.
“Why has nobody ever heard a pterodactyl going to the toilet?” I smirked, waiting a few beats to deliver the punchline. “Because the act of urination is silent!” “Biggsy,” Peter said gently. “I believe the punchline is, ‘Because the ‘p’ is silent’.”
“You’re pterrible, Peter,” I harrumphed. “We don’t deal in ptasteless humour here at Land of the Bigs.” “These sorts of jokes come with the pterritory, Bigs,” Peter ptittered. “And I’m having the ptime of my life ptelling them!”
“Boys, boys, boys,” Bigella inpterrupted. “This is becoming a ptense situation. Ptake a break from the pterodactyl jokes or we’ll never have ptime to see all the Big Things in pTassie!”
For the cherry on top of your trip to Tassie, pop on over to beautiful Rosegarland to see the legend-cherry Big Cherry.
You’ll be cherry glad you did – teehee!
Diego Wozniak, Editor of the Bigs: Sorry, Biggsy, you’ve already used the word ‘cherry’ four times – ease up, mate.
No worries, Diego, I’ll get out my diction-cherry to expand my vocabu-cherry. Anyway, dear readers, the plump, juicy Big Cherry is deliciously realistic, with a pinch of cheekiness. Just look at that elegant stem!
The fabulous fruit is in a ripe position to take a photo with, and can be found atop a pole out the front of Wandin Valley Farms.
No, not that Wandin Valley. What do you think this is, A Coun-cherry Practice?
Diego: Bigs, that’s the worst pun you’ve ever written – and that’s saying something. No wonder the sponsors are abandoning this site.
I’m cherry sorry, Diego, I’ll try to cherry-pick the best jokes from now on. Visit Rosegarland at the right time of year – between October and Janu-cherry – to see the extraordi-cherry sight of cherry trees in full bloom.
Sadly they don’t host weddings at Wandin Valley Farm. What a shame – it would be the perfect place for a commitment cherry-mony!
Whilst in the area, you could also get a happy snap with The Big Raspberry, which isn’t cherry far down the road in Westerway.
Diego: Bigs, the readers are here for information on The Big Cherry. Maybe you could talk about the size of this roadside attraction(about 175cm from top to bottom, or 3.5m if you count the pole). Or let them know what it’s made of (I don’t know – something red?). They’re not here for your tired old puns, most of which were already used for your entries on the Big Cherries in Young, NSW and Pages Flat, SA and Wyuna, Vic.
Gracias, Diego. I cherry-ish your advice.
Diego: That’s it, Bigs. I can’t deal with this. I’m taking a…
They’re cute, they’re cuddly, they’d probably taste great with tartare sauce and a slice of lemon – please put your tentacles together for the bubble-headed bad boys of Burnie, Callum & Murray.
Wait a sec. Callum and Murray. Callum, Murray. That almost sounds like calamari. How clever!
Cal (the pink one) and Muz (the blue one) live in the water play area next to the surf club. But watch out, they’re armed and fabulous!
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Bigs, these cephalopods – although sufficiently large and oh-so-adorable – only have six legs apiece. Was the local council ripped off by the artist, or were the remaining legs stolen by some local tough guys?
Neither, my ink-wisitive friend. Callum and Murray are in fact hexapi, mythical six-legged sea beasties with fantastically fashionable shells, who are said to frolic in Burnie’s crystal-clear waters. Apparently they sashay out of the brine in pairs at dawn and squirt people who are just going about their business.
In a town like Burnie, that seems like a good way to get a punch in the head, but these festive fellows don’t seem too worried about it.
Despite spending all their time together, I should point out that these swingin’ sea studs are not a couple. They’re just inverte-great mates!
Weekend at Burnie
Callum and Murray may have boyish good looks, but they’re hardly new squids on the block. They started out life in 2011 as a relatively milquetoast installation known simply as Burnie Water Sculpture. Created by Arterial Design, the boys were originally plain white, without their handsome faces. They looked exactly the same.
You might even say they were i-tenticle – teehee!
Yes, they lit up at night – in a variety of colours, no less – but the mundane molluscs failed to wrap their suckers around the hearts of Tasmanians.
I would’ve called them Squid Rock and Wiggles McGee, but what do I know?
Now this octo-passionate pair bring a little joy to the world – joining The Big Penguin and The Red Robin as darlings of Tassie’s windswept north coast.
Forget about hexapis, these guys are more like cutie-pies!
Pardon me, but you’re probably pondering: why aren’t I pondering the meaning of life beside The Pondering Frog? A perfectly ponderable puzzle, my perceptive pal.
The four-metre-tall pontificator is perched outside The Pondering Frog café, which is a hop, skip and a jump from beautiful Bicheno, on Tasmania’s east coast. With his comical bug eyes and pompous expression, this gentle giant appears lost in quiet contemplation.
He is, perhaps, the thinking man’s Big Thing.
The altitudinous amphibian was the passion project of the café’s original owner, Collette Dieren, who was toad-ally frog-sessed with frogs. Wanting to promote her business, she tapped local lad Mark Trigg to design something BIG.
Well, what better way to promote your business than appearing on Land of the Bigs?
Tony Yunk from Y-Not Fibreglass completed the (surprise, surprise) fibreglassing, whilst Aaron Reader took care of the metal frame.Teamwork makes the green work!
The Pondering Frog was installed to much fanfare in April of 2023, right next to the café’s beloved frog-shaped slide – which is perfect for the tadpoles!
There are leaps – oops, I mean heaps! – of froggy trinkets on sale inside the shop. They also have some pretty special beers in the fridge – but they were a bit too hoppy for me.
So grab a frogaccino and park yourself at one of the outdoor tables to admire this thoughtful giant (if the weather Kermits, of course).
The Ponder Years
A pale polish of precipitation descended upon Bicheno as Bigella, Little Peter Poppins and moi pranced into The Pondering Frog. The café, that is, not the statue – it would get a bit cramped in there.
Moments later, a smartly-dressed waitress set down plates of frogalicious food. Honey chicken for myself and seafood chowder for Bigella. Peter, not surprisingly, went for the legendary garlic prawns.
“This has been an un-frog-ettable stopover,” I smirked, popping a tender morsel into my mouth. Bigella, for some reason, didn’t buckle over in fits of laughter, so I said it again – a little louder this time. “An un-FROG-ettable stopover.”
“You don’t have to ribbit yourself,” Bigella sighed. “And anyway, you copied that joke word-for-word from the café’s website. You could call it polliwog-giarism.”
“Ouch,” I gasped. “Your words hurt, but I appreciate the croak. Oops, I mean the joke! What’s wrong, toots?” “Bigs, you know I love oversized roadside attractions, but sometimes…” “Sometimes?”
“Sometimes I’d like to see something other than Big Things. Tasmania is awash with waterfalls and animals and mountains and restaurants, but we’ve spent the entire trip racing from The Big Globe to The Big Axe to The Big Blue Head. We didn’t even get to see any penguins because you were too busy taking photos of The Big Penguin.”
“We’re on a tight schedule,” I bristled. “We could’ve either gone on the helicopter tour of Wineglass Bay, with a six-course degustation dinner, or seen a big concrete frog. I’m comfortable with my decision.”
Bigella ladelled chowder into her mouth, smiled, and peered out at The Pondering Frog. “You’re right, Bigs. This is exactly where I want to be.”
“That’s the beauty of Big Things,” Peter pipped, plucking a prawn from his plate. “They take us to places we never would have visited otherwise. They’re magical like that.” Every head in the room nodded solemnly.
“Well, we’d better hop to it,” I grinned froggishly. “That dragon in St Helens won’t photograph herself.” “Yes, it’s time to hit the frog and toad,” Bigella shrugged. “Can we see the Bay of Fires on the way? I’ve dreamed of going there since I was a little girl.”
“Probably won’t get a chance to if we want to make it to The Big Thumbs-Up before sunset,” I snorted. “But you can look up those fires or whatever they are on YouTube when we get home.”
“Oh Bigs,” my companion gasped. “Sometimes I ponder why I put up with you!”
Bruny Island was once famous for its white sand beaches, scrumptious cheese, and pristine wilderness. But tourists now flock to this Tasmanian archipelago to marvel at something even more spectacular – a rather large metal bird.
Please say a warm ‘Bock-bock-bock!’ to George Bruny, a plucky heron (or maybe even a Cape Barren Goose) who’s every bit as handsome and charismatic as the movie star he’s named after.
Just to be clear, that movie star is George Clooney – the roguish star of ER, Ocean’s Eleven, and a quite lubricious dream I had a few nights ago. Bruny, Clooney, it’s really quite clever if you think about it.
Crafted from corrugated iron and old bits of pipe, Gorgeous George can be found on the outskirts of Alonnah, opposite the historic St Brendan’s Church. With his outrageous orange beak and frazzled expression, he welcomes gaggles of visitors to this windswept corner of the island.
Everybody, it seems, has heard about this bird.
Much like George Clooney, George Bruny is a little bit rustic, a little bit wacky, and all sorts of amazing.
You really need to chick him out!
Goose on the Loose
Georgie-boy may not be the largest or best-known resident of the Land of the Bigs, but here’s a fun fact – he is the southernmost. Go on, check it out on The Ultimate Aussie Big Things Map, just to be sure.
Admiring a Biggie like George is hungry work, so why not pop over to the beloved Bruny Baker Bread Fridge to fuel up afterwards. Overflowing with zesty sourdough and choc-chip cookies, this self-service fridge is just two minutes drive away (or 30 if you get stuck behind a Hyundai i20 loaded up with Chinese tourists).
Or follow George’s bill towards the legendary Hotel Bruny, where a little birdie told me you can grab a dozen oysters and a bowl of ocean-fresh calamari rings. Yummy yummy.
Ulverstone is widely regarded as Tassie’s global city, so it makes sense they’d have a gigantic planetary globe on display. Built in the mid-80s, The Big Globe is looking a bit run-down these days, but remains a world-class attraction.
But here’s the best bit – it spins!
Sure, the whole thing feels a bit wonky, and I was worried it would fall off its spindle and roll into Bass Strait, but how many other Bigs can you rotate with the flick of a wrist?
The Big Globe can be found in the picturesque Shropshire Park, by the banks of the River Leven. The garden was built to honour the crew of HMAS Shropshire, and the globe details the activities of the Royal Australian Navy during World War II.
Informative, patriotic and impressively prop-orb-tioned. What a well-rounded Big Thing this is.
No doubt about it, this kitschy attraction has become a global phenomenon. If you haven’t organised a trip to Ulverstone, you should planet soon. Ooh, aren’t my jokes his-spherical!
Not surprisingly, I highly recommend seeing it, unless you’re a flat-earther!
It’s a small world after all… or is it?
Alright, pointdexter, I know what you’re thinking: “Bigs, the Earth has a circumference of 40,075km and this replica is, at most, about five or six metres around. Therefore it is much smaller than the real thing and, by definition, not a Big.”
That’s why I’m Australia’s foremost expert on Big Things and you – despite being a lovely person – are not.
The Big Globe is not a recreation of the actual Earth, but of a terrestrial globe. You know, the ones that are the size of a netball and usually sit on someone’s desk. Anyone who disagrees just has a bad latitude!
Plus, it’s called The Big Globe, so it’s right there in the name. Just like the nearby Big Penguin and Big Tassie Devil.
All Taswegians should be proud of their giant, geographically-correct recreation of a marginally smaller recreation of the Earth.
She may have luscious legs and a voluptuous thorax, but you wouldn’t want to find this creepy-crawly in your bed! But enough about my companion, Bigella – we’re here to talk about Giant Spider, who lives in St George, Utah.
Seventeen-feet tall and weighing a little over a ton, Giant Spider lives, quite appropriately, out the front of Morgan Pest Control on leafy South Hilton Drive.
Deveren Farley built the amazing arachnid for the town’s Art Around the Corner festival in 2018. She took up residence in the main street of town, where her galvanised steel limbs and number plate-encrusted torso tantalised and terrified in equal measure.
“I thought, honestly, how funny would it be to do a giant spider and see if people were scared by it or not,” Dev cackled when his masterpiece was unveiled to a skittish public.
The good people of St George obviously don’t suffer from arachnophobia, because two local businesses put in bids for Giant Spider when the festival finished.
Morgan Pest Control won out, and the grand old dame trotted off to her new home.
“It’s an iconic thing for St. George and we’re tickled to keep it here,” Dave Kipp, owner of the exterminator service, cheered. “Utah license plates all over the head, the stop sign under the belly for the black widow, it’s just perfect.”
But what happened to the poor folks who missed out? Kind-hearted Dev built a second giant spider, which was erected an itsy-bitsy drive down the road at The Fiesta Fun Center.
The owner was very happy to receive the enormous arthropod. In fact, you might say she was be-spider self!
Spider-Bigs, Spider-Bigs, Do whatever Spider-Bigs do Can they swing from a web? No, they can’t, they’re just big, Look out, they’re Spider-Bigs!
Giant spiders scurry all over the Land of the Bigs, and you arach-need to visit them every single one of them!
Swagger up to Seattle to see The Big Spider. A bizarre Wolkswagen/Spider hybrid is driving the residents of Palm Springs wild. Kansas City, Missouri might need to be renamed Kansas City, Miss-ew-there’s-a-huge-spider because, well, there is one.
The Gonzo is a wee bit spider-y, so pay him a visit in nearby Moab.
“My spidey senses are tingling!” I giggled, gyrating in front of Bigella. “You want to visit them all, don’t you?”
My comrade shifted her gaze from moi, to Giant Spider, and back to moi. Tears pricked at her eyes and, for a moment, I worried she didn’t share my fondness for oversized arachnids.
If she didn’t, could I ever face her again?
“Oh Bigs, I’m totally web-sessed with big spiders,” she finally gasped, weeble-wobbling around like a tarantula, before scooting up a nearby wall to expunge an egg sack. “Let’s head to Urana, Australia, where there’s a funnel web of enormous proportions.”
“It’s only 15,000 kilometres away,” I shrugged, cocooning a fly in silk.
And with that, we released plumes of gossamer threads into the warm Utah air, and allowed the prevailing winds to carry us across the world, where novelty spiders innumerable awaited our arrival.
Many enemies have I battled over the years. Rowdy Roddy Pipeman. Varicose veins. Sergio, the hunky Venezuelan yoga instructor who enjoyed shiva squatting with my wife just a little too much.
But my greatest fight has always been against the irresistible allure of artificially flavoured carbonated beverages.
Fizzy drinks. Pop. Soda, if you may.
Dr Pepper was my mistress. Tall, dark and syrupy, I nestled in her cherried embrace for several years. My waistline ballooned, my teeth rotted out of my head, and I wound up with some really quite grotesque facial acne that caused children to flee at the very sight of me.
Why did you think I wore the mask?
Not even at my lowest point, when I roamed the sultry streets of Salt Lake City begging for loose change to buy just one more can of sugar water, could I break up with Pepper. Then, after an unsavoury incident in the refreshment aisle of a local supermarket, the big house came calling.
During a five year stretch, I found a new addiction – The Book of Mormon.
Well, that and my cellmate Elijah’s coconut macaroons. They’re just soooooo good!
My name is Santiago Smith. I am the world’s only mormon luchador, and this is the story of my pilgrimage to The Giant Soda Cans in Salinas, Utah – and the sugar high that almost cost me my life.
Who can take a sunrise Sprinkle it with Mountain Dew Diet Coke Cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two? The Can Man Oh, the Can Man can The Can Man can ’cause he mixes it with love And makes Utah taste good
Decades after kicking my sordid soda habit, the sanguine zest of an icy-cold can of Dr Pepper still haunted my dreams. It was all I could think about, and my fizzy fantasies became wilder by the day. I became moribund, irritable, and more than a little aloof.
One time, I was so frazzled that I forgot to return my VHS copy of Nacho Libre until several days after the due date. The clerk – Raymond – was not impressed.
Yes, I could’ve gone to The World’s Largest Coca-Cola Bottle, but my good friend Bigs Bardot has already written about that, so a 14-hour round-trip to Salina it was.
The four soda cans rise like sepultures in the high desert; mourning, perhaps, a United States long since lost. One used to be painted like a jar of Dr Pepper, but by the time I arrived, they’d been repainted in the irrepressible designs of Coca-Cola, Diet Coke, Sprite and – most egregious of all – Monster energy drink.
“Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers” I shrugged, leaning in to guzzle Sprite from a hose sticking out the side of a colossal can.
“Yucky!” I recoiled, liquid oozing from the mouth-hole of my silver mask. “That’s not soda – that’s gasoline!”
The drink was pungent but, in a way, it felt like home. As I gulped down mouthfuls of the heavily-refined nectar, all my worries disappeared.
Of course, I ended up with some really quite unpleasant internal haemorrhaging. But those few moments of peace were worth the lifetime of agony.
But, when you think about it, that was probably better for my health than drinking a can of Monster energy drink.
Rowdy Roddy Pipeman, that doyen of Moabitian culture and commerce, stands erect before the headquarters of Adrift Adventures, the La Sal Mountains rising in quiet consternation above him.
An oar in one hand and a stylish red cap atop his spherical head, Rowdy’s drainage-pipe arms ripple in the sharp morning sun. He’s handsome and quirky, with the sort of dangerous edge that drives girls crazy.
He’s also my deadliest adversary.
But where are my manners? Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Santiago Smith; admirer of Big Things, recovering soda addict, and the world’s only mormon luchador.
Okay, there’s also Donny Osmond, but when was the last time he participated in a steel cage deathmatch against Hulk Hogan?
Fists clenched, perspiration dripping down my hand-stitched silver mask and onto the freshly-pressed designer shirt I’d recently picked up at Ross, I stepped out of the high desert and prepared to face the ghost who had haunted me for so long.
“No longer shall I hunt this swine, no longer shall he feast upon my dreams. Nothing shall get in the way of thy retribution!” I snarled, before sidestepping into a pastel-hued shop. “Well, except for a luxurious red velvet cookie and a bucket of watermelon and coconut frozen yogurt from popular local restaurant MOYO.”
Even vengeful prize fighters deserve a sweet treat every now and then.
BiggieMania XXII: Madness in Moab!
Cars full of happy-faced tourists zipped past as I swaggered down Main Street, frogurt dripping down my chin and hate in my heart.
They dreamed of the Arches National Park, but were unaware that the true main event – one teeming with loathing and lust – was about to occur on a nondescript scrap of pavement.
And then there he was. Rowdy Roddy Pipeman. Smiling that big, beautiful smile of his, despite all he’d taken from me. How could he sleep at night?
“My name is Santiago Smith,” I rasped, launching into the script I’d rehearsed in front of the mirror so many times. “You once left me a four-star review on Etsy despite the knitted cardigan I sent you being lovingly crafted, true to size, and delivered in a prompt manner. Prepare to die!”
But before I could leap for the Pipeman’s throat, knocking his hat and his impish grin into the wasteland, I turned to see a group of startled Korean tourists. Cameras clutched in their lithe hands, they were obviously hoping for a photo – a selfie, if you will – with my detested rival.
A single tear rolled from a Korean girl’s chubby little cheek, plopped onto the dusty ground, and melted my heart.
I realised that Rowdy Roddy Pipeman is a bigger man than me. Not just physically, but metaphysically. He embodies the soul of Moab, and if I tore him limb from brawny limb, I’d be no better than the kangaroo rats that infest this corner of Utah.
And so, instead of beating the Pipeman to a bloody pulp I simply smiled at him, sauntered into Adrift Adventures, and booked myself on a six-day inflatable kayak tour to Desolation Canyon.
That’ll give me plenty of time to have a good, hard think about my anger issues.
Carved from a single log and exuding a quiet, rustic charm, The Bulahdelah Big Bass presides over the majestic Myall River.
As the name suggests, this friendly fish is the pride of Bulahdelah, a Bohemian village widely regarded as the jewel of the NSW Mid-North Coast.
‘Bulah’ was erected in 2006, and became a place of respite on the drive up or down the legendary Pacific Highway. Grab a pie, gawp at an enormous wooden actinopterygian, then be on your way.
Sadly, there’s something fishy going on in Bulahdelah, because The Big Bass has been left to rot away. These days, the tangled bushes all but swallow her from sight. There was even an empty Coca-Cola container beneath her pelvic fin during my visit!
I can imagine a motley crew of plebeians sitting legs akimbo in the twilight, pouring sugar water down their gullets, oblivious to the artwork above their jabbering heads.
Bass-ically, it’s a tragedy of epic proportions. She needs a refurb-fish-ment. Hopefully the civic leaders read this and take the time to mullet over.
Despite all this, The Big Bass is still some-fin special. If you were prone to puns, you might even say she’s is a pretty big Bulah-deal-ah – teehee!
I’m Totally Addicted to Bass
Carved from granite and exuding an intense, smouldering charm, Gordon surveyed me as we sat beside the majestic Myall River.
The little alien chuckled to himself, then allowed his gaze to follow a lone firefly as it danced towards The Big Bass, before fading into the dusk.
Something was on his mind, but I was far too poltroon to explore further, so I allowed the silence to cloak us.
“You know, Bigs,” Gordon finally cooed, jabbing a furry finger towards Bulah. “I’ve been herring rumours about this place for years.” “Well I only found trout about it recently,” I chuckled. The ice broken, I leaned in closer. “Gordon,” I purred. “You didn’t bring me all the way out here just to trade bad jokes, did you?”
He grinned his funny little grin and, as The Bass peered down at us, looked me straight in the eyes.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Bigella and Little Peter Poppins lately,” he croaked, choosing his words carefully. “I understand if you don’t have time for little old me anymore.”
A single tear rolled down Gordon’s chubby cheek, danced in the dying light, and vanished forever.
“Gordie, you know I can’t do this without you,” I gasped, and we both burst into tears as the weight of the world lifted from our shoulders. “Things might change, people might come and go, but you’ll always be with me on this ride through the Land of the Bigs.”
“Well, I suppose I am the personification of your lost childhood and unrealised dreams,” Gordon grinned. “Not even years of intense therapy could get rid of me!”
“That’s enough chit-chat for one day, let’s head home,” I sighed, waving goodbye to Bulah. “I’m sardinely feeling very tired!”
Apples are the core industry of Queensland’s famous Granite Belt region, so it’s no surprise there’s a really, really big one in the village of Thulimbah.
At four metres tall and 4.5 metres wide, The Big Apple rises high over the renowned Vincenzo’s Café. A scrumptious Italian meal and a delicious red Big – what more could you ask for?
The steel-and-fiberglass Big Apple was built in 1978 by local legend Johnny Ross. It was then erected by hometown hero Brian Wilmot outside a petrol station in the apple-ropriately-named hamlet of Applethorpe.
Shockingly, it was originally painted a very a-peel-ing shade of green!
Turnovers were impressive until, in 2003, the unthinkable happened. The servo was redeveloped and The Big Apple was thrown into storage. Maybe they should’ve changed the name of the town to No-Applethorpe.
But The Big Apple wasn’t ready for the compost heap just yet. later that year it was painted up like a Royal Gala and transported to it’s current location beside the New England Highway.
That’s juiced down the road from Stanthorpe and its Big Thermometer. Some folks argue about which is more iconic but honestly, that’s like comparing apples and, well, 10-metre-tall hunk of meteorological measuring equipment.
She’ll Be Apples, Mate!
Nestled in the shadows of tThe Big Apple, Vincenzo’s offers a sumptuous array of pizza, pasta and panini. But there was only one treat I wanted to scoff down after a long afternoon taking photos with Big Things: their genre-defining apple pie.
When I swaggered in and ordered one, however, Bigella shot me a haphazard look.
“Don’t you think that might upset you-know-who?” she whispered, before gazing with deference towards The Big Apple.
“How insensitive of me,” I spluttered, before turning back to the well-presented counterperson. “I guess I’ll go with a succulent steak and pepper pie, then.”
He nodded solemnly, but when he returned with the golden treat, I Ieaned in close.
“Be a darl and pop a few of those freshly-baked apple pies in a paper bag for me,” I hissed surreptitiously, stealing a cautious glance towards Bigella. “You’d better double-bag it – I don’t want to upset you-know-who.”
The meat pie, which I delicately pecked at in the comfy confines of the restaurant, was fluffy, crispy, and oh-so-delicious. And the apple pie, which I finally plucked up the courage to cram into my gob that night when I was sure Bigella was asleep, was simply devine.
But don’t tell her I said that!
An Apple a Day Keeps the Boredom Away
Oversized orbs are applentiful across the wide, brown Land of the Bigs. There’s a fine example just down the road in Acacia Ridge – although I must warn you there are some rotten characters lurking around it!
Head down to New South Wales to discover a bushel of big beauties, with Apples in Batlow, Darkes Forest, Tallong, and Yerrinbool. They’re the envy (that’s a breed of apple) of all the other states!
Not wanting to be left out, Victoria boasts Big Apples in Bacchus Marsh and Gladysdale, with an ever-so-slightly-larger-than-average specimen in Somerville. Donnybrook, WA, has one, too. Even South Australia has a Big Apple in Balhannah.
And who could forget the Apple Isle? Tassie has a Big Apple resting above a shop in the tranquil village Spreyton.
You’ll have a tough time de-cider-ing which one to visit next!
Kick up your heels at Kincumber’s Green View Gallery & Cafe, where you can admire world-class artworks, enjoy a plate of scrummy waffles, and take in the majesty of the Steel Stilettos.
Impossible to miss by the side of Avoca Drive and easy to step up to for a fun photo, they add a little camp and class to the Central Coast.
Local artist Gregory Roy Cope made these fashionable clogs for the 2008 edition of the Swell Sculpture Festival. Seems like they were a shoe-in to win!
After the well-heeled members of the art set had finished clucking their tongues, the Steel Stilettos trotted off to Pokolbin’s Mistle-toe Winery to be put on permanent display.
And that’s when the unthinkable happened. Like a pair of last-season’s pumps tossed out in the rain, these magnificent Bigs were left to rot away. Honestly, anyone who allows that to happen to a giant pair of shoes has some sole searching to do.
Then, in 2019, the Steel Stilettos were transferred to their forever home in Kincumber, and Gregory – that courageous cobbler of Big Things – brought them back to life with a new lick of paint.
It must’ve been quite a feet – teehee!
More Than a Heeling
When I finally gathered the courage to tell Bigella I had a pair of stilettos to show her, she let out a knowing sigh.
“I’ve been waiting for this day to come,” she shrugged. “No, no,” I chuckled. “I mean the Steel Stilettos in Kincumber. Let’s go take a photo with them!” “Oh Bigs,” she tittered, “you really are heel-arious!”
I had a spring in my step as I climbed out of the Bigsmobile and raced over to the shiny shoes. I’m more of a thongs guy, but I was awestruck by the craftmanship and attention to detail.
“Hopefully they’re chained down,” I told Bigella with a wry smile. “I’d hate for someone to try to steal-etto them!”
Little Peter Poppins, however, wasn’t in the mood for fun and games. Big Things are serious business for this pint-sized guru of roadside attractions.
“As chic as they are kitsch, the Steel Stilettos exhibit a roguish tenacity that not only commands respect,” Peter pompously proposed, “it holds a mirror up to our very id.”
“Thats quite poignant, Peter, but I’m hungry,” I moaned. “Lets get a bite to eat from the cafe.” “Sounds good,” Bigella agreed. “I’ve heard the New Orleans style gumbo is to die for.”
“Considering where we are,” I sniggered, before gesturing charismatically at the giant shoes, “shouldn’t that be the New Orleans style gumboots?”
They’re pickin’ up good vibrations. Human blood gives them excitations. Please put the salt away as we welcome The Leech Boys.
With gigantic jaws and farcically-large pharynxes, this trio of parasitic invertebrates guide visitors towards the Rainforest Centre at Dorrigo National Park. And despite their reputation, they certainly don’t suck!
Cheeky and handsome with a slight bad boy edge, The Leech Boys were built to show a gentler side of these misunderstood annelids.
“Local rangers had the idea to build the giant sculptures after constantly being approached by visitors worried about leeches in the rainforest,” a NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service spokesperson told a bewildered, yet beguiled, reporter from Yahoo News Australia. “We’re looking to normalise these small rainforest inhabitants, and dampen some peoples’ fear of them.”
There was widespread revulsion when the bloodsucking freaks were installed in December 2022. But visitors have slowly, but surely, come to love them. Not only do these quirky chaps offer a great photo op, they also double as seats. Not particularly comfortable seats, but seats nonetheless.
“The sculptures are a fun way to acknowledge that leeches are there and part of the damp rainforest environment and not something we necessarily have to be afraid of,” the spokesperson gasbagged.
Give these fun-lovin’ party boys a chance, and they just might worm their way into your heart (don’t worry, not literally – that would be absolutely horrific).
All together now: “I wish they all could be Dorrigo leeches!”
Let’s go to Dorrigo now, see The Leech Boys and say ‘wow’ Come on a safari with me (and Bigella and Peter Poppins)
Tear yourself away from The Big Leeches, and Dorrigo National Park offers a treasure trove of sylvan decadence. The Skywalk, that stunning feat of modern engineering, whisks visitors away on a journey high above the canopy.
Once you have your breath back, lace up your hiking boots for a march into the park’s verdant underbelly. Walking tracks wind their way beneath waterfalls to the sing-song cadence of bowerbirds and woompoo fruit doves.
But, sadly, there aren’t any Big Things down there in the scrub. So I would’ve rather been at the nearby Big Golden Dog, Big Banana or Cunningham’s Bananas. Especially when the downpour began.
Little Peter Poppins, however, didn’t seem to mind.
Round, round, kinda round The Leeches are round, yeah Long and round, round, round The Leeches are round
Gesturing enigmatically at the braying woodland around him, Peter braced himself against the cloudburst and began his eulogy.
“The National Park reserves its greatest splendour for those saccharine morns when the heavens open and the cascades broil through the undergrowth,” the diminutive savant pontificated as a small group gathered around him.
“When the mist retreats, sunlight dances upon every leaf. The universe is reborn. And The Leech Boys – those unheralded monarchs of the forest’s nether world – rear up to greet one so brave to wander into the green inferno.”
“That’s really quite poetic, Peter” Bigella gasped, whisking him away to change his dirty nappy.
“So what you’re saying,” I giggled, pausing for dramatic effect, “is that these leeches – despite your preconceived notions – don’t suck!” “You’ve already used that joke, Bigs,” Bigella harumphed.
“Oh well,” I tittered. “I guess you can’t leech an old dog new tricks!”
A forty-foot-tall, fire-shooting, heavy-metal praying mantis has taken over Fremont Street in Las Vegas – and the locals couldn’t be happier!
Well, a five-tonne firebug is less terrifying than the usual visitors.
The Mantis can be found flirting with visitors in front of the trendy Downtown Container Park. Every night at sundown, to the rhythmic cacophony of drums, the creature awakens. And thus begins a performance that puts Cirque du Soleil to shame.
No wonder people flock to her like a plague of locusts!
During the show, the beast’s flames can reach an astonishing six storeys high, delighting and frightening the crowd. Fortunately, The Big Fire Hydrant is just down the street if things get out of control.
The enormous stick insect can also, apparently, speak over 20 languages. Bug your pardon, but that seems like a lie. Don’t tell The Mantis I said that, though, or she’ll bite my head off.
This crazy critter seems born from the nightmares of a madman – but The Mantis is actually the result of the greatest love story the world has ever known…
Mantis, I Feel Like a Woman!
Most guys choose flowers or chocolates for an anniversary present. Kirk Jellum, that doyen of the large scale metal art scene, chose to celebrate his passion for his wife, Kristen, with an insect sculpture the size of a house.
Way to make the rest of us look bad, Kirk!
Calling on his experience in the aerospace industry, Kirk – along with a team of 20 minions – spent 500 hours designing and 3,000 hours building The Mantis in the driveway of his Salt Lake City home.
“I caught the mantis, the actual live insect back when I was engineering,” Kirk mantis-plained. “I analyzed every part and replicated it, so it is a true steel replica of an actual Praying Mantis
Kristen was a mite impressed by her gift, but soon tired of having to navigate around it every time she wanted to drive to the shops. And that’s where the true genius of Kirk’s work came through.
He’d built The Mantis on the back of a 1983 GMC dump truck, so he drove it to the 2010 Burning Man Festival in the deserts of Nevada.
After the hippies had finished taking Instagram selfies with it, Tony Hsieh stepped in. Yes, that Tony Hsieh.
The Mantis had a new mission – to rejuvenate Fremont St as part of Tony’s $350 redevelopment of the fading tourist spot.
The success of the creepy-crawly was even greater than mantis-ipated, with thousands of tourists grasshopping over to see her. And the rest – much like poor old Tony himself – is history.
“So,” Bigella grinned after spending an hour taking photos of me with The Mantis. “Should I expect something like this for our next anniversary?” “Erm, sure,” I nodded, making a mental note not to get her that cheese of the month membership after all.
Sin City becomes Soda City at the Coca-Cola Store, located on the Las Vegas Strip. Out the front is – what else? – The World’s Largest Coca-Cola Bottle, which is very pop-ular with tourists.
The festive flask measures 100 feet from bulbous bottom to beautiful bottlecap. After gawping in slack-jawed wonder at The Bottle’s sensual curves, visitors can ride an elevator into its glass neck, high above the streets of the city.
The views out over New York-New York Casino and The Grand Lion are, of course, truly effervescent!
The Bottle was built in 1997, as part of an outrageous soft drink-themed funpark known as World of Coca-Cola Las Vegas.
The exhibition celebrated Coke’s history through interactive exhibits, a movie theatre, and an ostentatious ‘fantastic fountain’. This curiosity featured five 25-foot-long screens and 1,000 Coca-Cola bottles shooting jets of coloured water in time to throbbing glam rock music.
I guess they didn’t have time to build the diabetes and obesity wing of the museum!
Let’s Get Fizzy-cal!
In a thirst of its kind, The World’s Largest Coca-Cola Bottle brought a splash of excitement to The Entertainment Capital of the World. But what did Governor of Nevada – and wannabe stand-up comedian – Bob Miller think about it?
“People who know me know I carry around a big container of Diet Coke every day – I’ve finally found a bottle that would be satisfactory for me!” giggled Bob to a nonplussed crowd at The Bottle’s opening.
Public reception was as flat as Bob’s jokes, and the museum was closed and dumped into the recycling bin in 2000. The owners must’ve been soda pressed!
Now only The World’s Largest Coke Bottle and the gift store remain. But with the prices, you might be better off taking your cash to the nearest casino and throwing it into a slot machine.
I recently blew my budget on the Land of the Bigs helicopter, so all I could afford was an icy-cold can of Coca-Cola Cherry Zero Sugar. As I was savouring my treat in front of The Big Bottle, a funny little man with shifty eyes and a trenchcoat sidled up to me.
“Hey amigo,” he sniffed. “Wanna buy some coke?” “Sorry, padre,” I shrugged, holding up my can. “If I have another fizzy drink I’ll be bouncing off the walls!”
If you can’t stand the heat, get out of Baker, California! There you’ll find The World’s Tallest Thermometer, which stands a jaw-dropping 134 feet tall. It’s a nod to the hottest temperature ever recorded – 134 degrees Fahrenheit – just up the road in Death Valley in 1913.
That’s 41 metres and 57 degrees celsius for those heathens who have abandoned the imperial system.
The weather was appropriately barbaric as Bigella and I cruised along Interstate 15 in our rented Hyundai, then slowed down to see yet another roadside attraction.
“Bigs, I’m so glad you brought me out to the desert in the middle of summer to see all these Big Things,” Bigella gasped as we pulled up next to The Thermometer. “It’s so much more romantic than sipping piña coladas by the pool in Bora Bora.” “We can go to Bora Bora next year,” I shrugged. “We’ll just pop in for a quick photo. We won’t be but a minute or two.”
As I stepped out of the car, The Thermometer’s majesty was so overwhelming that I barely noticed my thongs melting to the road.
“At least we got a warm welcome,” croaked Bigella, the desert climate clasping her in its sultry embrace. “Let’s get the photos – I’m wilting here.”
“Sure, but first a little history lesson,” I lectured. “Local businessman Willis Herron came up with the idea for The World’s Tallest Thermometer to attract customers to his popular Bun Boy restaurant. The Young Electric Sign Company assembled it at a cost of $750,000, with the project completed in 1991.”
“Sounds like he got a red-hot deal!” wheezed Bigella, mopping sweat from her brow.
That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
The World’s Tallest Thermometer has a gift shop that’s stocked with the coldest drinks in San Bernardino County. But it was closed when we visited, so rather than a refreshing lemonade, Bigella was treated to some more fascinating information about The World’s Tallest Thermometer.
“Bigs, please,” she moaned melodramatically. “I’m about to collapse.”
“It’s funny that you mention collapsing,” I smirked in the furnace-like conditions. “The Thermometer was, tragically, blown over by a storm before it was even lit up for the first time. It was quickly rebuilt and finally opened in October of 1992.” “That sounds like a lot of hot air,” Bigella panted. “Bigs, por favor –”
“It was bought and sold a few times,” I continued. “Then, in September of 2012, ballooning power costs – $8000 a month! – led to the attraction’s neon lights being turned off. It soon fell into disrepair.” “Out of the frying pan,” panted Bigella, her eyes rolling back in her skull, “and into the proverbial fire.”
“The Thermometer was to demolished,” I whispered solemnly. “But Willis Herron’s widow –” “The incomparable Barbara?” “Yes, the incomparable Barbara, wouldn’t have it. She bought the site in 2014, and poured her life savings into returning The Thermometer to its former glory.”
“Oh Bigs,” my companion whimpered. “I really do have a love/heat relationship with you.” “Bigella, my dear” I tittered, “just sweat it be!”
Some Like it Hot
In an outlandish project dubbed ‘The Big Fix’, the Herrons worked with the YESCO sign company to renovate this icon of Californian architecture.
“Can you tell me three other Big Things YESCO worked on?” I grilled Bigella, who braced herself against The Thermometer to keep herself from collapsing. “The Golden Goose in Las Vegas, The Giant Prospectors in Goodsprings, and, and…” Bigella’s eyes glazed over. “And Salt Lake City’s Snelgrove Ice Cream Cone! What I wouldn’t do for an ice cream right now!”
“And I’ll happily get you one, my dear,” I mused munificently. “Just as soon as I’ve told you all about the sort of paint they used to for The World’s Largest…”
Before I could spit out another nugget of knowledge, Bigella clambered into the Hyundai and sped into the distance without me. She didn’t even heatwave goodbye!
“Oh well, joke’s on her,” I muttered as I trudged along I-15, vultures circling above me. “She doesn’t even have the directions to The World’s Largest Fire Helmet!”
Los Angeles is home to movie stars and rock gods, but one celebrity stands, quite literally, above the rest: the mythical Chicken Boy.
Or, as his admirers call him, The Statue of Liberty of Los Angeles.
With his cocksure swagger and perfect plumage, Chicken Boy rules the roost over Highland Park’s trendy Figueroa Street. The 22-foot-tall kid with a fowl head brings a bit of old school class and – dare I say it – candor to this quirky corner of LA.
So popular is this feathery hunk that September 1st has been declared National Chicken Boy Day. Now that’s something to crow over!
A familiar beak in a rapidly-changing world, Chicken Boy’s story starts way back in the late-’60s. Wanting to hock more of their wings and spicy tenders, the owners of Chicken Boy Fried Chicken in Downtown LA came up with an egg-straordinary plan.
They bought a Muffler Man from International Fiberglass and – in typical LA fashion – gave him a facelift.
A local artist swapped out the human head for a chicken’s, and plonked a bucket of extra crispy in his hands. Perched atop the food shack, Chicken Boy was the bagawk of the town! He did his bit to raise the cholesterol of Californians until 1984, when the restaurant closed after the owner suddenly died.
Well, that’s what eating deep-fried chicken day in, day out, will do to you.
Chicken Boy was on the chopping block, until renowned artist Amy Inouye strutted into his life…
Too Big to Live, Too Weird to Fry
Amy had been an admirer of our rooster-headed homeboy for years. They first met in the mid-’70s, two lonely hearts in the vat of bubbling oil that is Los Angeles.
“Heading north on Broadway, I spotted Chicken Boy,” Amy revealed in her official history of Chicken Boy. “Time stood still as our eyes met. It was kind of like Maria meeting Tony at the dance, only the object of my affection had the head of a chicken and was welded to the top of a three-story building.
“Little did I know it was not a mere flirtation; our destinies were sealed that day.”
Sounds like it was love at first (short, flappy) flight!
“On a trip downtown one day, the shocking sight of a ‘for lease’ sign on the restaurant made me worry for the fate of Chicken Boy,” she continued. “I called the leasing agent to inquire. I kept calling until one day, they said, ‘If you’re so concerned about him, come and get him.’ ‘Okay’ said I. ‘Like now’, said they.”
Amy assumed that Angelenos would be falling over themselves to take Chicken Boy off her hands. Instead, he spent 23 years cooped up in a storage container.
Then, in 2007, a beakthrough. Amy opened Future Studio Design & Gallery in Highland Park and, on October 17 of that year, Chicken Boy took his rightful place on the roof. He remains there to this lay… oops, I mean day!
“Chicken Boy has been my muse, and my contribution to LA historic preservation. This is what I will be known for, even if I were to cure the common cold. I believe this small but mighty gesture is a wonderful tribute to my buddy Chicken Boy. He deserves it.”
I love a story with a happy hen-ding!
Chicken Boy: The Movie
To prepare myself for an encounter with this most unique roadside attraction, I fired up my VHS player to watch Chicken Boy: The Movie. What, you thought Arnold the Murray Cod was the only Big with a movie dedicated to him?
This award-winning romantic comedy follows our feathered friend on a metaphysical journey of personal and sensual discovery – and is utterly, unapologetically bonkers.
“Well, I don’t think I need to see the director’s cluck,” I joked afterwards, walking out of my moth-bitten motel room and into the concrete jungle that is Figueroa Street.
I soon discovered that a muscular teen with a bird‘s head and a bucket of fried chow is the most normal thing in Highland Park. Everywhere you chook, there’s women of ill repute and men in ponchos smoking silly cigarettes.
Chicken Boy is notoriously difficult to take a photo with. During summer he’s completely hidden behind a leafy tree, and even in winter a billboard blocks him from view. Oh, how the mighty had fowlen!
A strange outdoor medical clinic has sprung up in the carpark of the Mexican restaurant next door. Maybe there’s been an outbreak of bird flu?
To get my happy snap, I handed my camera over to Colby, a slightly overweight Filipino gentleman with a beard and a sun dress. When I returned Colby was, to my surprise, a blubbering mess. “What’s wrong, Colby?” I queried “Well Bigs,” he wept. “Let’s just say I got my hopes up when you asked me to take a photo of you and your massive –” “That’s quite enough of that, Colby,” I snapped.
Don’t have a cow, man – have two! Scottish Angus Cow and Calf are udderly adorable, and can be found lounging about next to the Denver Art Museum.
The dynamic duo exist at the intersection of realism and fantasy, and bring a little country style into the heart of the city. At 13 feet tall, and weighing more than five tonnes, it’s time for you to meat them!
Local sculptor Dan Ostermiller built them as a moo-ving tribute to the cows on a nearby cattle ranch. The owner, Leo Hindery, revered his herd and treated them like royalty – in fact, they became famous throughout Cow-lorado.
Dan doesn’t do things by calves, so he spent time getting to know the cows on a first-name basis, before heading into the moo-dio – oops, I mean the studio.
He built a 30-inch bronze sculpture of the cows and then, when he was sure there were no mi-steaks, made a full-sized plaster cast of them. From there, styrofoam pieces were made, they were sent to a foundry to be recreated in bronze, and the moooo-sterpiece was assembled on-site.
But for more details go-vine here to read the full story!
When Leo’s property was sold in 2006, the Scottish Angus Cow and Calf waddled into the big smoke, where they surprise and delight all who visit the downtown precinct. Head there after hours, and you won’t have to cattle the crowds.
Hopefully these Big Cows will remain there for-heifer.
Things to do in Denver when you’re grain-fed
If you and the herd find yourself in Denver, the mile-high city has a beefy selection of Big Things. Big Sweep is at the other end of the museum, or you can hoof it down to the Denver Library to visit The Yearling.
For those of us attracted to bears, the city is also home to I See What You Mean – better known as The Big Blue Bear. Miss out on this cute carnivore, and you’ll be the one feeling blue!
He’s tall, yellow and handsome – please say hello to bRICK, an eight-foot Lego man who lives in Grand Junction, Colorado.
Ooooh, what a stud!
This towering toy boy welcomes visitors to the eBricks Lego shop, a true Aladdin’s cave full of blocks, playsets and minifigures. Come for the 2,000lb Lego gentleman, stay for the extensive collection of the world’s favourite plastic building toys.
bRICK dominates 7th street, his cheeky grin and garish outfit transforming the sidewalk into a playbox of fun and frivolity. Standing before bRICK, that oversized ode to childhood, roles are reversed. The viewer becomes the toy, and the world feels just a little bit bigger – and more magical.
I guess you could say he was the missing piece of downtown Grand Junction!
This giant Lego man has proven to be a real brick-magnet. Not surprisingly, business is booming – and not just for the fine folk at eBricks.
“Honestly, every like 10 or 15 minutes, I see people taking pictures with him. It’s a pretty epic sculpture,” chuckled Cole Rath, charismatic owner of Mountain Air Roasters, which is lucky enough to be next door to eBricks.
bRICK may be a dream come true for blockheads, but building him was certainly not child’s play…
If you build bRICK, they will come
As the popularity of eBricks blossomed in the early-2020s, Kenneth dreamed of installing a set of giant Lego blocks outside the front door, to lure in yet more customers. But this build was too much even for a Lego master like him.
And that’s when, by pure chance, Kenneth bumped into Brandon Sloan. Yes, that Brandon Sloan – the renowned blacksmith and enigmatic owner of Ironics Forge in nearby Dolores.
Brandon built the bundle of bricks, and Kenneth was so delighted he decided it was time to go big. Well, sort of. He initially asked Brandon to build him a four-foot-tall Lego man and then, after mulling it over, told him to double it.
That’s right – EIGHT FEET of grinning Lego man.
Brandon, who was not just there for bricks ‘n’ giggles, carefully measured up a regular-sized Lego man. Then, using advanced mathematical algorithms that would make Pythagoras blush, he created a blueprint for an eight-foot-tall version.
A blueprint that was juuuust different enough from Lego Movie‘s main character, Emmett, to avoid legal problems.
The end result, Brandon promised, would be bRICK-tacular.
The Sacred and Propane
After scavenging metal from all over western Colorado, brave Brandon found an old propane tank that would serve perfectly as bRICK’s head, shoulders and oh-so-muscular arms.
Erm, Brandon – isn’t that a bit dangerous?
“You’re worried about blowing yourself up,” he shrugged afterwards.
With the plans and materials in place, our fearless forger spent the next few months putting the big fella together.
“The worst part was grinding. I ground on that for days and days and days,” Brandon wept. “Legos aren’t welded, they’re smooth. I ground and ground and ground and ground.”
Well, they do say hard work keeps you grounded – teehee!
When bRICK was finally in one piece, he was loaded onto the back of a truck, driven to Pro Powder Coatings in Grand Junction, and slathered in glossy automotive enamel paint.
“I was surprised at how much detail they did in the paint,” Brandon yipped excitedly. “It’s one of the coolest, biggest public things I’ve done, but the paint really made it.”
Sounds like you had a brush with greatness, buddy!
When bRICK was finally unveiled one sunny day in August, 2022, his admirers were lined up around the block to see him. After snuggling in for a cuddle with this joyous behemoth, most didn’t wanna lego!
“I called him the Legolith,” Brandon reminisced afterwards. “It was so stinking big!”
Kenneth Riskey, however, couldn’t believe his wildest dreams had come true. He had the store. He had the customers. And now, he had a large Lego man of his very own.
“It’s so much fun,” Kenneth grinned, ushering another group of Lego-heads into his shop.
You’ve built quite a Lego-cy, Kenny!
The Brickman Cometh
As I was admiring bRICK, I was approached by a vibrantly-dressed ghost from my past – Ryan McNaught. You might know him as Brickman, bad boy of the international Lego scene and co-host of the hit show Lego Masters Australia.
I know him as the man who shattered my dreams.
During season two of the popular program, Brickman made some pithy comments about a Lego dinosaur I’d lovingly constructed, then unceremoniously dumped me from the show. I haven’t touched a Lego brick since.
“I suppose you’re here to apologise,” I sniffed. “Bigs, I’m actually here to see bRICK,” he grinned.
“So you step on my soul and then swagger back into my life like nothing happened?” “Bigs,” Brickman blubbered, tears cascading down his cheeks, “my heart weeps every time I send someone home from Lego Masters – and what happened to you left me shuddering for days. But please understand that I have my responsibilities as a TV host. Your dinosaur was quirky and charismatic, but it lacked the technical precision of the other builds.”
Brickman’s words stung, but they made sense. He didn’t have a vendetta against me, he was simply doing his job. With bRICK grinning down at us, we embraced, and a decade of unresolved tension lifted.
“Brickman,” I sobbed, “can I take you to breakfast to make up for all these years of detesting you?” “That would be delightful, Bigs,” he blubbered. “I’d love a couple of slices of crusty sourdough toast, slathered in avocado and salmon.” “Erm, I was talking about Breakfast – you know, the giant apple statue down the street.”
Silence descended upon us.
“So I can expect a grovelling phone call from Hamish?” I asked sheepishly. “Gosh, no!” Brickman chuckled. “He thought it was hilarious when you got kicked off the show!”
An enormous magpie has taken over Muswellbrook’s Simpson Park. But there’s no need to put an ice cream container on your head, because The Big Magpie is a very nice chap and has no intention of swooping you.
Local chainsaw artist Mark Ray carved the magnificent maggie from a huge block of wood. Pleasantly plump with a hint of a grin upon his beak, this perky passerine is perfectly placed for a photo op.
The Big Magpie was installed in 2022, as part of an initiative to bring more culture to the region.
“Muswellbrook Council approached me and asked about doing some sort of artwork in the shire to promote their past for tourism, and I was only too pleased to give it a go,” Mark told ABC Radio. “I’m just so pleased to have my artwork on public display.”
Magic Mark took up chainsaw art at the ripe old age of 50. His father Stan – also a renowned artist – needed help with a difficult project, Mark gave it a crack, and he turned out to be a natural.
“It was a hidden talent I really didn’t know I had,” Mark cawed. “I’ve always been able to draw, and if you can draw you can do this. It’s really not that difficult once you get into it.”
I think I’ll stick to finger-painting, Mark – less chance of ending up in the ICU. Anyway, Mark makes carving a bird look easy as mag-pie.
“I start at the top, get the head, the beak and the upper body all in the right perspective and then work my way down. However length of stump you’re left with at the bottom, so be it. So it’s all in perspective.”
From my perspective, you’ll done a fantastic job, mate!
One Flew Over The Big Magpie’s Nest
Bigella and myself were expecting a warm welcome when we swooped into Muswellbrook – but we had no idea how warm it would be!
With the mercury crawling past 40 degrees, the leafy streets were deserted, and our greeting party was reduced to a handful of curious faces peering through windows as we drove past.
And then, through a clutch of Canary Island Date Palms, we saw a familiar beak. The broiling heat may have sent the locals scurrying into the comforting embrace of air conditioning, but The Big Magpie was there to usher us into the bosom of this gorgeous little town.
Even in the madness of a midsummer afternoon, he’s fresh and inviting. Simpson Park is a delight, with plenty of trees to stretch out beneath as you take in the majesty of this wonderful wooden Big.
Best of all, you can grab a mag-pie from Banksy’s Bakery down the street if you’re hungry. But the only thing we had an appetite for was novelty roadside architecture.
Wearing custom-made protective eyewear just in case our new friend decided to get all territorial on us, we sidled up to The Big Magpie for photo. Between snaps, I took the opportunity to win him over with a joke.
“What’s black and white and black and white and black and white?” I whispered. The bird remained silent, awaiting the punchline. “A magpie falling down the stairs.”
Mark mustn’t have carved any earholes into his bird, because he didn’t even smirk.
“Well, let’s go to the Railway Hotel for a refreshing cranberry spritzer,” I told Bigella. “Okie dokie,” she replied. “But we’d better leave the Magpie here. I don’t think he can hold his alcohol.” “Because magpies are notoriously aggressive?” I asked. “No,” shrugged Bigella, “because he doesn’t have any hands.”
One Good Tern Deserves a Plover
The Big Magpie might be black and white, but have you ‘red’ about the other flappy chappies spread across the wide, brown Land of the Bigs?
Mark has chainsawed another two winged wonders for the Upper Hunter – a king-sized kookaburra in Denman and a giant galah in Sandy Hollow.
Chick-toria – oops, I mean Victoria! – has some handsome avians, including the ever-pleasant Bruno the Pheasant and the gallant Big Eagle. Then there’s The Big Kingfisher and a few Big Emus in Strathfieldsaye. They’ll flock your world!
Oh, and who could forget the phenomenal Big Penguin? He lives in (where else) Penguin, Tasmania! Head even further south for an encounter with the swarthy George Bruny.
Pop on your togs as we say buenos dias to Poopie el Pulpo. But just a warning – this oversized octopus is armed and dangerously cute!
The purple playboy takes pride of place in the pool of the exclusive Hotel Pazifico, in the Guatemalan tourist town of Madre Viedja.
Named after the resort’s beloved founder, Salvador ‘Poopie’ Sanchez, this majestic mollusc straddles the line between hyperrealism and whimsical exuberance. There’s just something so fun about the way he waves his suckers in the air.
I squid you not, this is one Big worth travelling to Central America for!
Jumping into the pool is the only way to get up close and personal with Poopie, and that may present issues for our more squeamish readers. The resort has taken out the coveted award for Guatemala’s Poopiest Pool Water™ three years running, something the staff are understandably proud of.
I think you’ll agree that a brief spell of gastroenteritis is a small price to pay for the opportunity to take a photo with a garishly-painted concrete octopus.
A Kraken Good Time
Located just metres from the golden shores of the Pacific Ocean – and a few minutes from Los Amigos del Pescador – Hotel Pazifico shows off the fun and flavour Guatemalans are famous for. There are waterslides and gardens full of statues, as well as a beachside restaurant with sublime views out over the water.
The ceviche, I can confirm, is luscious. But you’d better go with the prawns, rather than the calamari – you don’t want to upset The Big Octopus.
Whilst Pazifico’s rooms are a little run-down, they do all look out onto el Pulpo, so I guess it’s better than spending the night in a tent-acle – teehee!
But the real ‘El Pulpo’ was Gustav, a German tourist who seemingly lives in the shallow end of the pool and is all hands whenever someone swims nearby. Despite guzzling bottle after bottle of Monte Carlo cerveza, this amphibious pleasure-seeker never once climbed out of the brine to use el baño.
“There you go, Salvador,” Gustav giggled, as he wallowed in the browning pool water. “Looks like you’ve got that title wrapped up for another year!”
At Fisherman’s Restaurant, diners come for the giant fish sculpture in the parking lot, and stay for the opportunity to suffer an intestinal fissure.
I’m Señor Bigs Bardot, and I risked my very life this story.
Opened in 2024, ‘Fisho’s’ quickly became the gastronomical darling of Monterrico, that splash of resorts on the rugged south coast of Guatemala. It’s the place to be seen for the country’s glitterati – yes, even Raoul Gutiérrez has eaten there!
The restaurante was full to overflowing when Bigella and I touched down in the Land of the Bigs helicopter, right next to Los Amigos del Pescador (The Fisherman’s Friends). Our fellow patrons – pulpo and cerveza dripping down their chins – welcomed us with open arms.
After being seated by the pool, we pored over the sprawling menu. Umming and ahhing between the salmón teriyaki and the mojarra frita, we finally settled on the ceviche tradicional.
“You can’t go wrong with that,” Bigella said ominously.
Service was thoughtfully relaxed, providing us with plenty of time to pop outside for photos with Los Amigos del Pescador. The billfish are known, humorously, as Marlin Brando and Alexei Sailfish.
Sleek and stylish, they’re widely regarded as mascots of Monterrico – which the locals claim to be the Sailfish Capital of the World.
When we returned to our table, hearts full of hope, our scrumptious seafood dinner was waiting for us.
And that, my friends, is when it all went wrong.
El Ceviche de la Muerte
Our ceviche looked absolutely delightful, tantalising us with its zesty, fishy goodness. The bowl was overflowing with succulent prawns, juicy calamari and fresh-caught crab. But there was something extra special – a few strands of razor-sharp steel wool from a scouring brush.
Worst of all, I almost ate it!
“I don’t have time to die today,” I gagged bravely, plucking the filthy metal shards from my mouth. “I haven’t yet achieved my goal of bringing world peace through Big Things.”
Catarina, our waitress, looked suitably horrified when I presented her with the jagged condiment.
“Well, I’ve been meaning to get more iron in my diet!” I giggled as I handed back the contaminated meal. My ribald comment missed the mark, but Catarina did swap out the tainted food for a plate of camarones empanizados, which were just gorgeous.
The moment, however, had been ruined. Next time Bigella and I feel like a ceviche, we’ll stick with good ol’ Automoriscos in Palín, where the only danger is falling in love with the big dolphins out the front.
Los Amigos del Pescador are muy bonito but, ultimately, not worth risking colonic rupture for.
Stone the crows! This black beauty can be found at the entrance to Crowtrap Studio in Pokolbin, and was created by revered local artist Chris Fussell.
Playful and cheeky with a menacing edge, The Crowtrap Crow is one of the most realistic Biggies I’ve ever encountered. Individually-sculpted feathers have worn and aged over the past two decades, giving him more character with every passing year.
The Crow is perched as though ready to take flight – a moment of action frozen in time. But what truly lingers on the mind are his wise, knowing eyes. Seeming to peer through time, they exude wisdom and compassion.
Resting by the side of the dusty, peaceful, Palmers Lane, The Crow’s very easy to take a photo with. Accompanied by an orchestra of native birds, you’ll have plenty of time to take a selfie with this obsidian avian, far from the maddening crowds.
One thing’s for sure – The Crowtrap Crow is no tourist trap!
Something to Crow About
The Crow serves as a quirky mascot for the Crowtrap art studio, and offers insight into the marvellous mind of Chris Fussell.
“I like to try and capture the childlike joy of creating, whether it is painting or sculpture,” cawed Chris, who also crafted The Big Kookaburra in nearby Kurri Kurri. “Pushing the medium to the limits of control. It becomes a relationship between subject, medium and self, always fluctuating.”
Chris has already left an indelible mark on the Land of the Bigs, but now he’s really spreading his wings. In April 2025, after two years of painstaking work, he put the finishing touches on a second Big Kookaburra.
Similar – though by no means identical – to the one in Kurri, this king-sized kingfisher was plonked on the back of a flatbed truck and trundled all the way down to Donald, Victoria. He now stand proudly outside Kooka’s Country Cookies.
I didn’t think I could like Chris and his work any more than I already did – but I was made to eat crow on that one!
Counting Crows
Everybody’s heard about the bird, but I’m not sure feather you know there are so many other winged wonders spread across the Land of the Bigs.
Chick-toria – oops, I mean Victoria! – has some beaky pals, too. The rather pleasant Bruno the Pheasant has lured in Bigthusiasts for decades, whilst The Big Eagle is a newer addition. Then there’s The Big Kingfisher and a few Big Emus in Strathfieldsaye. They’re flappin’ fabulous!
Oh, and who could forget The Big Penguin? He live in (where else) Penguin, Tasmania!
“I wish there were more Big Crows around the place for this to guy hang out with,” I moaned to Gordon as we drove off. “It’s probably for the best,” he chuckled. “That would be attempted murder!”
Some say she lays golden eggs during the full moon, and that her comb can be seen from space. All we know is she’s called The Big Chook, and she lives atop an decadent pole in the middle of Moonbi.
I’m your host, the inimitable Jeremy Cluckson – and you’d have to be a blithering idiot not to take a grand tour out to see this Biggie – bagawk!
The Big Chook started life as float in a street parade celebrating the centenary of Moonbi Public School in 1982. Tom Baker lovingly created her from papier-mâché, as a tribute to the area’s chicken industry, and she proved so popular that he donated her to the Moonbi Development Group once the festivities wrapped up.
Led by the group’s president, Max Newcombe, they fibreglassed her and popped The Big Chook on a pole on the corner of Moonbi Park – where she remains to this day.
With her stoic expression, sensual curves and elegant – almost provocative – wattle, it’s not uncommon to find a clutch of chickie-babes strutting around at her base, posing for photos.
Whilst not the largest Big around, there’s certainly nothing ‘poultry’ about this bird. Yes, sometimes my linguistic genius is almost frightening. I could even be a comedi-hen!
Visit The Big Chook and you’ll certainly have something to crow about – bagawk!
Are you lookin’ for a chookin’?
A journey to The Big Chook is too much for one chicken-man to handle, so I enlisted the help of my offsider James May-an-Egg (who looks suspiciously like Bigella in a cheap fried egg costume from Spotlight).
“Oh, cock!” James clucked as she clambered out of my Lamborghini Aventador, which I’d picked up on a whim to celebrate the financial success of Land of the Bigs. “The correct terminology is ‘Gallus gallus domesticus’,” I corrected her smarmily. “And I don’t appreciate the blue language – bagawk!”
“The Big Chook radiates with a regal elegance that belies her rural roots,” James continued. “She’s a little rough around the edges, yet sits majestically above Moonbi, like a queen presiding over her minions.” “Yes, The Big Chook and moi have a lot in common,” I chirped. “She’s rustic, complex and alluring – and so am I.” “You’re an utter pillock!”
“Listen,” I bok-bok-bokked. “I brought you out here in a beautiful Lamborghini Aventador –” “It’s a Kia Picanto with a few bits of cardboard taped to it!” James sighed. “People have been pointing and laughing. Let’s go.”
A moment of awkward silence passed between us, and I sensed James was weary of my shenanigans.
“I know!” I bawked. “Let’s attach wheels and a V8 engine to The Big Chook and drive her across the country. Cock-a-doodle-do you think that’s a good idea?”
As James strangled the life out of me, I was overcome by shock. I never thought she’d resort to fowl play!
Made you look, ya dirty chook!
The Big Chook may rule the roost in Moonbi, but there are many other beautiful Biggies in the area. The Big Golden Guitar is de rigueur in Tamworth, and The Big Fish is winning hearts up the road in Manilla.
No, not the mega-city in The Philippines – I’m not welcome there after crashing a Porsche 928 into the Minor Basilica of San Sebastian – I mean the agrarian haven by the banks of the River Namoi. Bagawk!
You’ll also find eggs-actly what you’re looking for in the rustic village of Warral. There lies the incomparable Egg Sheeran. Oh no, I’m not talking about the ginger-nutted global megastar, it’s just a large concrete egg by the side of the road.
Of course, there are many other big cocks around the place. There’s Charlie the Chicken in Charlestown, Chickaletta in Myrtlebank, and another Big Chook to take a sticky beak at in Mount Vernon.
Yes, if you love Big Things, it’s your clucky day!
Flores, the timeworn island citadel resting upon the cerulean waters of Lake Petén Itzá, has been at the centre of Guatemalan culture for millennia.
Leave the waterfront restaurants and brightly-hued churches behind to venture further into the heaving jungle, along dusty tracks lined with ramshackle villages, and you’ll find the ancient Mayan temples of Tikal.
Beneath a cacophony of howler monkeys, these stone pagodas tell the stories not only of the Maya, but of humanity.
This region – beautiful and historic and cosmopolitan and wild – is the intrinsic link between Central America’s mystical past and modern future.
But forget about all that, because the true cornerstones of Guatemalan culture can be found at the newly-constructed Maya Mall – a Pollo Campero chicken restaurant, a well-stocked La Torre supermarket and, most exciting of all, La Vasija de Todos los Chapines.
Roughly translated: The Crock-Pot of All Guatemalans. No, not a Teapot – that’s down the road in Tecpán.
The enormous terracotta pot could hold enough pepián to feed everyone in Flores for a month. As the beating heart of Guatemalan culture, millions of Guatemaltecos make the pilgrimage to worship its bulbous body and spirited – yet ultimately utilitarian – lid.
Or maybe they just want to take advantage of the two-for-one cans of Gallo cerveza on offer at the supermarket.
Being known as The World’s Second-Largest Watermelon Slice is a juicy claim to fame – but this sweet treat is served with a side dish of fraudulence.
It is with a touch of melon-choly that I can reveal The World’s Second-Largest Watermelon Slice isn’t the world’s second-largest watermelon slice at all.
Despite measuring 25 feet (7.62 metres) from end to chubby end, the pride of Green River, Utah may not even be in the top three.
Muscatine, Iowa is home to the biggest variety of watermelon in the world. Installed in 2023, The World’s Largest Watermelon Slice is a mouth-watering 40 feet (12 metres) long.
The outback town of Chinchilla in Queensland, Australia, is famous for its scrum-diddly-umptious Big Melon. At 30 feet (9 metres) in length, you don’t want to miss this thriller in Chinchilla!
There’s also a delicious watermelon slice in Bushy Park, Australia that, whilst slightly shorter than the Green River version, is more voluminous. It is my humble opinion that its perky plumposity places it higher on this epoch-making list.
Seedless to say, I’ve sent a strongly-worded email to the Green River Tourism Board, demanding they change the name – but so far it’s been a fruitless endeavour.
I suppose ‘The World’s Third or Fourth-Largest Watermelon Slice’ just isn’t as snappy.
Whilst her salad days are over, this gorgeous gourd is still the biggest watermelon sculpture in Green River, Utah. So trundle along to see her and have a slice day!
He’s one in a melon!
None of that changes the fact that, for almost 70 years, she was the very largest watermelon slice the world had ever known. The Melon was built sometime in the 1950s, as the centrepiece for the annual Watermelon Days festival.
Brightly painted and whimsically detailed, she originally had an engine and could be driven around town. I bet other motorists were green (and red) with envy!
Sadly, the motor conked out some time ago. Now the The World’s Second-Largest Watermelon is wheeled around the streets on a custom-made trailer every September, when the freshly-renamed Melon Days bonanza takes over the region.
Apart from admiring the town’s beloved Big Thing, melon-muchers can join the melon carving party or have a unicorn ride. There’s also a range of yummy watermelon relishes and chutneys on offer, and a free concert.
Unfortunately, mid-90s alt-rockers Blind Melon are yet to make an appearance – which really rinds my gears!
The rest of the year The Watermelon can be found behind the John Wesley Powell River History Museum. She’s lovingly maintained and even lives under a cute shelter, so she isn’t damaged by the harsh Utah sun.
What she lacks in size compared to modern slices, The Watermelon more than makes up for in small-town wholesomeness. She’s kitschy, quirky, and the perfect place to stop while driving between Utah and Colorado.
If it’s wrong to fall in love with a red-and-green wooden roadside attraction, then I must be a convicted melon!
For a double scoop of fun, trundle over to the Sugar House neighbourhood of Salt Lake City, where you’ll find an ice cream cone of scrumptious proportions!
The Snelgrove Ice Cream Cone was created by the YESCO sign company and erected outside the famous Snelgrove ice cream parlor and factory, at 850 East 2100 South, in 1962. The frozen treat spun tantalisingly, whispering sweet nothings about the mouthwatering flavours found inside.
Carmel Cashew. Canadian Vanilla. And my personal favourite, the decadent Burnt Almond Fudge.
Snelgrove became an SLC institution. Stores opened up across the city and their tempting treats became synonymous with the Beehive State. It was the perfect place to chill out – especially on Sundaes!
But, like a dollop of Peppermint Chocolate Spray on a hot Utahn afternoon, the good times soon melted away, leaving nothing but a sticky, sanguine mess…
Snels Like Teen Spirit
The Snelgrove chain was sold to the Dreyer’s group in the early-90s, and hearts broke from St George to Logan when the brand was discontinued in 2008. The shell of their flagship ice-creamatorium, once the soul of SLC, was demolished in 2021.
I don’t want to waffle-cone on, but they were grim times.
Thankfully, the giant gelato remains – and it’s not going anywhere. Having been deemed historic, the cone can’t be torn down, and will be here surprise and delight visitors for generations to come.
It was a cream come true when I visited, but the dilapidated condition of the statue left me cold. A homeless guy from a nearby soup kitchen did blow me a kiss, however, which was a real cone-fidence boost.
There’s a similar monument above the Jimmy John’s sandwich emporium at 400 South. But is has, sacrilegiously, been painted jet-black. Don’t worry, I’ve left the restaurant a one-star review on Yelp, so I’m sure they’ll repaint it any day now.
But there is light at the end of the tunnel. A handful of new Snelgrove shops have opened up across Utah in the last few years, and there’s word that their signature statue may even be moved to a new location.
And that, my frozen friends, is the scoop on The Snelgrove Ice Cream Cone!
The Emperor of The Snelgrove Ice Cream
Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one who is fascinated by roadside attractions, and bid him whip In big blenders concupiscent curds Let the beavers boogie in their ballgowns As they are used to wear, and let the oversized cowboys Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers Let The Gonzo be seen The only emperor is the emperor of The Snelgrove Ice Cream.
Munch on a taco with an iguana Or pose for three photos with a major miner Then rock out with a big guitar A smile shall spread across your face If Mike the Chicken‘s little feet protrude, you’ll come To know how cool Big Things are, and fun! Let the lamp affix its beam. The only emperor is the emperor of The Snelgrove Ice Cream.
There’s an egg-straordinary Big Thing to see in the village of Warral, just outside of Tamworth. Dear readers, please ome-let me introduce you to the imaginatively-titled Egg Sheeran.
Y’know, like Ed Sheeran, the singing sensation. Pallid and globular with bright orange highlights, it’s no wonder the locals named this egg-normous statue after the carrot-crowned English rock god.
Unlike Ed, who is known for his bad boy swagger, The Big Egg has an over-easygoing personality. The great big goog sits out the front of the picturesque Kelso Park Farm and has, sadly, seen better days. But I’m not going to bene-dictate whether the owners should clean him up or not.
Whilst Ed has millions of groupies who swarm after him wherever he goes, it’s rare for Egg to have more than 30 or 40 devotees hanging around him at any one time. But it’s hard to get an eggs-act number.
Not much is known about this big, concrete ovum – I came up with a duck’s egg when I tried to find out who made it and when. The question of ‘why’ doesn’t even need to be asked. As Ed would say, his namesake Egg is absolutely Perfect.
Altogether now:I found an egg for me Oh, darling, just drive along Werris Creek Road and it will be seen Well, I found an egg, beautiful and sweet Oh, I’d like to eat him with some bacon and beans!
I’m in love with the taste of you
With Ed Sheeran and Egg Sheeran having so much in common, there was room for confusion when I hatched a plan to take Bigella – a lifelong ‘Sheerio’ – out to Warral to meet ‘Mr Sheeran’.
“He’s playing out here in the middle of nowhere?” a wide-eyed Bigella asked as we a-poached The Big Egg. “Yes, Bigella,” I tittered. “I’m just as shell-shocked as you.”
After pulling the Bigsmobile over by the side of the road, Bigella’s shoulders slumped. Tentatively, she circled Egg Sheeran.
“He’s not all he’s cracked up to be,” she blubbered. “It’s just a rotten egg sculpture.” “Oh well,” I shrugged, feeling very pleased with myself indeed. “Different strokes for different yolks, I suppose.” “Shoosh Bigs, you’re scrambling on and on.”
I had one final, hilarious, surprise in store for Bigella. As she reconsidered her life choices, I stepped behind the egg, pulled on a rubber chicken mask, and emerged as my alter-ego Jeremy Cluckson. I’d barely started gyrating around when Bigella started choking the chicken.
“Bigella, it’s me, just silly old me!” I bagawked. “I was playing a childish prank!”
“Of course I know it’s you – I’m eggs-asperated because you brought me all the way out here to the worst Big Thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” she spat. “It’s rusty, it doesn’t look very much like an egg, and it’s in a really shady place.” “Yes, there are a few trees around.” “No, it looks like someone’s going to come out of that house and stab us.”
“I think you’re eggs-aggerating,” I replied. “But I’m sorry I fried to you about meeting Ed Sheeran.” “You left me with egg all over my face.” “To make it up to you, I’ll take you to meet Lizzo.” “The vivacious, curvaceous Lizzo? It’s not some dilapidated lizard sculpture you’ve named Lizzo?” “Um, no,” I smirked, ushering Bigella into the car for the 15-hour drive to see a dilapidated lizard sculpture I’d named Lizzo.
Crossing into Queensland is like stepping back in time – because there’s a giant triceratops just a few minutes from the NSW border!
The bright green dinosaur is the pride of Ballandean, and is known to his fans as Fruitisforus (fruit-is-for-us). The fruit may, indeed, be for them – but ‘Fruity’ is their gift to the world.
Fruity started life as a float for the 1998 Apple & Grape Harvest Festival in Stanthorpe (home of The Big Thermometer). He proved so popular that the locals placed him out the front of the railway station, to draw attention to the nearby fruit stands.
Stop for the expertly-crafted dinosaur sculpture, stay for the ripe and juicy pomegranates.
Quickly becoming Ballandean’s most popular resident, it was decided to make Fruity a permanent fixture of the town. He was slathered with fiberglass, painted bright green, and put back on display for generations to enjoy.
Or at least until they get jura-sick of him – teehee!
At 6.7 metres from tail to elegant nasal spike, Fruity’s about the same size as an actual triceratops. Some, unfortunately, say that disqualifies him from being a Big Thing.
But I don’t see too many other three-horned thunder-lizards wandering around rural Queensland, so he counts!
Are you feeling horny, baby??
What killed the dinosaurs? It may very well have been a 1987 Toyota Camry – because that’s what almost drove Fruitisforus to extinction.
One cold, windswept evening in January 2014, the good people of Ballandean were woken from their slumber by a thunderous thud.
“I thought it was a car crash, I had only just gone to sleep and the noise woke me up,” local gal Pam Bates told a famished reporter from The Stanthorpe Border Post. “I thought it could have been some fool from the pub, but the pub was shut and there was no-one around.”
Clutching a torch in one hand and her beloved husband Erwin in the other, Pam ventured out into the gloom, steeling herself for scenes of chaos and calamity.
But she could not have expected, nor would she have wished to see, as much of the mad and macabre as they were to see that night.
Fruity – kind, sweet Fruity – had been horrifically disfigured by a deranged hit-and-run driver.
“Half of his face is ripped off,” Pam wept. “It is a shame because it is such an icon; everyone pulls up to take photos of their kids with it. I hope they are able to put his face back on.”
Bigthusiasts were immediately reminded of another dinosaur who was toppled by a car – Grrrreta, in Fruita, Colorado. After this spate of anti-archosaurian attacks, Digby the Dinosaur now has a 24-hour security escort.
Fortunately, Fruity soon received a facelift – and the artist knocked a few years off at the same time. Now he doesn’t look a day over 65 million years old!
After a decade-long investigation involving state and federal police, it was determined that the brutal vehicular assault was an unfortunate accident.
The good people of Ballandean, however, will never feel safe again.
The Lizards of Oz
For creatures that died out tens of millions of years ago, there sure are plenty of Big Dinosaurs around the place. Ploddy the Diplodocus in Somersby, NSW, is the oldest Big Thing of them all and a real dino-mite dame!
Palmerston, in the Northern Territory, is home to Big Kev the Brachiosaurus. Now you know where to go for your ‘necks’ vacation!
Lochie the Loch-Eel Monster is pretty much a dinosaur. He can be found haunting the shallow waters of Bumbunga Lake in South Australia. This handsome fellow sure is the eel deal!
Queensland’s also home to The Big Kronosaurus in Richmond and The Big Dinosaur in Mackay. Then, of course, there’s Dino the Dinosaur in Noojee, Victoria. I haven’t written up those entries yet, so it’s a co-fossil waste of time to even mention them.
I have written about Robin, though. So read all about her, sweet cheeks!
But for the world’s largest dinosaur, you’ll have to jump on the next Ptrans Pterodactyl Airlines flight to Drumheller in Canada. There you’ll have a memorable encounter with Tyra, a 26.3m-tall Tyrannosaur with rawr-some smile.
Oh me oh my, aren’t my dinosaur jokes pre-hysterical!
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.
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?”
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.
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.
“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.
“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!
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!
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.
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.
Tetera Etcetera
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!
Flores, a mere 565km down the road, is home to another big pot – La Vasija de Todos los Chapines. But back to La Gran Tetera, which really puts the ‘tea’ in Tecpán.
The town was colonised by Spanish conquis-tea-dors in 1525, making it the oldest settlement in Guatemala. These days Tecpán’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!
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 (and certainly more pleasant than Fisherman’s Monterrico, where we ordered the ceviche and got much more).
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 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!
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!
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!
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’shosted 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!
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.”
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
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!”
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!
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.
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!”
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 in 1998. 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.
Teehee!
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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!”
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?”
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!
“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.”
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.
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!”
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!”
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.
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!”
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.”
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 – 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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!
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!”
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.
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.
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!
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. It became the focal point of his second gas station in Yermo, 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 – surpassing even The World’s Tallest Thermometer. 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.
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!
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, 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. Suck on that, bRICK!
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!
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!
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…”
“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.
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 pay 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 respect for this kitschy slice of Americana. Perhaps if they cleaned up their act, studying the history of the nation’s roadside attractions – such as Scottish Angus Cow and Calf, which can be found at the other end of the art museum – rather than huffing 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!
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
