Holey moley, check out Canoli! Cheeky, colourful and charismatic, this king-sized cockatoo is as irresistible as the ricotta-laced desert he’s named after. With his devil-may-care attitude and trendsetting mohawk, the wooden Big is widely regarded as the mascot of Wagga Wagga – the town so nice they named it twice.
Canoli is the crowning achievement of Justin McClelland, a gifted yet enigmatic artist who expresses his unique world view through the medium of chainsaw. In a moment of inspiration, Justin transformed an everyday log into this perky parrot during the 2017 Ganmain Show – a miracle the locals still speak of in hushed tones.
“I learn every time I start a new project,” Justin told a beguiled reporter from Regional Lifestyle Magazine. “I love timber and working in the bush, but it’s always challenging. When I start the chainsaw, things start to flow and I’m in my own little world.”
Justin, you really are a cut above the rest!
He’s cockatoo hot to handle!
Proving to be as generous as he is talented, Justin gifted his beloved Canoli to the people of Wagga, and he’s guarded the entrance to the city’s picturesque zoo ever since. Though smaller than nearby Bigs such as The Giant and The Playable Guitar, this sulphur-crested heartthrob makes up for it with his rugged good looks, along with a hint – just a hint – of the cocksure swagger alluded to in his name.
Canoli looks right at home amongst the grass trees, cloaked by the ever-present chatter of native birds. A more peaceful, down-to-Earth Big you could never hope to meet. My much-anticipated journey within the bowels of the zoo, however, was not so tranquil. Looking forward to a quiet morning admiring the emus and peacocks, I was instead accosted by a cantankerous duck named Wendell.
This insufferable oaf, with his incessant quacking and braggadocious attitude, disrupted what promised to be a life-affirming encounter with the donkeys in the petting zoo. I wanted to feed them some hay!
I’m not usually one to resort to violence but Justin, if you feel like carving another bird with your chainsaw, I’ll look the other way!
Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s learnin’ how, come see Blue Perspective with Biggsy (and Bigella, Gordon and Gordina!).
Surf’s up, dude, so wax up your board and don’t forget the shark spray, because this perspective will blue you away! With skin and hair as azure as the Pacific, this three-metre tall surf rat is hard to miss. She stands alone in Southport’s Broadwater Parklands, gazing earnestly towards the ocean. If you’re paddling past, give ‘Bluey’ a wave!
Chic and stylish, yet bright and bubbly, Bluey superbly encapsulates the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the modern-day Gold Coast. A positive vibe and clean, healthy attitude make her the perfect role model for kiddies, which is a good thing because there’s a totally tubular playground just metres from her robust thighs.
Blue Perspective was shaped by the legendary John Cox (yes, he responsible for the nearby Maddie and Mike) for the 2013 SWELL Sculpture Festival at Currumbin Beach. Bluey made such a splash that she remained there for several years after the festivities wiped out. Considering how sunny Queensland is, I hope she had plenty of zinc on her nose!
Bluey was then purchased by the Big Thing-loving Gold Coast Council, who paddled her north to her current location. I don’t know the date she was installed, but assume it was on a Big Wednesday. The lovingly-presented park, with this immaculate Big, should be enough to tide you through many an Endless Summer.
Cowabunga, dude!
She’s blue (da ba dee da ba di)
Longing for the authentic Surfers Paradise tourist experience during our visit, Bigella and I signed up for surf lessons. Not wanting to spend a morning surrounded by wine-drunk backpackers from Yorkshire, we instead decided to sit beneath the learning tree of the wise and eternal Blue Perspective.
Of course, I would’ve approached my good chum Mick Fanning, but the surfing legend has some pretty ripe views about The Big Wheelie Bin. You might’ve punched a shark, Mick, but you also punched a hole in our friendship!
With Gordina and Gordon (complete with super-cute flotation ring!) in tow, we were delighted to discover that Bluey is as charismatic as she is iconic. Her ample bosom and lithe, feminine curves aren’t usually to my taste, yet aroused a corporeal longing deep within my soul that had me yearning to hang ten compliments upon her generous hips.
“Blue Perspective, the transcendent and career-defining opus of John Cox, shreds with a cobalt angst that belies her carefree visage,” opined Bigella, who had obviously been working her way through the thesaurus I’d bought her for Christmas.
“I’m just jealous of her bikini line,” added Gordina.
Our surf lesson went splendidly, until Gordon pretended to drown in a desperate attempt to lure one of Queensland’s bosomy, bikini-clad lifesavers in to rescue him. Oh, how we laughed when he was instead dragged to shore by Waldemar, a six-foot-four Lithuanian bodybuilder with a toothy grin and a pair of Speedos two sizes too small.
To journey into the Land of the Bigs is to see the world through the eyes of a child, with all the wonder and excitement that brings. The massive melons and mega marsupials, scattered haphazardly across Australia like toys on a playmat, harken back to a more innocent age. They make us feel small again.
Never is this more true than when standing in the shadows of Gumeracha’s Big Rocking Horse.
Rising 18 metres above the verdant knolls of the Adelaide Hills, this 25-tonne pony is a grandiose tribute to the playful, whimsical and – dare I say it – immature nature of the locals. Upon first seeing the Rocking Horse, who reins supreme from above the treetops, one can’t help but be overwhelmed by his immense size and robust, idiosyncratic construction.
But the full majesty of this Big can only be appreciated by clambering to the viewing platform atop his handsome head. This epic endeavour costs just $2, and those valiant enough to make the journey shall be rewarded with a certificate. Yes, there’ll only be one long face when you’re atop The Big Rocking Horse, and it shan’t be yours!
If nothing else can convince you to load up the wagon and gallop over to Adelaide, consider this your invitation. As local singer-songwriter – and lifetime admire of all things Big – Paul Kelly once sang,
All the Big Horses and all the Big Men Would certainly drag me back again To Adelaide for some orange marmalade, sitting by The Big Apple in the shade, thanks to The Big Hills Hoist my day’s been made
Or something like that. Thanks, Paul!
Between a Rocking Horse and a Hard Place
With his carefree grin and enchanting eyes, you could be forgiven for thinking this Big has nary a care in the world. Living so close to Scotty the Big Scotsman and The Big Pigeon, why would he? There is, however, a rocky story behind this horse.
When local businessman Wal Wilkinson opened a toy shop in Gumeracha in 1973, he was not met by the expected scenes of jolly jubilation. Facing an uphill saddle to attract customers, he dug into his toybox and produced a kinda-sorta-large effigy of a giraffe, which he plopped outside the front door.
When this foaled – oops, I mean failed! – to yield results, he turned to a series of wooden rocking horses, the first three metres tall, the second five. They drew in a few curious onlookers, but one thing had become abundantly clear; if Wal wanted to make it big, he had to go BIG.
In 1980, Wal enlisted David McIntosh Taylor, a structural engineer of great repute, to build a gee-gee large enough for people to climb. A night-mare task for some, but not for this savant of roadside attractions. Not wanting to rock the boat, David rolled with the request, and the resultant stallion took eight months to build at the respectable cost of $100,000.
Criminy, you wouldn’t be able to get a Bangladeshi-made hobby-horse for that price these days!
The brumby-lievably big bronco was officially opened in 1981, and immediately became a colt hero. Wal’s vision was off to the races, and his business was finally financially stable.
Disaster struck in 1999, however, when the viewing platform was shuttered after a youngster, brimming with youthful exuberance, took a tumble whist navigating the Rocking Horse’s labyrinthine staircase. A tragedy, sure, but is the potential for a few maimed kiddies reason enough to prevent the rest of us from enjoying the view?
Oh, you think I’m being selfish? Get off your high horse and quit nagging me!
It’s Only Rockin’ Horse (But I Like It)
The Big Rocking Horse has been bought and sold more times than a narcoleptic racehorse. The complex was sold to dapper South African chap Anthony Miller for almost a million dollars in 2004, who subsequently passed it on to fellow Saffers Frans and Lyn Gous in 2009. Maybe they thought he looked like a Big Springbok?
This Aussie icon is now back in Aussie hands, with Mell and Mark Penno taking over in 2023. Their unbridled passion for the horsie means they have big plans to expand the park, which already has a large gift shop, animal park and cafe. Try the lamingtons and thank me later!
This ex-steed-ingly vast horsie stands as one of the biggest – neigh, the biggest – children’s toy around, and was even recognised by Guinness World Records as the largest rocking horse on the planet. What was an immense source of pride for all South Australians became a state-wide sore spot when, in 2014, The Big Rocking Horse was unceremoniously stripped of the prestigious title, which was handed to a proportionately petite plug in China.
Some say the Yi Jinping ordered the change as part of his merciless war on the West, others say it was simply because the oriental version is actually able to rock. Either way, our little friends in the People’s Republic don’t have democracy or the ability to go to bed at night without being watched by the government, so we’ll let them have this one!
If I mysteriously disappear, you know I’ve been dragged off to the Big Laogai – teehee!
Rock, rock, rockin’ on heaven’s door
Amidst the island of misfit toys that was my youth, only one person was there for me through the really dark times; Gordon. Whenever my dysfunctional home life became too much, Gordon and I would hide away out of sight, dreaming of all the slot cars and Barbie dolls we so dearly wanted but knew we would never own.
More than anything, we yearned for a rocking horse. Oh, how easy things would be, sitting astride a wooden pony, swinging back and forth, galloping away from life’s complexities.
Come Christmas morn each year we would emerge from our bedroom, eyes full of hope, and timidly tiptoe towards the pile of cheerfully-wrapped gifts placed ‘neath the glittering tree.
And each Christmas morn our little hearts would break as the pile shrank, the other family members laughing and smiling as they tore open their treats. But there would be no holiday cheer for Gordon or I. No Thunderloop Thriller. No Peaches ‘n’ Cream Barbie. Certainly no periwinkle rocking horse with lime green tassels. Just jeers and torment from my uncles and grandparents.
“Maybe next year,” Gordon would say, a tear in his eye
But the rocking horse never came and we were dragged, kicking and screaming, into adulthood. Psychiatrists have pointed to those hellacious festive encounters as the catalyst for my litany of personality disorders. I prefer to think that it simply added a few stitches to the ritch tapestry that is Bigs Bardot.
So it was with hearts aflutter that Gordon and I rolled into Gumeracha in the Bigsmobile and then stepped, blinking, into the crisp country air.
The Big Rocking Horse was more than we could have imaged; more than we dared hope for. His magnitude beggars belief, his majesty is all-consuming. Gordon, understandably, was reduced to a blubbering mess. We stood, clutching each other as we had all those years ago, and soaked in the majesty of the moment. For one sun-dappled afternoon, we found our lost childhood.
“Looks like we finally got that rocking horse, buddy,” Gordon finally said, his voice cracking under the weight of the situation. “Sometimes,” I trembled, “stories do have happy endings. I love you, Gordon.” “I love you too, Bigs.” We walked, hands clasped together, to the top of the enormous horse, and stood there for the longest time in complete silence. Gordon flashed a bittersweet smile and put one furry arm across my shoulder.
“Come on, dry your eyes and let’s go get something to eat,” he posited. “I know a place in Cudlee Creek that makes the world’s best jalapeño poppers.” “Lead the way my brother,” I grinned, taking one last look back at The Big Rocking Horse, “lead the way.”
As Victoria burned during the horror 2009 bushfires, the world gasped as one when heartwarming footage emerged of a brave koala guzzling water from a drink bottle. Sam, as her admirers came to know her, climbed out of the flames and into our hearts. The plucky little survivor became the furry face of the tragedy; a chubby-cheeked sliver of hope.
Sadly, Sam soon passed away from chlamydia (it happens to the best of us), but she was not to be forgotten. The owners of another famous Victorian marsupial – The Giant Koala in Dadswells Bridge – made the stirring decision to rename the statue Sam, in honour of Australia’s favourite bushfire survivor.
Assigned male at birth, it was a moment of clarity for the 14-storey-tall rural icon. But the story of this beloved arboreal herbivore goes back much further than that. Way back to the the late-1980s, when a couple of visionaries had a dream to erect a gormless koala on a lonely stretch of the Western Highway, halfway between Melbourne and Adelaide, smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
Grab a bottle of water, load up on gum leaves, and settle in for the mesmerising story of Sam the Giant Koala.
How much can a koala bear?
With a population of 69 people (and a few koalas), Dadswells Bridge has never been a hive of activity. So in early-1988, local legends Beryl and Jim Cowling did something drastic to draw visitors to their salubrious Koala Kountry Motor Inn and the adjoining roadhouse.
Inspired by the success of other icons such as Ploddy the Dinosaur and Scotty the Big Scotsman, they tapped Ben van Zetten – yes, he responsible for the ruggedly handsome Map the Miner – to build them a koala of immense proportions. Sure, they could’ve gone for two-for-one schnitzels on Tuesdays and some of those flappy tube men, but I’m glad they decided to go BIG instead.
The Giant Koala was constructed on site out of koala-ty materials including bronze and fibreglass, wrapped around an immense steel structure. The head was built separately and attached crane at a later date, with a revolutionary fibreglass paste used to create the koala’s eerily-realistic fur.
There’s even a viewing platform inside the koala’s beautiful bonce, but it never opened because of the lack of a fire exit. Honestly, the risk of burning to death in a concrete sarcophagus is a small price to pay to be able to peer out of a giant koala’s eyes.
The plump, maudlin beastie took almost a year to complete, which is much longer than it takes for a real koala to gestate. But they’re born visionless, hairless and fairly useless, so it’s a good thing Ben took the extra time to get things just right.
The Giant Koala opened to rapturous applause in December of 1988 (what a Christmas present!) and proved so popular that – in a moment none present shall ever forget – the gift shop ran out of koala-shaped key chains. There were even rumours the population of Dadswells Bridge might expand to 70 people.
Let’s see schnitzel night achieve that sort of success!
All’s well that Dadswells
Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Dadswells one balmy summer afternoon to find no cars full of koala-obsessed groupies backed up bumper-to-bumper across the bridge. No riots outside the motel as the ‘no vacancy’ sign went up. Not even a braying mob jostling for position to take a photo with the village’s most famous resident.
The Giant Koala, to my dismay, was abandoned. Gordon was reduced to a blubbering mess as well, and not without reason. Our journey to rural Victoria served as a pilgrimage for our adopted son Rory, who identifies as a koala and uses Blinky/Bill pronouns. As co-parents, Gordon and I agree that it’s important for Rory to interact with other members of the LGBTQIA+ (lesser bilby, glider, bandicoot, Tasmanian devil, quokka, island kangaroo, antechinus) community as he discovers his true self.
Rory was devastated to discover the gift shop betwixt Sam’s powerful hind claws shuttered, but found solace inside the nearby Koala Tavern, with its small selection of souvenirs. After a hearty steak sandwich and an oh-so-creamy cappuccino, he was ready to open up his heart to us.
“Dads,” Rory said quietly, choosing Blinky/Bill’s words carefully. “Your commitment to helping me discover my species identity means the world to me, but my burgeoning mammalia dysphoria may dictate that I won’t always want to be a koala. Perhaps I’ll transition into a platypus, or even another genus entirely – like a snake. It’s a little scary, a little thrilling, but it’s my unique story – and I’m alright with that.”
“Maybe you’ll choose to identify as a handsome, charismatic alien, like your old man?” said Gordon with a small shrug.
“There’s always a chance, Pops,” our trans-species offspring replied with a sanguine smile. “As long as I have your support and a healthy dose of species-affirming hormone therapy, I can’t go wrong. I don’t know what I am just yet, but I do know who I am. I’m Rory, and I’m loved.”
“You are loved, Rory,” I wept, ruffling the ragamuffin’s fur as the three of us cuddled in Sam’s shadow. “And you’ll always have a home here in the Land of the Bigs.”
Wander into the roughest pub in St Helens, amigo, and tell the toughest hombre you find that he has a big, fat head. Go on, padre, do it! You’ll be delighted to discover that, rather than break a pint of Old Speckled Hen over your cabeza, he’ll thank you for your kindness, take you by the hand, and lead you on a whimsical journey through the sun-dappled streets of northwest England, before the two of you plunge, giggling like la niñas, into a verdant garden clearing caressing a massive cranium that’s been cast from sparkling white Spanish dolomite.
Or at least that’s what will happen if you whisper such sweet nothings to Doug the plumber who hangs out at the Zoo Bar, señor. I no promise the other local thugs will be quite so gregarious (or have such smooth, inquisitive hands).
But where is mi manners? It is I, El Grande Gonzales, most bonita luchador in all México! I am here to tell you all about Dream, the 20-metre-tall, 500-tonne-heavy sculpture that I encountered in the Sutton Manor Woodland that magnífica afternoon. Sí!
This maravilloso example of baroque architecture was created by the incomparable Catalonian sculptor – and my former wrestling tag team partner – Jaume Plensa. Who could forget our infamous barbed-wire hardcore match against the formidable pairing of Hulk Hogan and Louise Bourgeois?
“When I first came to the site I immediately thought something coming out of the earth was needed,” Señor Jaume explained during a rare moment when he wasn’t crafting one of his signature giant heads out of rock or bashing someone’s skull in with a steel chair. “I decided to do a head of a nine-year-old girl, which is representing this idea of the future. It’s unique.”
Maybe ‘unique’ is stretching it, Jaume, because you has created dozens of similar statues all over el mundo. But whatever help you sleep at night, chico!
Sí, Dream is mucha attractiva, but I wouldn’t want to be nearby when she blow her nose!
Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These
Like the nightmares I have about walking out to the wrestling ring without my tights, this Dream came about due to too much television. In 2008 the good gringos of St Helen took part in a program called The Big Art Project, which aimed to present some English towns with gigantic artworks. I do not know all the rules because this program conflicted with my favourite telenovela, Mi caballo, mi marido.
The people wanted an artwork to revitalise their home, a former coal mining town which had been a bit sad since all the mines go away. But Gonzales think they really want a giant head to scare away evil spirits and werewolves. This why we build build Big Things in México.
When St Helen was announced as a winner, the town celebrate with an all-day drinking session. Or maybe this is just because it was a Tuesday. ¡Arriba, Arriba! ¡Ándale, Ándale!
Dream cost 1.8 million English pesos, and was moulded out of 90 concrete pieces. She was completed in April of 2009 and, finally, St Helens took its place as one of the world’s great cultural cities. Take that, Widnes!
Señor Jaume had plan for a beam of light to shoot out of the top of Dream, with the original title being Ex Terra Lucem (“From the ground, light”). But then some spoil sports claim the lights may cause car accident. I don’t see what is big deal. In México is muy bien to have car crash outside house – you no have to put on pants to go steal hubcaps!
Tell Her She’s Dreamin’!
Dream is estupendo, and the highlight of any vacation to England. Forget Big Benjamín, Henge de la Stone, or the White Cliff Richards dos Dover – just fly straight to St Helens and spend your entire European holiday there. Thank me later!
The sculpture even featured in the popular television drama Stay Close. Again, I do not watch because of Mi caballo, mi marido – oh, the love between Pamela and Señor Biggles bring tears to this old luchador’s eyes. Not even Equine Herpesvirus can keep them apart.
Whilst St Helens has since become a place of love and laughter, my visit was ruined by the actions of the repugnant. It was with a heavy corazón that I discover a local bad boy, in a disgusting display of depravity, had graffiti a big, veiny penes on the side of Dream’s supple neck. Gonzales know that if the locals see this desecration they will riot, but chill out dude! I track down the pervert responsible, put him in a chokehold and call in my amigos from the cartel.
Next time someone take their dog for a walk in Sutton Manor, they find one more disembodied head amongst the trees – teehee!
How much is that Big Doggy in Dunkeld? The one with the ethically-sourced recycled metal tail? He’s free to visit but pawsitively priceless! This labradorable fellow can be hound out the front of the pupular Dunkeld Park Pet Hotel, in the terrier-riffic Bathurst hinterland. Say hello to Big Dog, your new best fur-riend!
With his rugged, steampunk sensibilities and smooth, canine lines, Big Dog is the handiwork of local artist Jane Tyack. She didn’t base Big Dog on any pet-icular breed, but did make sure he was out of the corgi-nary!
Big Dog was completed in 2020, at the insistence of hotel owner Brendan McHugh, as an out-of-the-boxer way to promote his business. Brendan, not surprisingly was Rover the moon with the result.
“When we saw it finished we thought, ‘Oh my god, that is fantastic’,” Brendan yapped to a bewildered reporter. “It’s made from old recycled metal, old tools, a tractor seat, brakes from a car – you name it, they found it.”
Contrasting sharply with the secluded scenery, Big Dog shines with an austere benevolence that’s as confronting as it is beguiling. And by collie, is he big! At 2.44 metres tall and weighing more than a tonne, Big Dog’s a little larger than the hotel’s other guests. But he’s a good boy, and just wants you to give him a nice, sloppy pooch on his cheek.
And there’s more than a kennel of truth to that!
Blue Heeler the World, Make it a Better Place
Despite being made of rottie-ever was lying about, the realism of this Big defies belief. It’s a testament to Jane’s skill and passion that she was able to capture the rollercoaster of emotions that every dog exhibits in this genre-defining piece.
“He wanted it anatomically correct, he wanted the paw up,” Jane said of Brendan. “It’s exactly how a dog would sit when it’s got one foot up.”
“I started to make the head, Shane [Jane’s beloved husband] did a lot of the internal framework,” she added. “Its eyes are a mine ball cut in half and its eyebrows are off old railway tracks. I’m very happy with it, it took a lot of tweaking.”
Some Biggies have said it’s a pomer-pain-ian in the mutt to find Big Dog, because he’s tucked away off the main road, around ca-nine kilometres west of The Big Gold Panner Man – but the map I’ve included should kelpie you find him. Just pug the coordinates into your GPS and, if you’re beagle-eyed, you’ll be wondering chow-chow you ever missed him.
And relax, because there’s plenty of space to bark your car nearby. No need to thank me for my assistance, but a small dalmatian to your local animal shelter would be appreciated.
Dachshund out to see Big Dog today!
Mutts Ado About Nothing
Gordon was far from his usual sprightly self as I eased the Bigsmobile into Dunkeld and pulled up beside Big Dog. He took an all-too-brief glance at the statue, then hung his little head.
I took Gordon’s tiny hand and gave him my warmest smile, knowing exactly what was going through his mind. Gordon felt scared and abandoned, as I was putting him up in the pet hotel whilst I attended the 32nd Annual World Bigs Convention in downtown N’Djamena.
“Maybe I can come with you, Bigs” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “Gordon,” I soothed, “you know they’ll never let you back into the People’s Republic of Chad.” “I know, and I don’t blame them, considering what I did to the Monumento de la Independencia last time I was there,” Gordon said, then looked up at Big Dog. “And anyway, they don’t have a Big Bow-Wow over there.” We embraced, and I wiped a single tear from my friend’s chubby little cheek.
“You’ll love it here,” I cooed. “The staff are exceptional; the amenities spotless, and the kibble wouldn’t be out of place at a Michelin-starred restaurant.” “Sounds like you’re talking yourself into staying,” Gordon grinned, handing me an elegant set of dog ears. “My kennel’s big enough for two, you know.”
I breathed in the crisp country air and admired the fawning landscape. It was a long way to Chad, and there was a comfy bed waiting for me just through the gates…
“You’re right, Gordon,” I chuckled, placing the ears atop my head. “N’Djamena can wait until next year. And with my propensity for walking on all fours and constant desire for human attention, even the highly trained experts inside will think I was a dog… but I get the top bunk!”
‘Bert, the magic dragon lived near Ernie And frolicked in the autumn sun in Shepparton, you see Little Bigs Bardot loved that rascal ‘Bert And brought him strings, and funny things, and even peach yoghurt
Norbert the Yellow Dragon is friendly chap – and the Gaffy family, who constructed the creature as a holiday art project, couldn’t be more disappointed. If they had their way, Norbert would be a soul-devouring, fire-breathing, child-scaring thunder lizard who destroys anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
“There were talks of installing flame-throwers on it,” David Gaffy told a concerned journalist when the dragon was unveiled in 2017. “But perhaps that’s not the best idea.”
What, David, no chainsaws or death rays or vats of bubbling oil that boil visitors? As the patriarch of a brutally creative family, David wasn’t alone in his fanciful plans for this very unique-looking Big.
“I was actually thinking of it being 50 times bigger than it is,” his eight-year-old son, Hamish gloated. “It’s the dragon from Harry Potter.”
Young Hamish came up with the idea for Norbert whilst visiting his pop’s farm just outside Shepparton, and wasted no time sketching the plans for the golden goliath on a bit of paper. Generations of Gaffys then descended upon the ranch to make the little boy’s dreams come true.
“Hamish really enjoyed the fact it became a whole family project,” David beamed. “Uncle Tim helped with the welding, Grandpa came up with the idea for the tail. The opportunity to get our hands dirty was too good to pass up.”
I would’ve helped, of course, but I was getting my hair permed that day. Maybe next time! And there will be a next time, because Hamish has BIG plans for a space rocket and a phoenix to join Norbert, who lives on the corner of Pyke Rd and Mooroopna-Murchinson Rd.
Next time you’re passing, make sure to give Norbert a hearty, “Yellow, mate!”
How to Restrain Your Dragon
Driving the Bigsmobile between my bachelor pad in Shepp’s leafy north-west and my weekender in Waranga Shores, my heart skipped a beat as I heard the dulcet tones of a damsel in distress. With little concern for my own safety I screeched the van to a halt, popped on my most menacing pair of pineapple-shaped sunglasses, and prepared myself for the worst.
Imagine my surprise when I came face-to-muzzle with the normally-placid Norbert – wild of eye and flaxen of skin – with my best chum Gordon Shumway betwixt his powerful jaws. This was not the gregarious dragon I’d so often shared strawberry soufflé with at the Shepparton Gentlemen’s Club.
“Oh, Norbert,” I gasped, “all this snarling and snatching innocents isn’t really you, is it?”
The fire in Norbert’s eyes dimmed and his shoulders slumped. He placed Gordon down on an especially pulpous thatch of grass, then hung his enormous head in shame.
“My sincerest apologies, Biggsy,” Norbert wept. “I buckled under the irresistible weight of peer pressure and, against my better judgement, became the one thing I’ve always despised. I transformed into a brutish cliché of a dragon. Overflowing with testosterone and toxic masculinity, I lashed out at those I love most.”
“I forgive you, Norbie,” I cooed, then gestured towards Gordon. “But someone else might take a bit more convincing.”
Gordon dusted himself off and shrugged nonchalantly.
“You’re forgiven, dude,” the little alien grinned. “I’m just glad Dave didn’t end up giving you that flame-thrower!”
Nachi Cocom was a brilliant and inspirational Mayan chief who led his people with a stern yet fair hand, before standing up to the Spanish conquistadors as they raided his lands. He also looked really cute in a loin cloth, which is much more important – tee-hee!
Unveiled in 2018 before dozens of shirtless admirers, this statue depicts Nachi in his traditional battle attire, ready to deliver the Spaniards a good ol’ knuckle empanada. The five-metre-tall warrior cuts a handsome figure against the swaying palms and azure Caribbean water of Chetumal’s world-famous harbour.
The Nachi-ral born thriller stands with a slight inclination not because of scoliosis, but to lure his adversaries into a false sense of security. Apparently that’s something trained pugilists do. I wouldn’t know because, when startled, I burst into tears until the bully leaves in disgust. It’s surprisingly effective!
But back to Nachi. He is, in a word, concupiscible. He even has a pet iguana, just waiting to be kissed. Due to his disconcerting two-dimensional proportions, however, I was unable to provide the lizard with his own entry on Land of the Bigs.
Chetumal is a heavenly slice of the real México, a world away from the botoxed lips and digital nomad cafes of nearby Cancún and Tulum. The city is a haven for Biggies as well, with La Gran Caracola and Monumento al Renacimiento just a few minutes away from Nachi.
I must confess that my rudimentary grasp of the Spanish language led me to believe I was going to visit ‘The Big Nacho’, and turned up with corn chips and guacamole. Ever the chameleon, I quickly disrobed instead, but my hardline pescatarian diet meant I was unable to eat my delicious, yet ultimately useless, props.
Oh well, the López family seemed to enjoy their free meal.
A bird in hand is worth two in the bush, and Bird in Hand is waaaaaaaaay out in the bush! Handcrafted by sculptor Mike Van Dam, this beautifully-manicured chainlink mitt can be found near Jemalaong, by the side of the endless Lachlan Valley Way. It’s a glovely quiet spot on the edge of the outback, so there’s not a lot of palm trees around.
Whether you’re finger-male or female, this exquisite statue is the perfect place to stop for a well-earned wrist, or simply paws for a moment of quiet introspection. The juxtaposition of rugged, industrial steel against the gentle brown and green hues of the wilderness makes for a striking visage that is, hands down, one of the most memorable and unique experiences Australia offers – pinkie promise!
“This sculpture reminds viewers that we need to preserve and protect this important environment,” Mike clapped to a flummoxed reporter, “and its future state, such as native birds and all fauna, are in our hands.”
The sweet, wattle-scented air cloaking the 6.5 metre, 3.5 tonne hand – which cradles a great white egret – is heavy with the cascading trill of waterbirds. Goannas, clinging to gently-swaying gum trees, peer out upon the vast and ancient land. That should be enough to hold your attention!
Everybody’s hear about The Bird (in Hand)
Mike really knuckled-down for this project, which he completed single-handedly. The amount of work that went into it really is mind-thumbing.
“This piece was made from 1600 meters of 10mm, 316 marine-grade, stainless steel chain, with 38 links per meter and 4 welds per link,” Mike enthused. “This equates to just over 243,000 welds, which took eight months to complete.”
My apologies if any of those statistics are incorrect – I’m relying on second-hand information here.
Bird in Hand isn’t the fist Big between Forbes and Condobolin. Varanus and Heart of Country are also elbowing in on the action along the mesmerising Sculpture Down the Lachlan trail. When complete, 25 oversized artworks will be dotted along the remote stretch of road. It can be hard to come to grips with how exciting this is!
There’s also a global arms race going on, with Big Hands in England, Ireland, Uruguay and Guatemala. All together now, ‘We’ve got a whole world of Big Hands!’
Won’t someone lend me a helping (Bird in) Hand
As the setting sun transformed the steel girders that make up Bird in Hand into an ethereal silhouette, Gordon and I realised that we’d lost hours exploring the sculpture’s intricacies.
Rather than set off into the desert in the inky twilight, we settled in for a night in the bush, amidst a cacophony of bird calls, insect squeaks, and marsupial meanderings. Out here, in the ancient and eternal soul of the country, everything is alive. Even the statue seemed to bend and sway and worship the sky as the light moved over it.
With a distinct lack of Michelin-starred restaurants in Jemalong, Gordon and I feasted on a smorgasbord of witchetty grubs and dung beetles as the stars and planets and comets rolled out above us. Ah, you’ve gotta love finger food!
Just when you thought it was safe to go back for another mango and jalapeño margarita, along swims a Big who’ll leave your JAWS hanging wide open in horror. Please put your pectoral fins together to welcome Paco el Sharko – and this time, it’s personal!
Serving as an ostentatious anomaly betwixt the swaying palms and braying hawkers of Puerto Escondido’s beachside entertainment precinct, Paco resonates with an ethereal bombasticity that captivates and repulses in equal measure.
Brash, garish and wonderfully vulgar, this must-sea shark’s head is the centrepiece of a gaudy art installation by Zicatela’s world-famous beach. You’ll find pink flamingos, a marlin, and even a strapping young man in a boat. There’s even a wonderfully kitschy concrete wave a few minutes walk away that’s totally tubular, dude!
The massive marine mouth is framed, not drowned out, by these other attractions. He’s tacky in all the right ways – and that’s the tooth!
As the entryway to the Dorada Bar ‘n’ Gill, Paco seduces unsuspecting visitors with his bad boy mystique and promise of cheap food and drinks. The menu is sure to mako you smile, and won’t take a bite out of your budget. All of this is lovingly served by the best-looking busboys in town (hola, Ramón!).
Trust me, after an evening spent swilling two-for-one cocktails you’ll be wishing you were only eaten by a shark!
Even if we’re just dancing in the Shark
Paco looks wonderful during the day, but is truly some-fin to behold under the cover of sharkness. The resturant really comes to life after the sun goes down, and a full moon over an illuminated fish’s head is enough to flake all your dreams come true.
After a big day of signing autographs for my legion of loco latin limpiezas (that means admirers, for you gringos!) I retired to the balcony with a table for one and drinks for two. It’s a hard life, travelling the world in search of the Bigs!
I’m not one to drop names but, as I languidly nibbled on a pollo and chorizo tlayunda I did send a text message to my good friend – and self-confessed Biggie – Amy Shark. The ARIA-award-winning popstar was surprised when I told her I’d met one of her family members in México and then delighted when, after waiting an appropriate length of time to set up the joke, I sent her a photo of Paco. That’s the sort of thing you can do when you rub shoulders with beloved celebrities – but I’m not one to brag.
Oh, how I laughed as I ladelled spoonfuls of deliciously rich molcajete into my gaping maw which, by the end of the night, was hanging as wide open as Paco’s.
Eek, after all that food I think I’m gonna need a bigger pair of trousers!
Roll up, roll up to the ravishing Rolin Farm, where you’ll find a truss-see attraction – The Big Strawberry! This plump, juicy fruit stands four metres tall from rambunctious receptacle to perky peduncle, and is sure to in-stem-tly find a place in your heart.
The Strawberry was crafted to draw attention to the farm’s pulp-ular store, which is open from June to October each and every year. It’s certainly been a fruitful venture, with throngs of Biggies lining up to have their photo snapped with this Big, before heading inside to stock up on jams, marmalades, ice creams and other goodies.
For those who can pluck up the courage to get their hands dirty, it’s possible to pick your own strawberries. From just $6 a bucket, it’s hardly daylight strobbery. Don’t punnets yourself by missing out!
It was a pit-y, however, that the Strawberry wasn’t looking particularly fresh when I visited in early-2023. With cracking calyx and peeling paint, she was a pale imitation of the bright ‘n’ beautiful Strawberry in Koonoomoo. Thankfully she hasn’t deteriorated to the extent of the Luddenham Strawberry, but I remain berry concerned for her welfare.
There has been word that the owners will repaint the Strawberry when they get a break from picking fruit, so I’ll try my harvest to remain positive.
My apologies for bursting into song, but my inner Tony Orlando always swaggers forth whenever I’m confronted by a truly straw-inspiring Big. The four of us had the Strawberry to ourselves, as we visited out of season, and so were able to soak in the spectacle of this Queensland icon.
Our encounter with The Big Strawberry, as she hung like a blood-red dew-drop in the autumnal twilight, was a provocative, solemn, incongruous and super juicy experience that was every bit as scrumptious as the fruit she’s based upon.
Gordina, the on-again-off-again lady friend of Gordon, was berry impressed by this Big’s ex-seed-ingly large size, and was more than happy to fill the role as our very own strawberry shortcake for these fascinating photos.
So enraptured by The Big Strawberry were Bigella and I that we made the snap decision to become strawberry farmers. Rolin Farms is a working plantation and always on the lookout for eager employees, so our gaggle trotted up to the front door, caps in hands. Gordon, in his most deferential voice, pitched our value to the farm.
Unfortunately the only jobs on offer involved actually picking the strawberries, rather than taking cute photos of them for Insta. I’d just had my nails done, so we piled back into the Bus of the Bigs and set off for greener pastures.
“Well,” Gordon said with a world-weary sigh as we drove into the night, “there goes my chance of being on the next season of Farmer Wants a Wife.”
Slothfulness, the Bible tells us, casts one into a deep sleep, and an idle person will suffer hunger (Proverbs 19:15). Well, it might be time to update the Good Book, because this sizeable sloth guides the way to one of the finest eating establishments in Costa Rica.
Known by the mononym of SLOTH to his galleon of admirers, this happy fellow forms the entrance to the quirky, Insta-friendly, yet wholesomely down-to-Earth Igloo Beach Lodge, and the adjoining Casa Planta cafe. Let me assure you, there’s nothing slothful about the service, or the resident chef’s fanatical attention to detail.
With his cheeky grin and obtuse thatched wooden façade, SLOTH offers a friendly – if somewhat imposing – welcome to this culinary hotspot. His deep, caramel eyes will leave you slothed for words!
Just minutes from the lush rainforest and howling monkeys of Manuel Antonio National Park, Casa Planta is renowned for its hearty dishes and lackadaisical ambiance. The crystal clear water of Playa Espadilla is only metres away, and Puerto Viejo – home of La Iguana Grande – a mere 11 hours by chicken bus.
Casa Planta offers a moreish slice of pura vida. There’s no better way to spend a lazy Tuesday morning than sipping on an apple daiquiri and nibbling a Caribbean queen ceviche whilst watching Emiliano the pool boy go to work in the shadows of SLOTH’s smiling face.
Sure, you might have to sell a kidney – or own the world’s most successful Big Things website! – to afford an octopus and mango poke bowl, but that’s par for the course in this part of the world these days. Costa Rica? More like Costa Heapsa!
Once there was a super cute fellow with a slight bad boy edge whose name was Bigs Bardot. This story is about something that happened to him when he was sent away from Australia – and its wonderful collection of Big Things! – due to his family refusing to accept that he’d rather take selfies with The Big Bandicoot than slave away at an office job, get married and have a bunch of children like his brother Damien did.
Not everyone’s like Damien, Mum! And he and Renee aren’t that happy together anyway!
Bigs was sent to the brutally industrial, yet oddly charismatic, city of Belfast, in the heart of Northern Ireland. Far less than ten miles from the monument to Finn McCool and two miles from The Big Fish he discovered the whimsical C.S. Lewis Square.
It was home to an astonishing assortment of elaborately-crafted statues dedicated to the many oddball characters from the novel The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. (Their names were Maugrim, The White Witch and Mr and Mrs Beaver, but they do not come into this story much).
The mane attraction was Aslan, a very large lion with shaggy, bronze hair which grew over most of his face as well as on his head, and Bigs liked him even before he burst forth from the the grim bowels of Belfast and into the fairy tale expanse of the lion’s den.
Livin’ Nextdoor to Aslan
The first thing Bigs saw upon entering the park was a homeless man on the side of the open space. He was a wonderful homeless man, especially with the cantaloupine sun shining on the sardine cans he was using as shoes. While he was looking at him, Bigs heard the sound of single mothers squawking to his right. Turning in that direction, Bigs saw what he came to see.
Aslan stood proudly above a crowd of chavs. Bigs barely knew what to do or say when he saw him. People who have not been in Belfast sometimes think that a thing cannot be good and terrible at the same time.
If Bigs ever thought so, he was cured of it now. When he tried to look at Aslan’s face, he just caught a glimpse of the expert craftmanship apparent in his solemn, overwhelming eyes; and then he found he couldn’t look at him.
Bigs stepped up to the lion and said:
“I have come – Aslan.”
“Welcome, Bigs, son of, umm…,” said Aslan. “Well, your lack of a reliable father figure is hardly important now.”
“Tell that to my therapist!” replied Bigs.
Aslan chuckled, and his voice was deep and rich and seemed to calm Bigs. He felt very glad now, and not at all awkward.
“Where is the small alien, Gordon, who you’re always having adventures with?” asked Aslan.
“His visa was denied,” said Bigs. “There was some… unpleasantness, at the airport.”
Aslan said nothing either to excuse Gordon or to blame him. He simply stood looking at Bigs with his unchanging eyes. And it seemed to both of them that there was nothing more to say.
“Please, Aslan,” said Bigs, “can I take a delightful photo with you for my award-winning website, Land of the Bigs?”
“All will be done,” said Aslan, “but you have forgotten to do up your fly.”
It was true. Bigs thought it was a bit rich for Aslan, who didn’t even wear pants, to pass judgement on his fashion choices, but let it slide. The last thing he wanted was to get on the wrong side of a magical space cat.
Belfast and Furious
The large lion had been birthed by the uncompromising brilliance of Irish artist Maurice Harron. Aslan was created as the centrepiece of an expansive, £2.5 million redevelopment in East Belfast that quickly become a favourite place for the young and young-at-heart.
“I’m delighted to step ‘through the wardrobe’ and take on the challenge of recreating the magic of Narnia, right on C.S. Lewis’ own doorstep,” Maurice told a clearly perplexed reporter from the Irishowen News. “These artworks will be central to the civic square and provide a fitting tribute to one of Belfast’s most famous sons.
“I want to recreate the emotions within Lewis’ world, so that – like Lucy, Edmund, Peter and Susan – you never quite know what’s around the corner.”
Aslan, standing three metres from superbly-rendered claw to handsome head, offers a slice of whimsy to an, at times, harsh city. Perched atop a small hill, he takes pride of place above the other monuments and commands the respect of all who pass. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lion to you!
The Lion, the Bigs and the Wardrobe
As soon as he had said good night to Aslan and sequestered himself away from East Belfast in favour of his salubrious five-star accommodation in the heart of the city, Bigs sat alone, peering earnestly out upon the blinking lights, sipping languidly at a peach daiquiri. He thought about The Giant Fisherman, and Luke Kelly, and all the bizarre creatures he’d met in a seaside village in Wales. Bigs was tired, but he was content in a way he never could have imagined before.
And that is the very end of Bigs Bardot’s adventures with Aslan. But if Abdul, the checkout operator at the Nando’s down the road from the square was right – and he usually was – it was only the beginning of his adventures through the Land of the Bigs.
What personal demons did Bigs face, what confronting and, at times, deeply unpleasant realisations did he come to? Well, that’s Narnia business!
Every chap in Western Sydney has seen this Big Beaver! She’s hairy, wet and open for inspection every day of the week. Best of all, you won’t have to waste money on flowers and a KFC meal before you’re allowed to see this Beaver.
Sure, the Big Beaver has seen better days and been around the block a few times, but that just gives her character. And most fellows can’t resist a Big Beaver no matter how battered she looks. Any mole’s a goal, as they say.
It’s not only the menfolk who like to gently caress The Big Beaver, either. Women are also welcome to grope this Beaver. There’s even rumours that Hollywood actress Beaverly D’Angelo popped in for a visit a few years back.
Sadly, it’s common for cretins to make putrid jokes at the Beaver’s expense but, as you can see, I don’t find anything fanny about such behaviour. Thankfully Raelene, Beaver’s ever-beguiling owner, had some sensible, mature comments to make when I visited her.
“Everyone’s loves my Big Beaver,” Rae chuckled when I arrived, giving me a cheeky wink.
“Oh Rae, why did you have to lower the tone?” I lamented, whilst writing down her joke to shamelessly steal later.
Leave it to Beaver
The Big Beaver can be found in all her buck-toothed glory out the front of Wilberforce’s otter-ly charming Butterfly Farm (which, delightfully, also features some moths). It’s a peaceful, leafy place for a Big, with plenty of picnic tables overlooking the Hawkesbury River. There are even campsites for those who, unlike myself, don’t require five star accommodation with an all-inclusive buffet breakfast.
The Beaver was created a few decades ago to star in a maple syrup commercial. She was made from a styrofoam mould, and was due to be disposed of once the cameras stopped rolling. That’s when Rae stepped in. She snapped up the Beaver, slapped on some weather-resistant paint, and placed her proudly on display. The result was sweeter than the syrup that bore her.
Tragically, the Beaver’s makeshift construction has meant that she’s aged poorly and is currently falling apart. When I visited she was missing an ear and, outrageously, one of her gorgeous footsies had fallen off.
The Big Beaver has a gaping hole, which is often occupied by one or more peckers. Honestly guys, quit it – I just mean that Rae’s Big Beaver sports a cavity in the side of her head that’s become home to a family of kookaburras. If you find anything rude about that, you might want to seek the assistance of a psychiatrist.
Busy as a Beaver
Disaster struck Wilberforce in early 2021, when the river to breached its banks and flooded the area. Homes were destroyed, hearts were broken. The happy little lives that the locals had cherished were washed away in a rain-soaked instant. But the worst was yet to come.
The Big Beaver, a beacon of hope in these most tumultuous of times, was to be the storm’s greatest victim. The Butterfly Farm was swallowed by the gurgling brine. The Beaver, laden with styrofoam, was torn from her base and carried away by the raging waters.
It was feared this Western Sydney icon would be lost forever. Sure, beavers are usually right at home in the water, but most of them aren’t three metres tall and just as cute as a button.
And then a miracle happened.
“We tried our hardest to save the Beaver, but the water was too rough for us,” Rae fretted. “But then the townsfolk came together to rescue her. We put her in a safe position until the water subsided. Most of our facilities were wiped out, but at least we saved the Beaver.”
Yes, with the assistance of several sweaty gentlemen, and with silent prayers of, “Oh God! Oh God!” the moist adventures of the Big Beaver came to a gushing and mutually-satisfying climax. I’m just glad that the boys were able to pull off the impossible so this story received a happy ending – and all without a single double entendre!
“What can I say,” Raelene smirked. “Everyone loved getting their hands on my wet Beaver!”
Drawing a blank on what to do this weekend? Are you locked and loaded for a Big that’ll make you go ballistic? Then it’s time to pull the trigger and shoot off to Sydney’s sprawling Hyde Park, where you’ll find seven big bullets of supreme size.
And you thought you’d have to venture into Sydney’s southwest to find a bunch of spent cartridges strewn around a local park!
Snappily titled YININMADYEMI: Thou didst let fall, this revolver-lutionary sculpture was created by Tony Albert, an indigenous artist who has many tricks in his arsenal. It celebrates the selfless contribution of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander service men and women, and can be found a few hundred metres from the famous Anzac Memorial. The whole precinct really is a barrel of fun!
But that’s not all there is to this story – not by a long shot! Tony was inspired by the experiences of his grandfather Eddie, a war hero who escaped a brutal German concentration camp. Now, let us rifle through this incredible tale.
The Magnificent Seven
“Using his agility and speed, Eddie escaped the prison grounds and crossed Germany’s southern border into Italy,” Tony elucidated. “In Biella, a town in the northwest of Italy that lies at the foothills of the Alps, he and six other escaped Australian soldiers took refuge in a remote farmhouse on the outskirts of the town. Early one morning in late April, Italian soldiers found Eddie and the other escapees hiding in the farmhouse.
“Captured again he found himself in the worst situation to date – the men were ordered to line up side by side to be shot one by one. After the execution of the three men before him there was a halt in gunfire.
“An Italian Officer-in-Charge ordered his men not to shoot. He identified the men as Allied soldiers and that they must be returned to Germany. Miraculously, Edward Albert and three of his companions survived the ordeal.”
A harrowing experience, to be sure, that has been vibrantly brought to life in The Big Bullets.
The battle, however, had only just began for Eddie. The tribulations he faced when he finally returned home provided ample ammunition for his grandson when he was planning this icon. I guess I should bite the bullet and tell you that dark part of this story.
War, huh, yeah! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing… unless you’re a fan of the Bigs!
Even after giving the Nazis a good ol’ walloping, racism continued to ricochet throughout Australia. Alright, you may have already read about this in a magazine, but please, don’t shoot the messenger.
“When service men and women returned to Australia, they were given land for their service,” Tony explained. “However, not only was Eddie and his fellow Aboriginal soldiers not given any land, their land was still being taken away.
“Eddie and fellow Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander men and women defended our country, they were prepared to fall but upon returning, they were left to fall again – ‘yininmadyemi,’ thou didst let fall. I envisage this memorial in Hyde Park to be a special and powerful place for contemplation and remembrance, a space for all our stories to be heard and recognised.”
Emotionally confronting, thought-provoking and perched upon the precipice of a great cultural awakening, The Big Bullets are also super fun to take photos with. For this shoot I chose a modish army jacket that an acquaintance left at my house after a big night at a local dance club. I was also fortunate enough to have Grant, a luminary of the local homeless population, camped nearby to provide feedback on my poses and life choices.
So inspired by YININMADYEMI was I that, in a military lapse of reason, I marched straight over to the nearest Army boutique to enlist. Oh well, hopefully there are plenty of Big Things for me to visit in Mogadishu!
Nobody wants ants to turn up during a meal, but you’ll love sharing your food with this irrepressible insect! The Black Ant was brought to life by legendary local artist Steve Weis and can be found, appropriately enough, outside the Black Ant Gourmet Cafe in the verdant Sunshine Coast Hinterland
With his homespun charm and quirky, indigenous-inspired paintjob, The Black Ant is right at home in the rustic village of Kin Kin – which means ‘plenty of black ants’ in the local Aboriginal dialect. Sadly, the handsome chap’s eyes had fallen off shortly before I arrived, giving him an alien, dystopian veneer.
Far from detracting from the experience, however, this merely establishes the metallic marvel as a constantly-evolving art piece, forever eroding and evolving like the surrounding hills.
Ever the crowd-pleaser, the Black Ant was designed to be ridden by weary travellers. He boasts a comfortable – yet well-worn – saddle, allowing him to blend in with the motorbikes that are so often found in front of the cafe. A more interactive Big it’s hard to imagine.
Those days, sadly, are behind him. The relentless Queensland sun and some overly-rambunctious admirers have left him in a delicate state. Please, I implore you not to climb atop The Big Ant, no matter how many likes you believe the resultant photo shall garner on Instagram. Insect him from a safe distance to ensure he’s able to inspire generations of Biggies for generations to come.
The Ant is not the bulkiest citizen of the Land of the Bigs – especially compared to the massive Matilda, who lives just down the road in Traveston. But, like similarly-proportioned Big Red Bug, he has a friendly personality that renders him eminently approachable. Just don’t offer him an alcoholic beverage – you don’t want him to end up alitrunk and disorderly!
Ants in Your Pants
The Black Ant Cafe has been the lifeblood of Kin Kin for more than a century, originally serving as a general store. It was only when renowned chefs Richard and Kirsty Mundt took over a few years ago that it metamorphosed into the finest restaurant in the region.
The menu is a veritable treasure trove of piquant pastas and bespoke burgers, with hearty portions sure to satisfy after a long day searching for Bigs. Best of all, many of the cafe’s arcadian tables offer panoramic views over the ant sculpture.
As a reflection of my brawny, tough guy mystique, I treated myself to the ploughman’s lunch. The trio of cheeses were as aromatic as they were velvety, the pickles crunchy and oh-so-zesty, and the generous selection of meats to die for. I’d describe the handmade chutney, but fear I may drool all over my keyboard!
My compatriot for this trip, Bigella Fernadez Hernandez, was so engrossed in her smoked salmon, paired with a delightfully sticky lemon meringue tart, that she was unable to find time to pose for a photo with the Black Ant. Well, that and the fact she accidentally smeared the rich tomato paste down her fresh tunic.
As a side note, the cafe offers the most spacious, clean and well-appointed restrooms I’ve ever encountered during my travels through the Land of the Bigs. The sprawling subtropical plants and delicate selection of scented soaps provided a serene oasis for a moment of quiet reflection.
If I could sum up my afternoon at the Black Ant Cafe in one word? Brilli-ant!
Got a BIG appetite after a BIG day tracking down BIG Things? Then head to the shop with the pie on top! King’s Bakery & Cafe has been an institution in Hamilton since 1913, feeding the masses with a splendid selection of cakes, pasties, sausages rolls, slices and sandwiches.
It’s the square meat pies, however, that truly tickle the tastebuds. Steak and kidney, chicken and veggie, even the vaunted egg and bacon – each sumptuous parcel of golden, flaky pastry is full to the brim with juicy, tender meat and a heady mix of herbs and spices that will make you think you’ve pied and gone to heaven.
So revered are these pies by the good people of the Grampians that the owners had no choice but to install a massive meat pie on the roof of the bakery. The eerily-realistic representation of the beloved snack serves as a beacon for the throngs of pie-lovers making their pilgrimage to this sacred site, and can be seen from all corners of Hamilton. After arriving, it’s all gravy!
The Big Pie is as robust as it is saucy, demanding one’s attention with its severe angles and voluptuous, well-maintained torso. The only pie in the ointment is that, due to its position, this Big can be difficult to take a photo with. But, to be honest, being hit by a car as you trot across the Glenelg Highway is a small price to pay for such a wonderful photo op!
When the moon hits your eye like Hamilton’s Big Pie – that’s amore!
Feeling a bit cheeky, I pushed my hardline flexitarian diet to one side and gorged myself upon a brash, yet ever-so-slightly pompous beef burgundy pie with a generous dollop of tomato sauce. The service was snappy, my piping-hot meal served with a smile just as large as The Big Pie.
As the rich gravy dripped down my chin, I was sequestered away upon a savoury tapestry of meaty scrumptiousness that would delight and tantalise even the most fastidious gastronomist. I knew that every decadent calorie was worth it – and I’m pretty sure I burnt off a week’s worth salivating over the nearby Big Bandicoot, anyway!
Scoffing a mouthwatering cheese and onion pie as you take a selfie with this tempting treat should be enough to send anyone into a scrumptious food coma but, if you’re still hungry for more Big Pies, they’re certainly out there. Yatala’s Big Pie is widely regarded as Queensland’s greatest tourist attraction, Balaclava’s Pie is a beauty, whilst The Bilpin Apple Pie is a crust-see for those with a sweet tooth.
Whichever Big Pie you choose to visit, I’m sure it’ll bake all your dreams come true!
Looking for something to light up your life? The head oop norf, because there’s never a dull moment when you visit The Manchester Lamps! The quintet of elaborately-designed nightlights were installed within the cosy confines of Piccadilly Place in 2021. But please be warned that they may turn you on!
Lanternationally-renowned art collaborative Acrylicize really caught lighting in a bottle when they created this bulbous bunch. Each has its own quirky, roguish personality that holds a mirror up to Mancunian culture. From centuries-old relics to sleek contemporary office furniture, it’s their time to shine.
Best of all, each lamp doubles as a bench, so you can bask in their glory whilst nibbling on a heavenly vegan blueberry croissant from the nearby Coffee Hive. Try it with a decadent dollop of locally-sourced honey – go on, I won’t tell anyone!
This monument is light fitting – oops, I mean quite fitting! – because lamps are the only thing the locals enjoy more than football hooliganism. But don’t worry, there’s nothing shady about them!
I was fortunate to visit the Manchester Lamps with my growing gaggle of Land of the Bigs groupies – Gordon, Gideon and my roadside attraction-obsessed half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez. It was heartwarming to see their little faces light up at the display.
Yes, I certainly give these Big Things my lamp of approval!
I love lamp!
Whilst the rest of us were content to gawp in wonder at the Manchester Lamps, it was Bigella who had spent months – even years – researching their significance.
“¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale, ándale!” Bigella yelped, whilst munching on a black pudding-and-eccles cake taco. She paused, disposed of the remains of her meal, and took a deep breath. “My sincerest apologies for lapsing into a comical depiction of a common Méxican. It happens whenever I get particularly emocionada about a Big. So you can imagine that a collection of five giant lamps can make me mucho loca.”
“It’s perfectly understandable,” I assured Bigella. “I was so overcome by emotion upon first encountering The Big Watermelon that I took to behaving like what’s commonly known as a ‘bogan’. It took several years of quite invasive therapy to snap me out of it. But I digress.”
Unperturbed by my display of self-flagellation, Bigella perambulated over to the nearest Lamp and gestured dramatically towards its arcuate base.
“Please allow me to shed some light on the fascinating stories behind these Lamps. The Art Deco-inspired Lamp, with its flagrant use of blue and oranges, salutes Earnest Rutherford, whose research at the local university led to the splitting of the atom.” “A noble cause,” I intimated. “Well, except for all the bombs and death and pollution and misery his work inevitably led to. But please, Bigella, continue.”
“Ensconced in the loving embrace of books and pens, the Art Nouvea Lamp serves as a homage to the nearby Chetham’s Library.” “The oldest in the English-speaking world?” “The very same.” “Hmm, I wonder whether they have the autobiography of Estonian stage, film, television and voice actress, Anu Lamp?” “Oh Bigs! Despite what people say, you really are quite humorous.”
Lady and the Lamp
“With its quirky, aphrodisiacal honeycomb lattice, the Mid-Century Bedside Lamp harkens back to Manchester’s famous – yet morally ambiguous – worker bee mantra,” Bigella lectured. “For a more literal representation of this, the extremely intere-sting Big Bee can bee found in the nearby Sackville Garden.” “That’s un-bee-lievable! And the Green Desk Lamp? It wouldn’t be a flamboyant tribute to the cult of personality that is Alan Turing, would it?”
“You sure know your socially and professionally-divisive theoretical biologists, Bigs.” “Alan was convicted of gross indecency for being a homosexual, you know. He was sentenced to chemical castration.” “Don’t worry, Bigs,” my younger sibling imparted, placing a reassuring hand upon my shoulder. “They overturned that law years ago”
“And as for the chic Anglepoise Lamp? Does it cast our minds towards Manchester’s impact upon the European fashion industry? The sporting triumphs of these proud people? The brash, yet melodic, music industry for which the city is synonymous? “It’s just a Big Lamp, Bigs. Not everything needs to have some deeper meaning.”
National Lamp-oon’s Vacation
As we were departing the Manchester Lamps for an opulent meal at the nearest Weatherspoon’s, Gordon and Gideon, Land of the Bigs’ mascots, stopped me in my tracks. Their impish grins told me they were up to something.
“I found the display quite….” Gideon piped up, “illuminating!” “Yes, it was very…” Gordon added, with his trademark comedic timing, “enlightening!” As Bigella groaned, I hurried the kids to a quiet corner of the square and sat them down.
“Guys,” I said gently, ruffling their hair, “I know you mean well, but I find your pithy attempts at humour to be both purile and rather condescending. The Big Lamps hold a place of great significance to me. I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but, since I was a child I’ve slept with the bedside lamp on.”
“That took great courage for you to admit, Bigs,” Gordon assured me. “But it’s still pretty strange.” “I don’t know,” I replied with a smirk. “I think it makes a great hat – teehee!”
Nǐ hǎo, dear reader! Looks like you’ve caught me Peking at the extra-orchid-nary Golden Dragon Lotus! Built in 2010 as the centrepiece of Bendigo’s Dai Gum San Chinese district, the mandarin-credible specimen stands five metres tall and weighs about wonton. But really, it’s more than the dim sum of its parts.
The wok-manship is simple yet elegant, like the finest Mao suit. The Lotus is lovely in any season, but is especially delicious during spring roll. If you become dis-orient-ed by the flower’s immense size, feel free to take a seat within its ovaries and petal yourself down.
Interestingly, the Lotus was originally designed to have a much paler complexion, but the couple of Asian chaps who painted it accidentally used red paint instead. I guess it goes to show that two Wongs don’t make a white!
After admiring such a big flower, it’s only Hunan to want to experience more Chinese art and history. Head Jinping-side the nearby Golden Dragon Museum, if you have the beef chow means to afford a ticket. It’s definitely worth the rice of admission.
The only problem is that one hour after visiting the museum, you’ll be hungry for more Chinese culture!
I like Chinese! I like Chinese! They only come up to your knees Yet they’re wise, and they’re witty, and they’re ready to please
The Golden Dragon Lotus is surrounded by the Yi Yuan Garden, a peaceful oasis that feels like a happy little slice of the People’s Republic – with slightly less systematic torture, forced labour camps and midnight ‘disappearances’.
Although a five-foot-tall lunatic who was passing by did scream at me to work a 90-hour week in an iPhone factory or he’d waterboard my family, which added a welcome element of authenticity.
Keep walking, mate! This is Victoria, where the locals won’t put up with being placed under constant surveillance, abused by the police, hunted down for speaking out against the government, and locked up for years without committing a crime – teehee!
Are you ready to shlurple the purple? Wait, wait, come on now, don’t call the police! I’m not being uncouth, I’m merely repeating the long-time tagline attached to an utterly bonkers northern English fizzy drink named Vimto.
Crafted from grapes, raspberries and blackcurrants and mixed with a zesty blend of herbs and spices, Vimto tastes like heaven on earth, with a subtle hint of cough medicine drained through a fisherman‘s sock. The locals are obsessed with it, though, and are known to box the ears of anyone who disparages their favourite drink.
Created in Manchester in 1908 by a flamboyant chap named John Noel Nichols, Vimto was originally marketed as a health tonic. Sadly, the only noticeable health effects were a reduction in teeth and an increased risk of diabetes, so it was quickly repositioned as a soft drink. Bizarrely, it found widespread adoration in the Arab world as a staple drink of Ramadan. Apparently the locals refuse to Du-buy anything else!
The Vimto factory was relocated in 1910 and the grounds handed over to the University of Manchester, and it’s on this site you’ll find the venerated Monument to Vimto. Won’t someone think of the children? How are they supposed to concentrate on their tutorials when there’s a giant bottle of Vimto outside their classroom, just waiting to be worshipped?
Carved from oak by the incomparable Kerry Morrison, this masterpiece was installed in 1992. It’s just as bright and bubbly as a goblet of icy-cold Vimto, having been fully restored in 2011, and is complimented by cheeky representations of the fresh fruit used in Vimto’s production.
The monument’s whimsical nature, coupled with its unabashed enthusiasm for the source material, make it the ultimate destination when visiting England’s glamorous north. No wonder Mancunians are so full of Vimto and vigour!
The Fruitiest Big I Know
Whilst a cool glass of Vimto on a balmy Manchester afternoon is a truly holistic experience, a pilgrimage to the monument that bears its name proves to be anything but. When my Latin-American half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez and I arrived, with clear eyes and full hearts, we were outraged to discover that a gang of layabouts had taken up residence at the base of the statue.
With lips and teeth stained a sickening vermillion, the gypsies had obviously spent a decadent afternoon overindulging on bottles Vimto, which littered the surrounds. Anyone unfortunate enough to venture nearby faced the full extent of the thugs’ wrath, as they hurled insults and plastic flagons of Vimto with equal ferocity.
Personal safety, however, must come second to reporting on Big Things. Bigella and I did our best to ignore their catcalls as we posed for some surprisingly delightful happy snaps, focusing on the bottle’s intricately engraved details to take our attention away from the deranged lunatics. If you look closely, you can see the fear etched across our faces.
But then things got personal.
Seriously Mixed-Up Hobos
“Maybe yer lady friend would like to share a cup of Vimto with us?” one particularly unscrupulous reprobate heckled, moistening his sun-chapped lips with a lascivious tongue as he rattled a jug of the berry-flavoured treat. I noted, with a touch of horror, that he was consuming the concentrated variation – and he didn’t seem to have added much water. “Plenty to go around. We’ve got all the flavours.”
“Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant?” I asked, my interest piqued. “Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant,” the lecherous hobo responded with a monstrous smirk. “Ice cold, just the way she likes it.”
The vagrant took a liberal swig of the ruby-red nectar, allowing a hedonistic portion to dribble down his unshaven chin. His mates, eyeballs spinning in their skulls from their sugar highs, raised plastic cups full of Vimto to us. I was hypnotised by the drink’s effervescent beauty as it sparkled in the dying light. So sweet, so refreshing, so economically-priced.
“Bigella,” I bellowed, a thin veneer of bravado masking my inner turmoil. “Run for it. I’ll stay here to hold back these troublemakers!” “But Bigs,” my sister squawked, sweat pouring from her brow, “I can’t leave! You’re too pretty – these pervertidos will eat you alive!” “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I yawped, pushing Bigella into the streets of Manchester. “Now run away and never look back!”
As the first, succulent drops of Vimto cascaded out of the homeless chap’s flask and poured, luxuriously, down my gaping maw, I realised that I’d plummeted to a new low in my life.
But what can I say? I’m just a guy who likes to shlurple the purple!
The Big Bandicoot? More like The Big Bandi-CUTE! This hyperactive heartbreaker is the beloved mascot of the Bandicoot Motor Inn, just minutes from the vibrant centre of Hamilton. Caught forever in mid-stride, the mega-sized marsupial is poised to bound his way into your heart.
Whimsical, cheeky and deliciously kitsch, the Bandicoot really pops against the backdrop of this quintessentially mid-60s guesthouse. The owners pride themselves on offering the cheapest rooms in Hamilton, but the sprawling complex proves to be comfortable, fun and the best value in town.
After all, does the Ritz-Carlton down the road have a Big Thing to admire whilst you’re waiting to check in?
For those unfamiliar with the most widespread of Australia’s endemic peramelemorphias, a bandicoot is basically an adorable rat with a pointy nose and a giant set of hind legs that are just made for jumping. The males also possess the most bizarre appendages in the animal kingdom – but, mercifully, that hasn’t been reproduced here.
Despite their chubby little cheeks and inquisitive personalities, bandicoots are anything but the rockstars of the Australian wildlife community. Budding Bigthusiasts are far more likely to find massive kangaroos, koalas and Tassie Devils as they traipse around this wide, brown landicoot. Thankfully the good people of the Southern Grampians have bandied together to rectify that situation!
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Bandicoot
It wasn’t love at first sight between my alien companion Gordon and The Big Bandicoot, however. Seeing someone just as charming and furry as himself, Gordon threw a tantrum, returned the car and refused to come back out.
“He’s not that big anyway,” the big baby sulked. “I’d argue that he’s not even a Big Thing at all.” “He’s several thousand times the mass of a regular bandicoot, Gordon,” I countered. “That’s still not very big.” “Well, the parmigianas at the motel’s adjoining restaurant are very big indeed.” I handed my friend a laminated menu. In time, he accepted it. “But I suppose you’re not hungry anyway.”
The little alien peered out the window, surveying the Big Bandicoot, who shone handsomely in the dying twilight. Gordon nodded his head and gave me a small smile. “I guess I can put my preconceptions to the side in the name of breaded chicken and an accompanying salad.”
Taking Gordon by the hand, we took our places in the well-appointed restaurant. I opted for the vegetable lasagne whilst Gordon, ever the picky eater, went for the Chef’s Special Parma, topped with hot salami, bacon, ham and pineapple.
“I’m sorry for my outburst earlier,” Gordon said whilst mopping up some melted cheese with an extra-thick steakhouse-style chip. “My ex-wife’s been seeing a bilby, and I allowed that to not only prejudice my feelings towards The Big Bandicoot, but to impact on your enjoyment of the occasion.”
In the early hours of the morning, as the crescent moon dipped below the eucalypts, I peeked out the window of our air conditioned twin suite to see Gordon warmly embracing The Big Bandicoot, and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
The locals say that a decadent smear of parmigiana sauce remains on him to this day.
Let me tell you of an interview with The Real Big Emu He’s one of the most gorgeous Big Things, but the poor old fella ain’t got no wings Aren’t you jealous of The Big Wedge-Tailed Eagle? – dom ba da little da da da
“While the eagle’s design is very sound, I keep my two feet firmly on the ground I can’t fly, but I’m telling you, I can run the pants off Kat the Kangaroo”.
Doo dee ba doo doo doo, boo da Ugg Boot doo doo doo He can’t fly, but I’m telling you, he can run the pants off The Tassie Devil, too
Well he was the model for the fifty cents – oom ba da little da da da Even though Stanley might’ve made more sense – oom ba da little da da da “If you take a look, it’ll prove to you, I ran the pants off Matilda the Kangaroo“
Doo dee ba doo doo doo, boo da Bigfoot doo doo Take a look it’ll prove to you, he can run the pants off The Big Koala, too
Well the last time I saw The Real Big Emu – Oom ba da little da da da He was in Imagine Estate with a female he knew – Oom ba da little da da da As he swaggered past I heard him say, “She can’t fly, but I’m telling you She could run the pants off The Big Poo”
Well there is a moral to this ditty – Oom ba da little da da da Chickaletta can’t sing even though she’s pretty – Oom ba da little da da da Pelican Pete can swim, but he can’t sing, nor can The Pigeon on the wing Emu can’t fly, but I’m telling you, he can run the pants off The Big Moo-Moo
Well the kookaburra laughed and said “It’s true, oom ba da little da da da, Ha Ha Ha Humpty Doo, He can dance the pants off Chinute Chinute, too!”
Thanks to Aussie rock icon – and self-confessed Big Thing tragic – John Williamson, and his legendary ditty Old Man Emu for the inspiration. Can’t wait to catch up again soon, John!
For a cherryfic experience that’ll really cherry you up, head out to Pages Flat to see the cherrybly handsome Big Cherries. Plump, sweet and oh-so-juicy, these are two of the most cherrysmatic Bigs you’ll ever meet – and I’m not just being cherrytable when I say that.
The Big Cherries sit atop a rustic wagon in front of Fleurieu Cherries, which is just 45 minutes from the centre of Adelaide (although it might take a bit longer if you travel by horse and cherryot). You should cherrysh the opportunity to fully explore this very incherryesting facility.
There’s a shop, reception area, and the encherryanting opportunity to pluck your own farm-fresh fruit. Concherry to popular belief, it’s not a cherrybly expensive activity; at $17 a kilo it’s perfect for those with budgetcherry concerns
Don’t cherry your head in the sand, because you might not get a second bite of the cherry!
Although, if this has piqued your cherryosity, you might want to visit other Big Cherries. There’s a lovely bunch in Young, and the legendcherry sunglasses-wearing Cherry in Wyuna. With so many options, you might have to cherry-pick which ones you want to see – although I’m a cherryleader for all of them!
You got the way to move me, Cherries You got the way to groove me
Sadly, whilst The Big Cherries remained on their wagon during our visit, Gordon well and truly fell off his. After an extraordicherry afternoon spent exploring the sprawling meadows of the Fleurieu Peninsula, the little alien stumbled upon a wedding between two lovely chaps, Brett and Nyoman, where he overindulged on a bottle of the seasonally-available cherry Moscato.
Gordon’s drunken shenanigans did little to endear him to the congregation, which included pop singer Eagle-Eye Cherry, screenwriter Cherry Chevapravatdumrong and rugby league heartthrob Daly Cherry-Evans.
The surviving members of Warrant were so appalled that they were barely able to make it through a rousing rendition of their seminal 1989 hit Cherry Pie.
After a momencherry lapse of reason in which he passed inappropriate commencherry about the grooms’ wardrobe choices and started a fight with a flower girl, Gordon was, mercifully, escorted from the premises by a couple of burly farmhands.
He was cherry embarrassed by his behaviour the next day!
If you’ve been pondering a visit to the picturesque European microstate of Andorra, don’t put it off for another second. For there, high in the Pyranees mountains, rests the handsome and mysterious Ponderer, forever gazing out over the verdant valleys of this remote oasis.
Mirador Roc del Quer is a tranquil viewpoint that sits hundreds of metres above the charming village of Canillo, and it’s here that The Ponderer can be found. A surveillance platform – which is surely one of mankind’s finest architectural triumphs – extends an awe-inspiring 12 metres from terra firma, providing and experience that won’t simply take your breath away, but which will make you question everything you know about the world.
To stand upon this belvedere, gazing down in slack-jawed wonder as life trickles by hundreds, if not thousands, of metres below, is to truly find the meaning of life. The panorama is constantly evolving, challenging the observer as it transforms from the verdant greens and yellows of summer, towards the flamboyant whites and purples of winter. To share such a soul-defining moment with The Ponderer shall fill your heart to the point of bursting.
The road to the summit, which meanders through captivating farms and traverses sheer mountain drops, is certainly daunting. Getting there, however, is not. Comfortable buses travel from the town to the top, and the cheery drivers are a highlight of any journey (hola, Luis!). A short walk up the hill is required after disembarking, with a stylish vendor selling refreshments in preparation for the epic encounter to come.
After that, all there is to do is strap in and prepare for the feeling of soaring, unencumbered by the stresses of modern life, eons above the valley floor.
The Ponderer was created by Miguel Ángel González and arrived in 2016. His stoic, yet melancholy personality simultaneously comforts visitors in their spiritual journey through this landlocked principality, and confronts them to step out of their comfort zone.
Sí, he really is Andorra-ble!
Intermission: The Ponderer (to the tune of The Wanderer by Dion DiMucci)
Oh well he’s the type of guy who will never make you frown High above Canillo, looking down upon the town After seeing him and kissing him you’ll never be the same This shirtless, bronzed Andorran hunk is known by just one name They call him The Ponderer, yeah The Ponderer He’s big and brown and brown and brown and brown and brown!
The Ponder years
Joining me on my playdate with The Ponderer was my Mexican half-sister – and self-confessed Big Thing tragic – Bigella Fernandez Hernandez. Our moment of quiet reflection atop the mountain was, sadly, shattered by the arrival of a vulgar gang of lower-class Spaniards who, hooting and hollering, wasted no time posing for risque selfies with the poor Ponderer.
Hopped up on cheap sangria, one particularly pompous playboy placed an ornate Flamenco cap upon The Ponderer’s proud head. Then, in a moment of madness, he reached betwixt the bars of the fence to snatch several coins that had been left as tribute to this God of the mountains.
“Yo, chico, I need this dinero more than he does,” the thug smirked, slipping the change into his oversized shorts as his padres chuckled. “After all, holmes, this gringo isn’t worth the cinco Euros. Viva la raza!”
I’ve had nary a violent urge since converting to Buddhism 15 years ago, but had to be held back by Bigella after witnessing this sicko robbing this most elegant and gregarious of Bigs.
After taking a few minutes to return to my ‘happy place’, as my bhikku had directed me, I pointed the lout out to a group of hotblooded Catalan youths who sat, mouths agape, as I ran through his litany of misdemeanours. Once I’d finished, they put down their empanadas, tore off their shirts, and prepared for battle.
“Stealing from Andorra’s notoriously underfunded National Parks is one thing,” the leader barked, “but dishonouring the work of Miguel Ángel González is simply going too far. We must defend the honour of Andorra!”
Not wanting our serene afternoon spoiled, Bigella and I turned our backs to the impending violence. As we settled in at the cafe for a mocaccino and a sumptuous serving of tocino de cielo, the screams from below left us in no doubt that the thief’s debts had been repaid in full.
It might take a long time to climb up the mountain to visit The Ponderer, but it only takes a few seconds to get back down – teehee!
Howdy pardner, spare a dollar for a po’ ol’ down-on-his-luck cowboy? This is all what’s left of your ruggedly masculine buckaroo, Biggie the Kid. Strap yo’sef in, this tale’s just as sad as the day is long. Some time back I lassoed myself a steam engine and rode the rails on into Mount Gambier, lookin’ for cheap moonshine an’ cheaper womenfolk.
By the time I’d kissed all the moonshine and drunk all the womenfolk, the dadgum train line had been tore up. I was stranded in Mount Gambier with no way of getting home! Sure, there’s Uber, but with my 3.4-star rating and penchant for spitting tobacco all over the back seat, there was little chance of getting a ride.
Setting up camp in the town’s fancy-pants new Railway Lands park, broke an’ tired an’ down to my last pint of root beer, I prayed to the skies for a miracle. The Lord must’ve took pity on me, ‘cos paint me pink an’ call me a buffalo if I didn’t spot the largest set of railway signals in the whole wide world!
Of course I’m more comfortable punchin’ cows and swaggerin’ around in crotchless chaps than I am driving trains, so I have no idea how much bigger they was than a regular set of train signals. But shoot, they looked mighty fine to me!
Known as Signalling Change to the townsfolk, this remarkable piece was created by local artists Trevor Wren and Danica Gacesa McLean, who installed it on the grounds of the old train station. That day certainly signalled change for good ol’ Biggie the Kid…. in the worst darn-tootin’ way possible!
The Signals They Are A-Changin’
Exploring the substantial signals, with their playfully-painted portions and delightful-yet-functional seating options, the words of the artists’ flowed through this cowpoke’s brain like magic. Alright, maybe I was just ‘membering somethin’ I read online, but all that matters is that I’m going to share those quotes with y’all.
“This piece celebrates Mount Gambier’s rich railway history by referencing railway signals, crossing barriers and indicator lights,” the dynamic duo explained shortly before the unveiling in 2016. “Its larger-than-life scale invites visitors, the local community and especially children to explore and investigate railway visual communication through shape, colour and light.”
That’s exactly what I was going to say, pardners!
“Signalling Change will make a prominent statement both night and day, and be highly visible from a distance through its physical height and bold colour,” the artists continued. “The piece is child-friendly and offers tunnel-like apertures through which children can safely crawl and play.”
The only person who wasn’t provided with a safe space, however, was this handsome cowboy.
Biggie the Kid vs Literal Kids
I was posing for some super-cute – yet still really macho – photos, when a long, scary shadow fell upon me. Looking up, I spotted a posse of the meanest-lookin’ cattle rustlers I ever did see. There musta been half-a-dozen of ’em, each seven-foot-tall with rippling muscles and full beards.
Alright, alright, so maybe they was pre-teens on scooters, but they still looked really tough. The children started by hurling abuse about my effeminate sunglasses and ostentatious short-shorts, and progressed to hurling tin cans and dog poo-poo at me.
One particularly cruel street urchin, egged on by his chums, took my ornate wild western-inspired headdress and, in an act of insanity, trampled it.
It’s a sad world when a grown man can’t swagger flamboyantly through a children’s park in a pair of Daisy Dukes, thrusting rhythmically for the camera whilst twirling around a set of giant railway signals, without being the subject of hatespeech from a bunch of ruffians. Bigs not bigotry, as I like to say.
The bullies, who were joined by a smattering of parents and pensioners who really should’ve known better, only allowed me to leave after I hopped on one foot whilst singing I’m a Little Teapot through a waterfall of tears.
It was not my finest hour.
If only those no-goodniks put their energy into researching and admiring Big Things rather than petty street crime, the world would be a better place. Yee-haw!
Death threats, fraud and deplorable hygiene standards – The Big Olive is at the centre of the most bizarre and shocking scandal in Australian history, and has become the most controversial roadside attraction on the planet.
Built on love and good intentions, the decadently-crafted Big Olive has been dragged through the tabloid media, casting a dark shadow across the rugged South Australian landscape.
The delicious duo stand silent, locked behind a barbed-wire fence, as beautiful as they are shameful. What should serve as a beautiful, bulbous celebration of Tailem Bend’s blossoming olive industry, instead divides and humiliates the locals.
Pour some wine, bring out the cheese board, and strap yourself in as we explore the dramatic rise and tragic fall of The Big Olive.
Lie-renzo’s Oil
It all started so innocently. The Big Olive (which technically should be called The Big Olives, but that’s a debate for another day) was crafted by the oliving legends at The Newell Group, and erected on April 15, 2005. The two olives – one a welcoming green, the other a mysterious, suave graphite – sent shockwaves through the Big Thing community with their eight-metre height and weight of more than a tonne.
They were conceived to draw attention to a world-class olive oil processing plant that promised to transform the region. There was a sense of hope in the crisp, country air as hundreds of well-wishers descended upon Tailem Bend for the Olives’ unveiling.
With a bouncy castle and plates of stuffed olives with little skewers poked through them, it was a day nobody would ever forget. Rumours abounded that Jamie Olive-er would be present to whip up a selection of mouthwatering antipasti.
Life was good. Little did the locals know, however, that a nightmare were just around the corner.
For not everything was as delicious as it seemed at the Big Olive factory. Shady business deals, grotesque working conditions and substandard products were the oil on which the company ran. And then, in early-2012, the little town of Tailem Bend found its way onto every television in the nation.
Oils ain’t oils
Hard-boiled Today Tonight reporter Frank Pangallo broke the outrageous story about what was really going on at The Big Olive, and the country gasped as one. The oil being produced there was, upon testing, not olive oil all. It was of such poor quality as to be unfit for human consumption and should only have been used as lamp fuel.
Expired bottles of oil were illegally relabelled, meaning they’d hit the shelves three or four years after their use-by-date. Employees who questioned these practices were berated, belittled, and bullied.
The depths of the depravity were alarming. It was common for production workers, possibly crazed from hunger due to long work hours, to slurp oil straight from a bottle, pop the cap back on and then send it off to the customer. As a result, thousands of Australians may have unwittingly drizzled saliva upon their bruschetta.
Pangallo, a fearless scribe who has built a career on standing up for the little guy, was the target of brutal death threats. But he wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t back down. The story caused widespread outrage and ushered in a new era of stringent regulation in the notoriously crime-riddled olive oil industry.
For a company that marketed their products as ‘Australia’s health gift to the world’, the fallout was terminal. The Big Olive Company was fined an incredible $13,000 and the factory, which had promised so much, was shuttered forever. This corruption, this misery, happened under the happy visage of The Big Olive.
It all seemed like such a waste.
Olive and let die
A visit to The Big Olive is a conflicting and, at times, harrowing experience. The monument is well maintained, easy to find, and every bit as mesmerising as the day it was first shown to an awestruck population.
The olives are massive, delightfully shiny, and incredibly lifelike. I particularly enjoyed the addition of a rustic, undulated stem, which perfectly frames the olives against the dusty backdrop whilst emphasising their immense size.
Their Rococo-inspired lines and simple, almost austere carapace make them perfect for a fun photo. Like any plump, fresh olive, they compliment, rather than overwhelm, the experience.
But the fact that they’re locked behind a fence, amidst an incomplete and windswept industrial complex, tosses these olives into a mediterranean salad of misery. Knowing what went on in that factory, the betrayal and the abuse, makes it difficult to truly enjoy The Big Olive in all its majesty.
The factory tours are long gone, as are the oil tastings and cooking classes that once made it a highlight of any trip through South Australia. Sure, it’s possible to lean against the fence, guzzling olive oil from a bottle, but it’s just not the same.
Hopefully one day the facility can be taken over, revamped, and re-opened. It’s time for The Big Olive to once again stand proud alongside The Big Pelican and Map the Miner as an Aussie icon. The Big Olive is a wonderful attraction and deserves to be seen and enjoyed in all its sumptuous glory.
I guess you could say olive them so much it hurts!
What’s beneath a Scotsman’s kilt? Head to Scotty’s Motel, in the northern Adelaide suburb of Medindie, to find out. There’ll you’ll encounter the five-metre-tall Big Scotsman, who makes up for his lack of trousers by having a truly remarkable story to tell.
Scotty, as he’s known to his clan of admirers, is a beloved citizen of the city and a must-see tourist attraction. Brimming with old-world charm and quirky effervescence, he’s sure to melt your heart. Sure, he can be tricky to take a snap with due to the hordes of cars that crawl past day and night, but he’s worth it. Oh, is Scotty worth it!
Despite scarcely looking a day over 21, this handsome highlander holds a tenuous claim to being the very oldest of the Bigs. Scotty first blew his bagpipes in 1963, the same year as Ploddy the Dinosaur was revealed to a curious public and 12 months before the owners of The Big Banana jumped on the Big Thing bandwagon.
Who came first, the Scotsman or the Diplodocus? It’s a question that’s caused heated debate between South Australians and New South Welshpeople for generations. Plod-Plod is a few months older, but don’t tell fans of this haggis-fuelled heartthrob – they’ll tartan feather me!
Now, join me in a journey back in time, to discover the legacy of this trailblazing Big. Oh, and I might be kilty of peeking betwixt Scotty’s muscular legs, but I swear it was only for research purposes – teehee!
The Scotland Down Under
Adelaide was a very different place back in the early-60s. Long before emerging as a cosmopolitan oasis with a thriving arts scene, there wasn’t a single overside roadside attraction to be found. It was a dark time, an uncouth time, but the winds of change were beginning to blow.
When budding entrepreneur Tommy Meiken was designing his minimalist motel on the fringe of the CBD, he wanted something BIG to make it stand out from the pack. The answer, after a Scotch-fuelled brainstorming session, was obvious – a Scotsman of epic proportions who would lurk atop the front door, beckoning weary travellers inside.
Come for the giant European gentleman with the wispy moustache, stay for the moderately comfortable beds and à la carte breakfast, you know how it works.
After an exhaustive interview process, Paul Kelly – no, not the popstar! – was chosen for the job. Despite being a successful artist, a manufacturing a monstrous Scotsman was a sporran concept to Paul. Modelling the sculpture on a particularly robust chum, he built Scotty in three pieces over the course of several very special months.
The results were astonishing. Simple one-bedroom rooms, priced at hundreds of dollars per night, were booked out months in advance. South Australia’s glitterati mingled with international celebrities – including that other famous Scotsman, Sean Connery – by the swimming pool. The motel had been transformed into a veritable Garden of Edinburgh.
And then darkness descended upon this part of the world.
Nightmare in Adelaide
Thursday, January 20, 2022, is a day that that no South Australian will ever forget. Daybreak painted the summer sky an intoxicating tapestry of pinks and purples, but also illuminated a scene so ghastly, so vile, that it caused grown men to fall to their knees in a cascade of tears.
Bloodthirsty thugs, intent on destroying all that’s good and pure in the world, had attached a set of googly eyes to Scotty’s face. The city, and its most beloved resident, had lost their innocence.
Scotty’s Motel manager Greg Hobson witnessed a gang of four men and one woman using a cherry picker under cover of darkness to commit the hate crime. Understandably, he was too terrified to approach the goons.
“What started as a light-hearted prank has turned slightly more serious as poor old Scotty has sustained some damage,” Greg wept. “His sporran appears to be quite loose and there appears to be some damage to the side panels.”
The proud Scotsman, who had endured so much, had suffered a near-fatal 1.5-metre tear down his left leg. There was even talk, in hushed tones, of an amputation.
“He’s sustained a lot of pranks over the years, but this is probably the most damaging one we’ve had so far,” Greg continued. “He’s such an icon. It’s going to be quite upsetting to a lot of people that he’s been hurt in the process.”
In times of yore, it was common for the adversaries of highlanders to be hung, drawn and quartered for their misdeeds. That’s a fate too good for the punks responsible, but don’t worry. The locals have a way of dealing with such matters 😉
Scotty doesn’t know, but Scotty has to go
Scotty’s endured more than any Big ever should, but he may succumb to the inevitable march of progress and our unquenchable thirst for overpriced inner-city tenements. The hotel is likely to be bulldozed, so Scotty’s looking for a new home.
The motel’s owner, Yanka Shopov, is determined to do all she can to keep this little slice of Australiana alive.
“People love it,” Yanka told a perplexed reporter from the BBC. “Years ago I remember little kids used to cry if we were booked out and they wanted to sleep under the Scotsman. But the thing is he is very expensive. He is exposed to the weather day and night and it costs $7,000 to $9,000 to have him painted. It’s not cheap but he draws attention to the business here.”
Ms Shapov, a kind-hearted woman and one of the most gregarious hosts one could ever wish to meet, has intimated that she’s willing to donate Scotty to the History Trust of South Australia should he be forced from his longtime home.
They can take our lives, but they will never take our BIG SCOTSMAAAAAAAAAAAAN!
Those who wade unwarily into the windswept waters beneath Murray Bridge risk being ravaged by something truly frightening. Frighteningly fantastic, that is, because Bertha the Bunyip is both an ancient indigenous spirit guardian who devours those foolish enough to take a dip in the Murray River, and a proud, brave trans woman.
Meanwhile, I have a doozie of a time keeping up with two Netflix shows at the same time – teehee!
Assigned male at birth, this mesmerising monster was known as Bert when she first appeared in 1972. She was lovingly created by local chap Dennis Newell as the major attraction for the Weerama Festival, which was held on the Australia Day long weekend each year. Lamingtons, party pies and a rendezvous with slimy water imp, does it get any better?
With $2250 from the council and $500 from the local Jaycees club, Dennis spent months constructing the adorable abomination in his shed. Designed to emerge from a pool of water and roar ferociously at anyone silly enough to peek inside his cage, Bert was certainly unique amongst the Bigs.
“Everyone thought he was a little bit crazy,” Dennis’ wife Marlene told a captivated reporter. “Dennis recalls much controversy emanating, with heaps of media comment and ratepayer meetings.”
Despite his ghoulish appearance, Bert was an immediate hit. Curious onlookers lined up to drop 20c into Bert’s bucket to watch him squeal. Dozens – perhaps hundreds – fainted during the outrageous encounter, but thousands of dollars were raised for the community.
So successful was the attraction that Dennis made a tidy profit selling Bert t-shirts, coffee mugs and school lunchboxes, and even hatched grandiose plans for a bunyip-themed board game. Bert-a-mania was gripping the nation but, deep inside, the star of the show was living a bunyip-sized lie.
Bert or Bertha?
The good people of Murray Bridge needed to adjust to living alongside a hideously deformed creature of superhuman size and strength, but Bert was dealing with something even more ghastly – gender dysphoria.
On December 5, 1981, the world was shocked, yet delighted, when Bert introduced her lovechild, Graham. The smaller, yet equally gruesome bunyip caused a new wave of Bigthusiasts to flood into this vibrant rural community.
But a bombshell would soon be dropped upon an unsuspecting public. Bert, famous for brash masculinity and tough guy charm, now identified as a woman. And so she revealed her true self, Bertha, a curvaceous and feminine swamp monster who delighted and frightened in equal measure.
Her bravery inspired many in Murray Bridge to bare their own sexualities, with several burly tradies and members of the local Aussie Rules team also coming out as trans. It was an age of enlightenment in the region, and it was all thanks to an animatronic swamp creature.
Being an icon of pride did not, however, vaccinate Bertha from the twin terrors of bigotry and stupidity. In 2000 a group of transphobic alt-right hatemongers broke into her cage and, in an act of domestic terrorism, brutally bashed Bertha and kidnapped poor Graham. The beautiful rainbow child, a symbol of hope to all gender-diverse Australians, was never seen again.
Scarred beyond recognition, Bertha required a complete reconstruction. She emerged some time later bigger and more beautiful than ever, with her trademark ruby lips and provocative expression luring in lovers from all walks of life.
The members of the anti-trans death squad were, fittingly, dragged to the icy depths of the Murray River, their bodies never recovered. Which brings us to the violent, bloody, vicious legend of the Mulyawonk.
Sun’s out, the Bun’s out!
To truly appreciate Bertha’s legacy as the grand poobah of Murray Bridge’s flourishing LGBTQIA+ scene, we must go back thousands of years, to the Dreamtime. Pomberuk, as the area was known to the local Ngarrindjeri people, was a popular meeting place for hunting and fishing and all those those icky things that a lady of leisure such as myself wouldn’t dream of doing.
Sadly, this little slice of paradise was destroyed by some Selfish Simon who came along and took all the fish from the river, leaving none for the others. I feel their pain – the same thing happened at West Gosford Sizzler back in my youth, when a very young Guy Sebastian would scoff all the salmon fajitas, leaving crumbs for the rest of us.
Thankfully the elders, tired of this cretin’s shenanigans, transformed this Greedy Gus into a mulyawonk – a sort of half-fish, half-man detestation. Geez, imagine the impact on the Australian music scene if the security guards at Sizzler had been able to do that to Guy Sebastian!
Whilst I am Australia’s most beloved cultural historian, I’ll hand it over to Rita and Michael Lindsay to tell the rest of this horrendous morality tale, through the eternal words of The Mulyawonk Song.
We know the Mulyawonk, lives in the caves and rivers He watches and he waits for the ones that he can take Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways Our elders sang
Take only what you need, for you and your family Don't go swimming alone, or fishing on your own Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways Our elders sang
Mulyawonk is still there, you should look everywhere Mulyawonk makes the sound, in deep water he is found Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways Our elders sang
Murray’s Darling
A visit to this verdant township is always a delight, so when I was summoned by Gerald Wang, president of the Murray Bridge Commerce and Culture Advancement Society and proud trans man, I wasted no time heading there. Huddled outside a well-regarded coffee shop for a skinny cap and a vanilla slice, Gerald clasped my hands within his and leant in close.
“Bigs, mate, the town needs your help,” he spluttered, a thin film of froth quivering on his top lip.
“Plenty of towns need my help, Gerald,” I responded, blowing the froth off my beverage. “Be specific.”
“It’s Bertha, mate, she’s stopped working,” the non-binary businessperson blabbered. “Since being damaged in the floods she just lays there in the water! Our booming tourism industry’s ground to a halt. Without the threat of being eaten by a robotic goblin, fish thieves are running rampant. And with the region’s only source of entertainment busted, our teenagers are being lured away by the bright lights of Adelaide. We’re gonna lose the town, Bigs!”
“Not on my watch, Gerald,” I reassured him, before guzzling the remains of my scalding hot drink and flouncing off to put on my scariest pink unicorn bonnet. Taking up residence in front of Bertha’s cage, I snarled and slashed at anyone imprudent enough to wander near. Not surprisingly, entranced sightseers were soon lined up all the way to Tailem Bend.
Unfortunately I was a little too scary, causing several pensioners to have heart attacks after chasing them through the streets of Murray Bridge.
“No big deal,” shrugged Gerald. “We’ll just toss their bodies into the river and say the mulyawonk did it!”
New Yorkers, I’m sad to say, are a pack of perverts. Adam here simply wants to live a peaceful, naturist lifestyle amidst the hustle and bustle of The Shops at Columbus Circle. With his robust physique and cheerful disposition, even his lack of genitallic girth can’t wipe the optimistic smile from his dial.
But it seems the locals can’t stop molesting him.
Adam, 15 feet of brawn and bravado, was created by the irrepressible Fernando Botero in 1990 and took up residence in The Big Apple in the early 2000s. He’s paired with the equally statuesque Eve but, ew, who would want to look at a gigantic naked woman? Especially one as bosomy as Eve.
Since Adam first came, so many sickos have rubbed, clutched and stroked his doodle that the bronze paint has been stripped away, leaving a shiny gold penis in its place.
Honestly, New Yorkers, act your age and not your shoe size!
Making things worse is the fact the Center’s management do nothing to stop this dispoliation of such a congenial Big. In fact, they encourage this foul behaviour, claiming that groping poor Adam might bring good luck.
I can assure you that anyone I catch giving Adam an unwanted hand shandy won’t be blessed with any good luck at all. They’ll find themselves sleeping with the fishes in the Hudson River, wearing a fancy new set of concrete slippers – so keep your hands to yourself.
The Man with the Golden Gun
My threats of ultraviolence towards those who interfere with Adam’s willy proving futile, I sought the advice of beloved New York thespian Paul Reubens, who I befriended whilst bussing tables together at the Dairy Queen in Yonkers back in the early-80s.
Nobody back then could’ve guessed that we would each reach the apex of our chosen careers – Paul as a quirky character actor and I as the world’s foremost expert on Big Things and roadside attractions.
Paul’s ballooning ego in the wake of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure had driven a wedge between us, of course, but we’d since rekindled our friendship during a bawdry soiree thrown by our mutual friend – and fellow Dairy Queen alumnus – Bronson Pinchot.
Oh, look at me, dropping names quicker than an upper-eastside lawyer drops her standards after her second cosmopolitan!
Paul had been ordered by a court of law to ‘keep his hand off it’ after a moment of madness in a movie theatre several years earlier, so I felt he was the man for the hand job.
Paul’s words, however, touched me in the most private parts of my soul.
“Bigs,” Paul said in his sweetly sanguine cadence, as we wandered down Fifth Avenue, munching on freshly-baked pretzels. “You can’t fight nature. Trying to stop the people of New York from abusing Adam’s appendage is as futile as asking the East River to stop flowing.”
“Wise words from a wise man. But surely there’s something we can do? Soon that remarkable man’s pee-pee shall be worn away to a nub. A nub!”
“Mauling Adam’s member is the one small sliver of hope and joy in these people’s lives. Without that, who knows what may transpire? Adam’s reproductive organs are, indeed, the thin gold line between tranquility and anarchy in this city.”
“You’re right, as always,” I squelched, biting into the pretzel’s piping hot flesh. “The very fate of New York rests betwixt Adam’s zaftig thighs.”
Pee-wee’s BIG Adventure
With the final, decadent inches of pretzel dangling precipitously from my gaping maw, I pushed my prejudices to one side and approached Botero’s husky masterpiece. The penis, resplendent in the fading afternoon light, beckoned me with its whimsy and candour.
I gulped, not noticing the pretzel fall to the marbled floor, and reached out for the famous phallus. Time stopped as I touched it for the first time. The cold, yet supple metal warmed my very essence, and a sense of peace washed over me that I had been seeking my whole life.
If touching a a blubbery bad boy’s golden gigglestick is dong, I don’t wanna be right!
To poke Adam’s pecker is, in fact, to live. To waggle Adam’s weenie is, in truth, to love. I learnt more about myself in that single moment of casual groping than I had in a lifetime of electroconvulsive therapy and substance abuse.
Taking me gently by the elbow, Paul flashed one of his trademark smiles. “I knew you would see the light,” he cooed. “Now, let me shout you to a movie to celebrate. There’s a cinema out at Uniondale that hasn’t banned me… yet.”
“Are you paying for the choc tops?”
“Of course, Bigs,” Paul smiled warmly. “Anything for you.”
A word of warning…
If you’re the sort of creepazoid who thinks you might be able to paint yourself bronze and stand next to Adam in the desperate hope that someone will accidentally fondle you instead, don’t bother.
All you’ll get is some really unfortunate remarks from New York’s brutish schoolkids and a swift beating from some overly aggressive security guards.
Ayy, I’m drinkin’ here! Grab a slice o’ pie and raise a zesty glass of cab sav as we toast Private Passage, a bottle of wine so massive it’s sure to arouse even the most grizzled New Yawker.
I’m your sommelier, the irrepressible Bigs von Bubbles; effervescent Upper East Side socialite, lifelong substance abuser, and self-indulgent wine snob. But then you already knew that, ya putz!
Private Passage is a truly bombastic vintage, carefully curated by Malcolm Cochran in the sun-dappled summer of 2005. Eminently approachable yet amply idiosyncratic across the tongue to demand introspective exploration, this most remarkable variety can only be experienced at the evergreen Hudson River Park.
The regal, almost clandestine shape of the bottle is emphasised by its rhapsodic proportions – measuring 30 feet from classy cork to bulbous bottom. Womanly curves are, at once, both sensual and functional, luring in the unsuspecting with an irresistible siren call.
Tapered edges and bold, zaftig angles create a sense of place and space, consummately connecting Private Passage to its Bohemian surroundings.
“I was able to work closely with the landscape architects,” Malcolm Cochran explained, “to site the bottle smack in the middle of the granite esplanade and without visible support to suggest impermanence. That it might have washed up or could float downstream into the Atlantic. Passage is intended both on a literal and figurative level.”
Or something like that. Hick!
Malcolm in the Middle (of a lot of Big Things)
For Monsieur Cochran, a proud Ohio man who has dedicated his life to fermenting oversized attractions, Private Passage presented an opportunity to return to the very womb of his cultural and artistic gestation.
“When considering this commission I knew I would want to explore my personal relationship to the Hudson River Park site,” the vionary wined. “In 1955 my father had a Fulbright to teach English in Helsinki. We sailed from New York to Europe that summer (I was six years old) and returned the following year on the Maasdaam, a Holland-American liner.
“The interviews for artists were held at the HRP Trust offices in Pier 40. I realized on entering the lobby that it was a former Holland-American Line terminal; I had disembarked in that building 45 years earlier.”
You truly were destined to birth this exquisite design, my friend. Just as it’s destined that I shall guzzle three bottles of Cab Franc this evening and then crash my Prius into a hot dog vendor’s cart over by 45th and 3rd. Hick!
You’re always on my wine
Those adventurous enough to peak betwixt the Bottle’s stately portholes shall be treated to an opulent representation of an interior stateroom from the legendary ocean liner, the Queen Mary. Fashioned from sheet metal in a monochromatic colour scheme, it’s sure to leave you dripping with nostalgic wonder.
“The cabin is outfitted for a single individual, and it contains no personal effects,” Malcolm pulpiteered. “I aimed to create the sense that the room was ready to be occupied, that the viewer could project her-or-himself into the space and imagine a solitary journey.”
Fearless yet considered, vibrant and complex, this carafe de vino is a truly sumptuous expression of purity and balance. A decadent experience across the palate with fine, quasi-baroque tannins, Private Passage provides the perfect accompaniment to a debaucherous platter of ocean-fresh shrimp and a visit to the nearby Spot the Dog statue.
With subtle hints of dark cherry, gooseberry and black olive, this most elegant of the Bigs boasts earthy nuances and a zesty bouquet of urine and hobo socks.
Yes, there are other varieties of Big Wine Bottles, such as those found in less civilized regions of the world, such as the comparatively ghastly Pokolbin and Rutherglen in Australia. But honesty, as a member of New York’s cultural elite, I’d rather slurp water from a dog bowl than be seen with swill like that that.
Whilst your common New Yorker, with his brash and braggadocious attitude, may bristle at the suggestion, I believe it’s time to distance this cultural hub from a nickname so boorish as The Big Apple. The Big Bottle of Full-Bodied Merlot Boasting Deep Purple Hues and Incandescent Memories of Nutmeg Complemented by Herbaceous Notes and Oaky Flavors, Quirky Textures and a Velveteen Finish sounds about right to me. Hick!
A word of caution
If a slightly overweight gentleman in a trench coat approaches you late at night and asks to see your private passage, don’t take him down to the docks for a historical tour of New York’s most unusual tourist attraction. That’s not what he’s after, and he’ll have little interest in an oversized wine bottle other than to use it as the backdrop for his sordid shenanigans.
Greetings from Blackpool, where holidaymakers come for the cabaret shows and omnipresent threat of street crime, and stay for the world’s largest kinetic sculptures. Known as Dune Grass, this quartet of superb seedpods are prominently positioned on the princely promenade. They measure an astonishing 35 metres from ravishing roots to gorgeous glass-fiber heads.
They say a picture plants a thousand words and, as you can see, Dune Grass represents nature spectacularly reclaiming a slice of the English coastline. Since being installed in 2011, they’re all anyone’s been stalking about!
These vine, upstanding members of the community, who truly are in a grass of their own, were designed by the talented nerds at FreeState Studio. They were tested in a wind tunnel to ensure they could withstand Blackpool’s notoriously inclement weather, and they’re obviously made of ferner stuff!
The blades bend and sway in the gentle breeze, providing the perfect je ne sais quoi to a day by the seaside. Each is the image of the others, so if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen stem all. Nevertheless, I’m very frond of them!
Cheer up, it’s not all dune and gloom
Though their minimalist curves stand at the apex of of contemporary sleekness, Dune Grass splendidly compliments the 19th-century Blackpool Tower, which looms nearby. These structures, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy, elegantly frame Blackpool’s Victorian-era architecture. They turn laneways into waking dreams, and fish ‘n’ chip shops into bastions of infinite possibilities.
Every teenage mother becomes a princess; every ruddy-faced factory worker in a knock-off England soccer shirt a handsome prince. Never before have four towering representations of marram grass so transformed an ailing Lancastrian resort town.
Serving as bookends to the legendary Big Bird and Big Parrot, Dune Grass has helped cement Blackpool’s status as a sparkling oasis for any admirer of the Bigs.
There’s something magical about climbing aboard a streetcar, incandescent in the inky night, and sailing past the grass. Ironically, I was doing just that when I bumped into my good friend, grizzled character actor Norman Reedus. We hugged; the bond formed between us on the set of Styrofoam Soul stronger than ever.
The Stalking Dead
“You know, Bigs,” the Hollywood heartthrob snarled in his trademark gutteral tone. “I came to Blackpool searching for a place to belong. Somewhere I could just fit in.”
“Because your name is Norman Reedus, and this place has enormous reeds?”
“Exactly, Bigs. You’re eminently aware that, like yourself, I’m a proponent of pithy wordplay. I couldn’t resist the bewitching opportunity to extend my dramatic range by posing as a sentient blade of grass, ensconced in the bosom of the of this legendary resort town.”
“What better way to shed your tough-guy visage and expose your vulnerable underbelly, Norman.”
Exhibiting the impeccable dramatic timing that has defined his career, Norman took a final drag of his cigar and then flicked the stub into the gutter.
“Quite, Bigs. I’ve spent the past few months staring silently out at the Irish Sea, dressed in black, bobbing my head a little, doing all I can to become a part of Dune Grass. But, finally, as I was being abused by a group of particularly unappealing chavs, I came to a realisation.”
“And what was that, Norman?”
“I need to stop trying to be the fifth member of Dune Grass,” he muttered, wiping a solitary tear from his craggy cheek, “and be the first Norman Reedus.”
Cradling Norman in my arms, I stroked his luxurious locks as he finally allowed himself to unleash decades of pent-up frustration, and was reduced to a blubbering mess.
I guess the grass isn’t always greener on the other side!
For time immemorial, word has been passed down from father to son about an eel-like creature of immense proportions lurking in the depths of Lake Bumbunga. Once in a generation, when the silvery moon shines just right upon the lagoon, a terrified local may catch a glimpse of the Loch-Eel Monster and run frantically into the hinterland. Then, once more, nothing.
Deciding that the good people of Lochiel had suffered enough, Gordon and I donned our detective caps and travelled into the wilderness to investigate this ages-old mystery. Well, I popped on an audacious cultural headdress whilst Gordon championed an understated, windswept motif, but you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to discover that we looked fabulous!
Approaching the rolling hills 90 minutes north of Adelaide, we hoped our bravery would allow this proud community to eel their damaged hearts. With scuba tanks and searchlights, we set about the arduous task of locating this elongated fish.
Well, it turns out the Loch-Eel Monster was actually pretty easy to find. He is, after all, four metres high and 10m long metres long, and sits in the middle of a bone-dry, iridescent pink, salt lake. Despite all reports, he’s a friendly chap, and it’s not unusual to find dozens of bewitched visitors posing for cute selfies with the beast.
‘Lochie’, as he’s known by his legion of admirers, has become a much-loved feature of this bizarre and beautiful region. But his backstory is every bit as bonkers as he is.
Can you eel the love tonight?
Lochie can trace his fam-eel-y tree back to a similar, if cruder, Big that was built back in the mid-80s. Known, amusingly, as the Lochiel Ness Monster, this critter was constructed from car tyres and simply appeared one night.
Despite her grotesque appearance, ‘Nessie’ wriggled her way into the hearts of the community. Her popularity caught the attention of local mechanic Wayne Dennis, who saw an opportunity to app-eel to an even larger audience.
“Just about everyone who goes past Lochiel knows the one that’s out there with the tyres,” Wayne told an bew-eel-dered reporter. “My mum used to live at Lochiel and, after I’d heard the monster’s head had gone missing, I thought, well, this could be a good time to make something better and put it closer to the town. I thought if we can make something bigger, it’ll put Lochiel on the map.”
Wait a second, Wayne, don’t plonk the entire town of Lochiel on Map – he’s strong, but not that strong!
“So, I started thinking about what I could make it out of. Originally, I was going to use a TV tower, and thread all these tyres on there. I knew it had to be a cross between a Loch Ness Monster and a prehistoric eel because the town’s called Loch-Eel.”
Very droll, Wayne, but I’m the one who tells the jokes around here!
Fortunately, Wayne didn’t have to beg, borrow and eel to finance the project. He negotiated a good eel with the local council, who slithered in with a sizeable grant. He built his snazzy serpent from fibreglass and paper mâché, wrapped around a stainless-eel rod and wire mesh.
This brave man rarely slept, so consumed was he by his passion project. He barely even stopped for his evening eel – teehee!
Even better than the eel thing
A true savant of the Bigs, Wayne did things his own way as he forged ahead with the Loch-Eel Monster.
“I had a red reflector, the same as what’s on the signposts on the road,” he revealed. “I thought that would make a good eye. So, I made the whole thing in proportion to that. The mouth opens and shuts. I’ve made a funnel, so that when the wind blows, it opens the mouth, and when the wind stops, it shuts.
“I also wanted to make it high enough so that if you’re standing in front of it, you can’t reach up and pull on its mouth.”
So remember, guys, loch but don’t touch!
You need a thick skin to be an aesthetically-pleasing ray-finned fish in a rural community on the edge of the outback, and Lochie has that in spades.
“I’d never fibre-glassed anything in my life before”, Wayne pontificated. “The skin actually turned out right because it wasn’t all smooth; it was sort of rough. With the help of grey and black paint, it made it look like skin.”
Yes, when it comes to creating eerily-lifelike Bigs, Wayne was determined to reinvent the eel.
The eels on the bus go round and round
The completed sculpture was plonked onto twin trailers and carted out to the salt flats. Locals could barely conc-eel their excitement about having their very own Big! But how to ensure Lochie wouldn’t eel over in a strong breeze?
“I spent lots of nights thinking about how we were going to put it in the ground,” Wayne explained. “In the end, I came up with the idea of digging holes, putting tractor tyres in there, and backfilling them with dirt.
“Tractor tyres won’t rot away – they’ll last forever – and there are stainless-steel rods going through it. So, hopefully, it’ll last a long time because it’s in real salty water.”
Wayne, your eerily-eel-istic masterpiece shall terrify and tantalise generations to come. The majestic Loch-Eel Monster makes for a truly surr-eel sight in the midst of a flaming fuchsia fields. Yes, Lochie certainly gets my eel of approval!
Eel the world, make it a better place
Lake Bumbunga, with its salmon-hued salt flats, provides a breathtaking and, at times, confronting backdrop for an encounter with Lochie. It’s a quiet place, an ancient place, where the crackle of one’s own feet crunching across the sodium crystals can create a cacophony.
The setting of the sun is a time of spiritual awakening at the lake. With the mystery of the Loch-Eel Monster solved, Gordon and I relaxed on banana lounges upon the roseate landscape and, drinks in hand, watched a rich tapestry of stars roll out across the sky. For the two of us, it provided a moment of quiet contemplation
Lochie’s mouth opened and closed gently in the breeze, and I plucked several granules of salt from the lakebed to add to my decadent goblet of caramel and pomegranate liqueur.
“You know, Bigs,” Gordon said sleepily, before taking a contemplative sip from a margarita glass rimmed with coral-coloured salt. “I think we have a good life.”
“Me too,” I smiled.
“Me three,” came a surprisingly soft voice from the immense eel who towered above us. The three of us laughed as the Milky Way blazed above us, and all was well in the universe.
The inimitable Bigs Bardot was beginning to get very tired of hanging around the quaint Welsh seaside village of Llandudno, and of having nothing to do. Once or twice he had clambered to the peak of The Great Orme, and he had availed himself of the reasonably-priced goods at the local Aldi, but neither activity truly set his heart aflutter.
“What is the use of a quaint Welsh seaside village,” thought Bigs, “without an enormous Big Thing to admire?”
So he was considering in his own mind (as well as he could, for the gloomy weather made him feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of trundling along to the Wetherspoon for a chicken vindaloo would be worth the trouble of getting up, when suddenly an enormous carved wooden rabbit bounded happily in front of him.
There was something so very remarkable about that; although Bigs didn’t think it so very much out of the way because Llandudno and its quirky inhabitants had, after all, served as inspiration for the literary classic, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
And the absolutely tragic movies featuring Johnny Depp, but the less said about those abominations, the better.
Bigs leant in closer to hear the Big Rabbit say to himself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! You shall be late… to visit all the other beautiful Bigs living in Llandudno!”Bigs was cautious, of course, as he fell down the twisting rabbit hole that is Welsh roadside attractions.
But when he encountered a Cheshire Cat of immense proportions, and then a Mad Hatter of monumental measurements, then a Queen of Hearts of hearty height, Bigs became aroused, for it flashed across his mind that he had never before seen so many Big Things in a single quaint Welsh seaside village.
Soon he was scurrying around as quickly as his little Australian legs would carry him, searching for magnificent Mock Turtles and delightfully rotund identical twins, never once considering how in the world he was to get out again.
And considering Llandudno’s meager public transportation system, that was probably a good thing.
Alice, Alice, where the fudge is Alice?
To visit Llandudno is to step into the yellowing pages of a fairy tale. An enchanting Victorian-era resort town on the rugged northern coast of Wales, it really is a place untouched by time, with cobblestone streets, ancient pubs warmed by roaring fires, and a remarkable pier over the Irish Sea.
Like Alice in the story this British pearl inspired, it’s easy to get lost in the sprawling laneways, encountering bonkers characters on every corner. The Jabberwocky, despite his notoriously cranky disposition, seems positively erudite compared to an English soccer hooligan guzzling his 19th cup of mead!
The Alice in Wonderland Trail is easy to follow and makes for a pleasant, if emotionally-confronting, stroll. It just gets curiouser and curiouser; beginning in the town square, before meandering past the most scenic spots Llandudno has to offer.
The Mad Hatter, lunacy dripping down his angled face, sits and stares out at the emerald brine. The Queen of Hearts stands, screeching, in the midst of the hamlet’s notorious red light district, a sight sure to terrify any silly drunk foolish enough to pass her after a night of depravity.
The statue of Alice is both a wry commentary on the modern ideals of beauty and innocence, and a scathing exposition of the eroding values of the United Kingdom. Her angelic features have been corrupted by modern society, delivering a twisted visage that shall haunt your dreams.
When I used to read fairy-tales, and imagine myself as a young girl with flowing blonder hair, trapped in a bizarre foreign land, I fancied that kind of thing never happened… and now here I was in the middle of one!
We’re all mad here… mad for Bigs!
So Bigs sat on, with deep, sparkling, perfectly-proportioned azure eyes closed, and half-believed himself in the magical Land of the Bigs, with talking bunnies and pussycats, though he knew he had but to open them again, and all would change to the dull reality of a Llandudno winter. The numerous clothes-optional beaches would be sparsely populated and flattering to nobody, and most of the cabaret clubs would remain closed for several months.
The rattling teapots would change to tinkling of pensioners’ mobility scooters, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the handsome, if enigmatic and eminently unattainable apprentice electrician staying in the hotel room next door (call me, Callum!).
The madcap laughs of the Hatter, the lunatic growls of the Cat, and all thy other queer (and please note, this term has been used in the most respectful, inclusive nature possible) noises, would change (he knew) to the confused clamour of single mothers drinking bottles of cider by the seaside – while the lowing of some local chavs in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle‘s heavy sobs.
Lastly, Bigs pictured to himself how this same tiny town, with its vast array of outrageously proportioned roadside attractions, could become a beacon of hope for the rest of the world. He dreamed of how he would gather about the little children, and make their eyes bright and eager by showing them this incredible village.
And how they would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering their time exploring the Alice in Wonderland Trail.
A woman’s work is never done, but a clothesline this size certainly makes things easier! Hills Hoists – a type of spinning, adjustable contraption for drying tunics and underpants – are ubiquitous throughout Australia and an integral part of the country’s cultural psyche. That makes them a perfect candidate for getting the Bigs treatment!
For decades Hills Hoists were manufactured in the beachside suburb of O’Sullivan Beach, half-an-hour south of Adelaide. As the legend goes, one bright afternoon an apprentice mixed up his metrics and imperial measurements and knocked together a clothesline of epic proportions. Hopefully his superiors didn’t hang him out to dry!
The wonderful washing line was popped on permanent display in the workshop’s car park, as a tribute to the ingenuity of South Australians. Apparently it proved particularly popular for Goon of Fortune at work Christmas parties – although nobody seems to remember much about them.
The factory was shuttered in 2019 and production of these Aussie icons relocated to China. Oh well, I guess they need somewhere to hang their Mao suits and his-and-hers matching panda T-shirts.
The boys from Orrcon Steel moved in shortly afterwards, and currently spend their smoke breaks gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the Big Hills Hoist. Whilst somewhat dilapidated these days, it can be admired through a chainlink fence, leading to a similarly disengaged experience to visiting The Big Orange.
Just don’t get too close – as I was posing for these photos a burly foreman stormed over and offered me a job. Imagine that, the inimitable Bigs Bardot working in a steel factory!
When it comes to manual labour, I’m every bit a 50s housewife.
The Hoistus with the moistus
As the crisp South Australian afternoon drew to a close, a furry little hand slapped me on my bottom. I turned, shocked, to see a hairy alien leering at me beneath the towering Hills Hoist.
“Hey toots,” Gordon slurred, taking another gulp from his canister of Emu Bitter. “When you’re finished hanging out my work shirts, get inside and make me a birria and roast duck quesadilla. And snap to it, babydoll, the fellas are comin’ round soon to watch the footy.”
Shocked by his repulsive display of toxic masculinity, I dropped my washing basket and slapped Gordon across his ruggedly handsome face.
“How very dare you,” I snapped. “Whilst there is something wholesome and nostalgic about regressing to stereotypically gendered domestic mantles, the manner in which you’ve conducted yourself only serves to derail the non-binary movement and blockade the discourse required to move forward as a more welcoming society. Put your manners back in.”
The tears in Gordon’s chocolatey eyes said it all. His muscular shoulders slumped. He cradled his head in his hands. He wept openly. A small group of steel workers, sweat dripping down their robust torsos, surrounded us, ensuring I was alright and threatening Gordon with a severe beating should he continue on his rocky trail of domestic abuse.
“Bigs,” he sniffed. “I was so overcome by the sentimental, whimsical nature of The Big Hills Hoist that I regressed to a cliched and, frankly, rather insulting stereotype of a 1950s alpha male. My own ego impacted your happiness, your sense of worth, and for that I am deeply apologetic. I love, respect and support you.”
The petite alien and I embraced, as silvery tears drew pale white streaks down grimy steel workers’ cheeks.
Clothes encounters of the third line
“You’re forgiven, Gordon, and I understand what you’re dealing with,” I purred, ruffling his hair. “I did, after all, sport a kilt and bagpipes for several weeks after interacting with Scotty the Big Scotsman. And I was inspired to swim through the ocean as a crustacean after a date with The Big Lobster. We’ve all been there.”
The steel workers, each reduced to a blubbering mess, carried themselves back to the foundry. Each would remark later that they’d finally discovered the true meaning of love and dignity. And it all happened in the shadows of The Big Hills Hoist.
Gordon, tired yet happy, held the door of the Bigsmobile open for me, then we rolled off into the Adelaide Hills.
“But, seriously,” he yawned, stroking my hand, “I would like that birria and roast duck quesadilla, please. As long as I can help you cook it.”
Trundle down Rundle Mall any day of the beak, and you’ll flappen upon the peck-tacular Big Pigeon. The elegant, mirrored bird was lovingly crafted by local artist Paul Sloan and strutted into town in late-2020. Adelaidians, not surprising, have been cooing and ahhing at him ever since.
Despite his flashy looks, he’s a bashful chap and the epitome of the boy nest door. The Big Pigeon cost a very reasonable $174,000, which begs the question of why the local council haven’t created an entire flock of delightfully large birds.
Sublimely melding the cheeky nature of pigeons with the confrontingly angular architecture Adelaide’s famous for, he demands passersby pause for a moment of quiet reflection amongst the hustle and bustle of this burgeoning world city.
A little bird told me that Paul Sloan’s lifelong fascination for pigeons inspired his genre-defying steel masterpiece – which is a feather in his cap as far as I’m concerned.
“I see pigeons as proud flaneurs, promenading through our leisure and retail precincts,” the virtuoso pontificated. “They are the quiet witnesses of our day-to-day activities in the city, our observers from day through to night.”
Thank you, Paul Sloan, for allowing me to have a birds-eye view of your passion project.
Birds of a feather go BIG together
Widely regarded as the most handsome chap in Adelaide (quite a feat considering that Scotty the Big Scotsman is just up the road), The Big Pigeon isn’t completely u-beak. He’s a dead winger for an equally-dovely feathered friend in Blackpool, England – Big Bird.
Aaaand the incomparable, transcendent, utterly sublime Big Penguin!
So don’t pigeonhole me, buddy!
What’s dong with people these days?
Trigger warning: The following passage contains graphic depictions of pigeon abuse and general naughtiness. As Land of the Bigs is a family website, I implore you to cover your little one’s eyes before delving any further. You’re welcome.
The brave, regal Big Pigeon is a shining symbol of everything magical and innocent and proud and wonderful that Adelaide has to offer. That didn’t stop him, however, from running afowl of a depraved pervert with a massive pecker.
The lunatic – probably high on cheap lollies and red cordial and without a pigeon of concern for the public’s wellbeing – attached what is commonly known as a ‘dildo’ to the front of the gentle fellow. This contraption, which apparently takes the form of a frighteningly-accurate representation of male genitalia, seems to have been placed there as a lark. You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I found out!
So enraged were the people of Adelaide that they rioted through the streets for several weeks hence, looking to capture the cretin responsible and toss him, squealing like the pig he was, into the River Torrens. Pigeon Lives Matter, you know!
I’m going to remain tight-beaked about whether I was involved in the sicko’s disappearance, but let’s just say there are plenty of barrels to pop a pigeon molester into – teehee!
Oh, and if you’re looking for the dildo, it’s long since been removed. It’s not in any of the bins around Rundle Mall, it hasn’t been tossed into any bushes, and none of the shopkeepers know where it ended up. Trust me, I asked.
There’s nothing minor about this miner! Seven metres tall, carved from bronze and with his oversized tool in his hand, Map the Miner will dig his way into your heart.
Guarding the entrance to the ambrosial village of Kapunda, Map casts a brutally masculine figure amongst the lapidarian landscape. He’s intimidatingly large and, whilst his monochrome complexion may pale in comparison to flashier Bigs such as the nearby Rocking Horse and Protest Statues, it perfectly reflects the dusty, harsh monotony of a miner’s life.
Perfectly-proportioned and ravishingly robust, Map’s the sort of guy any girl would love to take home to meet her parents – if only he’d fit through the front door! Let’s call a spade a spade, you’ve got rocks in your head if you don’t fall maply in love with Map.
Map – a mysterious fellow who also goes by the pseudonyms Map Kernow and The Son of Cornwall – was built as a tribute to Kapunda’s proud Cornish mining history. The quarry operated from 1844 to 1878, luring in a myriad of dirty-fingered Englishmen and altering the history of this remote outpost forever. Yes, there’s certainly nothing boring about this bad boy.
Alright, alright, sorry for all the Cornish jokes – teehee!
Just copper look at him!
Local chap John Davidson, entranced by legends of the Cornish miners, suggested in 1986 that the town build a monumental monument to his heroes. Dutch artist Ben van Zetten, whose heart was also set aflutter by the area’s rich history, agreed to design and construct the humongous hunk out of fibreglass. Kapundians of all shapes and sizes and ages and ethnicities came together as one to raise money for the project.
Astonishingly, it took just three months to build Map – one-third the time it takes to gestate an actual Cornish miner. Map was originally meant to have a working torch attached to his humongous helmet, but it was removed because it caused him to feel light-headed.
The statue was officially opened during Australia’s Bicentennial celebrations in 1988. Locals and visitors, dressed in historically-accurate mining tunics, gorged themselves on saffron cake, clotted cream, jellied eels and other vaguely repulsive Cornish snacks.
Whilst the life of a your average miner may be marinated in backbreaking work and soul-crushing loneliness, Map had a happy existence on the edge of the outback.
But then, tragically, Map hit rock bottom.
Oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire!
June 1, 2006, is a date seared into the memories of the good people of Kapunda. The earth was cool but the air was torrid when they woke to the sounds of screaming and the unmistakable cacophony of a Big Thing burning. When they stumbled, clad in rumpled pyjamas and wiping sweet dreams from their eyes, into the streets, they found the charred remains of Map the Miner.
Kapunda has never truly recovered.
The culprit scarcely deserves the dignity of having his actions immortalised on this website, but he will forever be indelibly linked to the story of this brave Big. Like most of the world’s problems, this calamity was born of a mixture of teenage testosterone and interpretive dancing. A pimple-faced troublemaker, barely out of nappies and wishing to take a photo of himself boogying ‘fore Map whilst ensconced in a ring of fire, poured lighter fluid onto the giant.
The adolescent had hoped to capture something that would set his MySpace page alight. Instead, he tore the heart out of a battling town and selfishly stomped on it like the worthless creep he is. Map was utterly destroyed but, thankfully, there was light at the end of the tunnel. The sculpture was insured and Ben van Zetten was able to rebuild Map in less than a year, this time in bronze.
Map was back, bigger and badder and shinier than ever. I guess every cloud has a silver mining.
Not surprisingly, that teenage thug wasn’t seen around town following his act of terror. There’s lots of places to bury a body around Kapunda, and that’s all I’ll say about that.
And they all lived Mappily ever after
“See, Bigs, that’s a real man,” Gordon swooned as we rolled into Kapunda in the Bigsmobile. I was jealous of the attention he lavished on another man, of course. But, as Gordon nuzzled into Map’s brawny arms and planted a tender kiss upon his square jaw, I knew he was right. By most standards I’m a tough guy brimming with unbridled machismo, but I’m nothing compared to a guy like Map.
I’m not happy to admit it, but I put my normally demure personality to one side in order to perform a raunchy dance for Map. No matter how rhythmically I swayed my hips or elegantly I batted my eyelids, the copper colossus remained unmoved. This was one excavator who would not be lured in by the wiles of one Bigs Bardot.
“Bigs, please, you’re embarrassing yourself,” Gordon said quietly, placing his furry hands upon my excitable hips in order to calm them down. “Map might be a miner, but he’s not interested in seeing your shaft.”
Honestly, Gordon, mine your own your own business. I love Map and I’d be lost without him!
As I was a goin’ to see the Luke Kelly Statue in Dublin I bumped into Colin Farrell sittin’, drinkin’ in a fount’in I first produced me autograph book, careful not to have seizure Saying “I loved you in Phone Booth, Col, the way you held that receiver!”
Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o Luke’s the Dubliners’ star!
I took Colin’s manly hand as we posed before Luke Kelly He held me a little closer, to make the gathered mob jelly The ladies sighed and swore that they would severely beat me But it’s worth it to spend a moment with Col, girls, so eat me!
Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o This story’s getting bizarre!
Luke Kelly smiled along with us, as the horde grew in number Luke and Col and Bigs Bardot just watched the throng in wonder There was no escape as our devotees backed us towards the water I kissed Col, then Luke, and whispered “I wish I was your daughter!”
Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o I want Luke Kelly to be my pa!
Colin Farrell’s usually so cool, but soon did he unravel Took off his shoe and threw it at the crew, boy did it travel! Then I produced me pistol and Luke Kelly coughed up his rapier We let off shots and left that group of teenage girls shaken!
Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o Bet that will leave a scar!
Colin’s super strong, pushed Luke Kelly off the block he rest on Then we rolled that giant noggin down the main street of Dublin The girls would fly like ten pins as we swaggered out into the day Watch out, world, here we come, so you’d better get out of our way!
Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o Luke barely fit in a car!
We took delight as we did travel all over Ireland Col and Luke and Bigs Bardot will be together till the end As we sat atop the Cliffs of Moher, waiting for the boys in blue Col and Luke both leant in to say, “Bigs, we will adopt you!”
Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da Luke’s now my daddy-o, Luke’s now my daddy-o Luke Kelly is my pa!
Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da Col’s now my daddy-o, Col’s now my daddy-o This has gone way too far!
Praying for a handsome mantid? Then join this congregation of oversized insects, who have swarmed into the picturesque village of Mount Gambier. Or, given how many bugs and beasties are around, should that be MITE Gambier? Or even Mount Gam-bee-er – teehee!
Local artist Ivo Tadic created the un-beetle-ievable piece in 2019 to add a splash of colour to the Mount Gambier Snail Trail… oops, make that RAIL Trail. This gorgeous walk follows the disused train tracks, and provides a stunning experience that is as breathtaking as it is educational.
The Rail Trail is an easy stroll, although some training beforehand is recommended. Along with the massive praying mantes, you’re sure to find the giant set of railway signals raily interesting!
Older visitors planning to trek to The Big Mantids, however, might want to take a walking stick insect. There are even a few grassy spots perfect for a quick game of cricket. Don’t worry, you won’t see any cockroaches – they live a few hours away in Lower Light.
The Big Mantids are a joy to take photos with, as they wave their surprisingly muscular arms in the air. Yes, they’re anatomically correct and incredibly detailed, but there’s also a sense of fun that makes them a must-see on any trip to South Australia. I tell no flies when I say the craftmanship will leave you wasping in delight. They really are in a classhopper of their own!
Although there is a mosque-ito nearby, it’s not know which religion these guys adhere to – but one thing’s for sure, they are both in sects!
Alright, stop earwiggin’ out, fleas accept my apologies for my an-ticks!
Livin’ on a prayer
Ivo put moths of hard work into the cic-arduous task of building The Big Mantids, ant it was all worth it. The hues and materials were inspired by the Mount Gambian wilderness, because Ivo wanted his happy chappies to blend in with the surrounding environment.
“Limestone is an important feature in our regional identity and the use of this material and natural colours ensures the piece sits well in this location,” Ivo explained upon unveiling his masterpiece. “The use of limestone is also good for tourism and opens the opportunity for a sculpture trail to be developed as a tourist attraction.”
So popular have the Mantids proven, that the trail – once silent and rusting – is now completely overrun by insect-obsessed tourists. But, I suppose, that is the lesser of two weevils.
Mount Gambier’s intelligentsia have been ensconced in heated debate regarding the hidden meaning and translucent commentary behind The Big Mantids, but Ivo – a flamboyant renegade of the Australian urban art scene – refuses to play by the rules.
“Interpret it however you wish,” he postulated, in a move sure to kick the hornet’s nest. “It can symbolise many things, however, I created this piece because I like insects and they are a foundational layer of our ecosystem.” If only everyone admired creepy crawlies as much as you, Ivo, I wouldn’t be spending tonight alone!
Alright, alright! I’ll give the puns a rest, so don’t bite my head off – I’m not a bloomin’ mantid!
Ay Caramba, lovers of Big Things! Is me,El Grande Gonzales, greatest luchador in all México and Latin America’s leading expert on oversized roadside attractions. Hola!
You may look at mi beautiful smile, mi carefree disposition, and conclude that Gonzales is a happy hombre. But there is sadness deep within mi corazón. Bashing in the brains of mi enemies has been a lot of fun – and certainly profitable! – but it was a desperate attempt to transfer a poofteenth of my internal agony onto someone else.
Lo siento, Santiego Ortiz, it seems I give you spinal damage for nothing – oopsie daisy! But I become distracted from my tale of woe.
Muchos años ago, a sheep wander into mi village and eat mi mamá. Then he eat mi papi. Then he eat mi quesadillas, and this is when I get mucho furioso. And you no want to see Gonzales when he is furioso… well, I’ve been told I’m super cute when I’m angry, but I also get a bit stabby. This is why I am banned from Taco Bell.
Well, that and the incident with the cheese sauce.
Since this atrocity, Gonzales has wandered the Earth looking for the sheep that eat mi familia. First, I encounter The Big Merino in Goulburn, but he is too large. Then I find The Big Cow in Highfields, which is a bit like a sheep but also kinda different. How should I know, Gonzales am professional fighter, not veterinarian.
OK, I sometimes work as a veterinarian, but México’s accreditations are notoriously lax. Last week I accidentally neuter Cat Stevens and give an actual cat a guitar and force him to play Moonshadow. Is easy mistake to make, and the cat really nailed it – ¡Ay Caramba!
On the Ram-page
But I go off the track like mi tío Miguel when he drink too much tequila and drive his lowrider into cactus. Is very sad – this cactus have one day till retirement!
I hear word that the sheep who eat mi familia has been seen in South Australia. I take mi tag team parter, El Gordón, and we travel by donkey to Karoonda, deep in the outback. Is a long journey, but there is restaurant serving jalapeño poppers on the way, so all is well.
Karoonda is nice town with wide streets and pretty women. It reminds me of mi village back in México, with less tuberculosis. But El Gordón and Gonzales are not here to sightsee, we are here to take vengeance on a horrible sheep. This cobarde try to hide from us, but we shall find him even if we have to overturn every table and threaten every granny in – oh, there he is, right in the centre of town! He was actually pretty easy to find, as he is two metres tall.
He also have huge set of el testículos and – holy guacamole! – what hombre wouldn’t be attracted to them? Wowzers!
Skip to this section if you just want to read about The Big Ram, and not the adventures of a deranged, yet loveable, luchador
The sheep who eat mi familia has developed for himself a clever cover story. He claims to be The Big Ram, a South Australian icon and the centrepiece of Karoonda’s b-ewe-ming tourism industry. According to his lies – which he has even had inscribed into a plaque beside his rump – the idea for The Big Ram came from a señor Don Anderson, who wanted to cash in on the success of nearby Big Things such as The Big Orange and The Big Pelican.
The sculpture was built by a señor Andrew Stock, with help from some of the more artistic members of the community. The Big Ram was unveiled in ungu-late 1997 at a cost of 12,000 pesos, with local kiddies adding a tiled mosaic to the statue’s base in 2001. He is of good quality, and certainly not sheep and nasty.
Apparently, more than 650 hours of work went into the baa-sterpiece, along with 18 tonnes of stone sourced from shear-by quarries. But that’s just the sort of mierda story a familia-guzzling renegade ram would hide behind, isn’t it? You cannot put your wool onto my eyes, you big baby!
They really should’ve named him Jean-Claude Van Ram
Tears streaming down mi face, I storm up to the rascally ruminant and spit out the palabras I’ve dreamed of for eons.
“Hola,” I rasped, whilst gesturing flamboyantly for dramatic effect. “Mi nombre is El Grande Gonzales. You eat mi father. Prepare to die.”
The good gringos of Karoonda, who had encircled us, gasped as one. Gonzales clench his fists. The match of the century was about to begin
Somewhere, in the distance, a lone cassowary cawed.
I may be the most feared fighter in all of México, but it was El Gordón who threw the first punch. Teehee, you should’ve seen the hombrecito go! He kicked and he bit and he spat and he slapped until finally, slick with sweat and covered in blood, he fell to the ground.
The sheep, he show no signs of being in a fight at all, and just stand there smiling. I take off mi shirt, adjust mi jockstrap, and prepare to rush in. But then I am struck by sudden realisation. Just like when mi tío Paco was struck by a sudden VW Beetle whilst dancing in the street. This event cost him his dream of winning México’s Got Talent.
“Mi familia was not eaten by a sheep at all!” I exclaimed, as the townsfolk went ‘Ooooh!’ in unison. “They move to a beachside villa in Cancún, where they make a comfortable living selling NFTs to chubby American tourists. I even visit them last summer, is a nice place. Mi life has been spent travelling the globe, putting livestock into headlocks for nothing!”
I cradled El Gordón, who was really quite seriously injured, in my muscular arms. We posed for some super cute selfies with The Big Ram, signed autographs for the understandably starstruck townsfolk, and said our farewells to Karoonda.
“That place that sells the jalapeño poppers is still open, right?” asked a weary El Gordón.
“Sí, señor.” And with that, we rode our donkey off into the sunset.
She’s plump, juicy and oh so delicious – but enough about me, the inimitable Bigs Bardot! We’re here to celebrate the scrumptious Big Apple, who sits regally above The Olde Apple Shed, high in the Adelaide Hills.
This ruby-red rascal is the pride of Balhannah, and boasts a rustic charm just as dainty delicacies she promotes. Stop by for a memorable photo that’s sure to set your socials aflame, then treat yourself to the legendary rhubarb and apple crumble, paired with a decadent dollop of cream.
If you’re feeling extra naughty, try the freshly-baked shortbread, smeared with some zesty Adelaide marmalade – go on, I won’t tell anyone!
The Big Apple has become a real peeler of the community over the years, and I must admit to being cored off-guard by her immense girth. What can I say, it’s not every day I meet some as fruity as moi!
Don’t you think I look wonderful be-cider? I’d like to say I’m the prettiest Pink Lady in Balhannah, although that might upset the apple cart!
OK, she might not be as famous as some of South Australia’s other Bigs but, really, that’s like comparing apples and oranges! I really should stop with all the apple puns… orchard I?
How ’bout them apples!
Grand Granny Smiths, really large Royal Galas and supersized Sundowners can be found the length and breadth of this wide, brown land (of the Bigs). There’s an apple in Yerrinbool, another apple in Tallong, and a really cute apple in Darkes Forest that’s almost as gorgeous as me… almost!
There’s an awe-inspiring Red Delicious inside the Bilpin Fruit Bowl and, if you prefer your maças wrapped tenderly in flaky pastry, the Big Apple Pie just down the road. The highest concentration of Big Apples is, undoubtedly, in Batlow, where there are Big Things apple-enty!
For those willing to take a salacious bite from a forbidden fruit, The Big Apple in Acacia Ridge is home to a fairly seedy adult shop. If that sort of smut a-peels to you, I don’t know what you’re doing on a wholesome website such as this.
All are equally tasty, so I guess the Big Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!
What do we want? More Bigs! When do we want ’em? Now!
When the slimeballs at the South Australian Government threatened to turn his backyard into a dump, local legend Stephen Jones fought back in the only way he knew how – with a series of increasingly bizarre Big Things.
Throughout the 90s, the windswept stretch of road between Lower Light and Dublin welcomed a studious rat, a cantankerous blowfly, two chaps in an environmental lookout, a sturdily-constructed UFO, an aggrieved cockroach, an eerily-realistic rendition of Ned Kelly, a towering Tin Man and (all together now!) a partridge in a pear tree.
(Yes, yes, there’s not actually a partridge in a pear tree. It’s a joke, and a pretty dadgum funny one at that, so hold back with the hate-filled emails brimming with toxic masculinity)
Sadly, this only served as a wake-up call that building Big Things isn’t the solution to all the world’s problems. The bigwigs in Adelaide won, the junkyard went ahead, and this little slice of paradise was forever scarred. But it’s not all bad news.
The Protest Statues have become a beloved tribute to the rebellious spirit within all South Australians. Crow Eaters marvel at them whenever they travel up the coast, and visitors are left shocked but impressed by their whimsical folly. They’re unlike any other Bigs on the planet, but seeing them is almost as challenging as understanding them.
Aliens and rodents and flies – oh my!
The Protest Statues can be found by the side of the bustling Port Wakefield Highway, about an hour north of Adelaide. Don’t expect a gift shop and a set of informative signs, however. Whilst they’re easy to see from the road, each effigy is tucked away on private farmland, making it difficult to nab a selfie.
There’s not even a designated spot to pull over and park, so semi trailers will be hurtling by as you pose for a happy snap. If, like me, you’re a cutie pie with a flair for the extravagant, expect to be the target of wolf whistles and testosterone-fuelled honking from the passing traffic. Seriously, boys, save your expressions of admiration for the Big Things!
Those who make the effort to view this absorbing assemblage are in for a treat. Each statue is quirky and provocative, with a homemade charm that’s sure to you’ll fall in love with. The environmental lookout exudes danger and mystery, making a clear statement that no assault on the planet will go unseen.
The rat, resplendent in his spectacles and tie, serves as a thought-provoking examination of local and state politicians. Ned Kelly, despite being petite compared to his doppelgangers in Glenrowan and Maryborough, simultaneously celebrates and critiques the more vulgar aspects of the Australian psyche.
Ironically, it’s the Tin Man who stole the heart of this Friend of Dorothy. Who doesn’t want a tall, silent, barrel-chested chap in their life?
They’re all wonderful, but this collection truly is more than the sum of its parts. When seen together, strewn haphazardly beside a dusty stretch of freeway, the Protest Statues make a powerful statement on love and life that will have you questioning your own values and morals. These are the thinking man’s Big Things.
Between a cockroach and a hard place
Cockroaches, they say, shall outlive mankind. So it should come as no surprise that the most celebrated of the Protest Statues, The Big Cockroach, has taken a kickin’ and keeps on tickin’.
(Yes, yes, I understand that cockroaches are insects whilst ticks are arachnids, and never the twain shall meet, but the joke still hits the mark. You don’t have to email me about it every week, Darryn from the Institute for the Study of EndemiC InverTebrates [INSECT]. By the way, your acronym is lous-y!)
The Blattodean heartthrob was left to the whims of the South Australian weather, and by late-2013 he was far from his charismatic self. When, one acrid day in December of that year, the Cockroach went missing from his perch, some assumed he’d scurried off to the big nest in the sky. Many, sadly, simply didn’t care.
But one man did care – local TV legend, and self-confessed Big Thing tragic, Andrew Costello. As a former contestant on fat-shaming weight-loss program The Biggest Loser, ‘Cosi’ knows what it’s like to be consigned to the fringes of society. For the bargain price of two slabs of beer, the loveable larrikin bought the Cockroach and had him fully restored.
Whilst the temptation to install this delightful Big in his backyard must have been as irresistible as one of the powdered donuts he once gorged himself on, Cosi did the right thing. After a month-long residency in Adelaide’s notorious Rundle Mall – next to The Big Pigeon – the Big Cockroach was returned to his home beside the the other statues. From all of us here at Land of the Bigs, thank you, Cosi.
The Big Cockroach might’ve had a facelift and spent time with South Australia’s entertainment elite, but don’t worry – he’s still ap-roach-able!
Peli-can you imagine anything more de-flight-ful than this wonderful waterbird? No, I don’t bill-ieve you can! The Big Pelican is the main attraction of South Australia’s verdant Riverland region, and has a story more wing-credible than you can imagine.
With a personality even larger than his beak, The Big Pelican has long been the darling of Loxton’s robust social scene. He’s vivacious and outgoing with a slight bad boy edge, and always the centre of attention.
The Big Pelican is the sort of guy all the dusky moorhens want, and all the dollarbirds want to be.
Those empathetic (and tall!) enough to have stared into his deep, caramel eyes, however, may have discovered something more; the sweet melancholy of dreams unrealised. For whilst he touched millions of hearts and lived a rockstar lifestyle, all The Big Pelican really wanted was to paddle along the Murray River with his normal-sized mates.
The gentle caress of cool water on his tasty tootsies seemed little more than a flight of fancy. But then, in late-2022, a miracle happened.
Whatever floats your boat
Like many of the more sociable Bigs, such as Lefty, Matilda and Victoria’s Clownfish, the Pelican began life as an oversized parade float. The Loxton Mardi Gras had long lured in revellers but, thanks to the arrival of The Big Pelican, it was the 1979 edition that turned the town into a must-visit party destination.
Move over, Rio de Janeiro! Your carnivale seems like fun, but it doesn’t have a four-metre-long aquatic chicken!
Local chap John Draper was the visionary who came up with the idea to trundle a papier-mâché pelican through the town’s streets. Inspired, perhaps, by Pelican Pete up in Queensland, he brought in Glenn Butson and Bruce Graham to help build the behemoth, with Charlotte Thiele adding a lick of paint. Bird fanciers swarmed in to ooh and ahh at his grandeur (the Pelican, that is, not John Draper – although I’m sure he’s a very handsome man).
The humongous heron was also the star of the 1980 Mardi Gras, but apparently the good people of Loxton partied just a little too hard. Abandoned on a riverbank, the Pelican was birdnapped by local gang members. They strapped him to some old car tubes and floated the poor wretch down the raging waters of the Murray River. His skin was destroyed, the flesh stripped from his lithe bosom.
The poor fellow must’ve been terrified.
Those thugs must be in their 60s by now, and have probably kept their shameful secret to themselves. Maybe now, after all these years, they can look themselves in the mirror and not feel ashamed. Perhaps they no longer wake in the early hours of the morning, slick with sweat, the Pelican’s name scraped across their sandpaper tongues. But I hope, when their time in the sun draws to a close, that the final thought to race through their bitter minds is of the horror they put that poor Pelican through back in 1980.
It remains the darkest moment in South Australia’s long history. Well, apart from the whole bodies in barrels thing, but it’s still pretty bad.
You can’t keep a good pelican down
Five years after his seeming demise, The Big Pelican was resurrected by an enterprising young dude named Peter Mangelsdorf. With stars in his eyes, Pete believed that the king-sized cormorant could find fame and fortune in one of the world’s cultural hotspots, and so took him to the bright lights of Adelaide.
With the help of Roy Harvey, Dana Braddock, Ruth Pfeiller and some of the area’s more ambitious students, The Big Pelican came back better than ever. He appeared at the 1985 New Year’s Eve spectacular, and returned to Adelaide for the well-received Murray Comes to Town festival in 1989.
When not mingling with Adelaide’s glitterati, this beaky chap was the centrepiece of the Loxton Mardi Gras until 1992. Like the rest of us, this party boy finally had to grow up, put the sequinned hotpants away and become a respectable member of society. Peter had long dreamed of having this pouch-standing example of modern architecture fibreglassed and put on permanent display, which he was able to do in 1998 with the help of Peter Goodhand.
The Big Pelican was placed inside Loxton Riverfront Caravan Park, where he spent his days inspiring a new generation to greatness. But, as always, he had one eye on the tranquil swell of the mighty Murray…
Floody hell!
If the The Big Pelican can’t go to the river, then the river will come to The Big Pelican. In late 2022, torrential rainfall caused the Murray River to swell like the pregnant belly of a 2,508km-long snake. As the waters rose, sweeping away all in their path, the Pelican watched on and dreamed of floating on the refreshing brine – this time on his own terms.
The caravan park he called home was drowned beneath metres of mud and finally, blissfully, The Big Pelican found himself surrounded by water. The sight was odd to locals, but also just felt right, as if the big fellow was finally where he belonged.
The waters receded. The park was cleaned up and, eventually, will once again welcome campers. The Big Pelican sits again on dry land once more, the stream achingly close. But look at his curved beak. Stare into those deep, caramel eyes, and you’ll see something that wasn’t there before. You’ll see a flicker of life and excitement, born of a few unbelievable days upon the Murray River.
Miracles do happen. Just ask The Big Pelican.
Epilogue: When Bigs met Barry
During my visit to The Big Pelican I was fortunate enough to spend time with the irrepressible Barry Mangelsdorf, the brother of Peter. Barry is as charming as he is knowledgable of the Pelican, and regaled me with many stories of the Pelican’s adventures over the years.
We’ll go for that swim next time I’m passing through town, Baz!
Rising fifteen metres above the outback, The Big Orange is undoubtedly South Australia’s finest feat of engineering. Generations of Aussies have gazed in wonder at her enormity and stepped, hearts aflutter, into her juicy endocarp. This Orange is more than just Big; her grandeur is all-consuming.
Songs have been sung about this spherical marvel. Legends of her size have been passed down from father to son to grandson. This colossal citrus is the very fabric upon which this country has been built. But now the Orange stands empty, wilting in the relentless sun, serving as a totem to everything rotten with modern society.
What should be a monument to all Australia has achieved, has instead become a national disgrace. This is the story of a people who have strayed from their path, and the enormous roadside attraction, once the pride of this sunburnt land, that has become collateral damage.
This is the tragedy of The Big Orange.
The zest laid plans…
The 1970s was an exhilarating decade for a spirited young country discovering its own unique identity. The Sydney Opera House was shocking the architectural community. The Bee Gees were turning the heavy metal world on its head. Rolf Harris was showing off a more refined, sophisticated edge to our society. Nothing epitomised this cultural awakening quite like the influx of Big Things – led, of course, by Ploddy the Dinosaur – and South Australia was at the forefront of this movement.
Following the resounding success of Adelaide’s Scotty the Big Scotsman, local entrepreneurs Bronte Coombe, Vern ‘Chubby’ Chubb and David Marshall wanted to get in on the action. Each tipped in $145,000, before handing over design and construction duties to John Twopenny from Hoffmann Engineering. John, you were worth every penny!
Constructed from fibreglass panels over a steel frame and weighing an impressive 85 tonnes, The Big Orange boasted four interior levels and a viewing platform offering stunning vistas over the area’s orchards. There was space inside for a conference centre, souvenir shop and 360 degree mural that, from all reports, put the Sistine Chapel to shame.
When The Big Orange was officially opened on January 14, 1980, crowds of crow-eaters squeezed in to be a part of history. The landscape of Berri had changed forever but, more importantly, the very essence of what it means to be Australian had transformed. With the opening of The Big Orange, Australia thrust herself onto the world stage. A progressive and daring land, the equal of any that had come beforehand.
The future looked as sweet as the Valencias the Big Orange was modelled upon. The reality, however, would prove to be as sour and withered as a Seville (which is, for reference, the most bitter and inedible variety of orange that is commonly grown).
More than a peeling
Millions of visitors and the sort of rockstar celebrity that most Bigs can only dream of couldn’t protect this landmark from the twin henchmen of time and eroding moral values. By the turn of the century The Big Orange was in poor condition and running at a loss. Sadly, she was sold to an employment agency for a paltry $100,000.
This was a poor financial move as, not surprisingly, most jobseekers preferred to admire The Big Orange than find gainful employment. She was sold once more to Kevin Dickerson, a man with a big heart and even bigger dreams. He envisioned her as South Australia‘s answer to Disneyland, with the Big Orange as the bulbous counterpoint to the Magic Kingdom.
Of course, the Americans had their own Big Orange, which entered the national zeitgeist and altered the course of North American politics, but it was nothing compared to our down under wonder. Kev’s ambitions, tragically, ran deeper than his pockets, and the Orange was put into liquidation.
Local golf enthusiasts suggested painting her up like an oversized Titleist but, thankfully, this mockery never came to fruition. I guess they just didn’t have the drive to see it through. The site was instead bought by a local businessman, who still hopes reopen it as a tourist attraction someday.
But someday, as the pop rock poets from Creedence Clearwater Revival once told us, may never come.
Rest assured that myself and some other ‘Karens’ are doing everything in our power to ensure this appalling citrus-ation is not allowed to germinate – and that those responsible spend sufficient time in one of the Riverlands’ most inhumane penal colonies.
See how much you enjoy the lapdances in there, boys!
We’ll see you a’rind
Today The Big Orange sits, alone and afraid, behind a gnarled barbed-wire fence by the Sturt Highway. She’s in surprisingly good condition considering what she’s been through and, whilst it’s not possible to venture inside or touch her rippled exocarp, it’s easy to see her from the side of the road.
She serve as a testament to what South Australians can achieve, and represents all that’s good and wholesome and adventurous about this harsh corner of the planet. But she’s also the bittersweet emblem of a state tossed upon a sea of bigotry against gigantic roadside representations of fruit.
I’d go as far as to say that the government’s reaction to this tragedy has been pith-etic, but now is not the time for amusing wordplay.
The Big Orange holds a mirror up to modern-day Australia. The question is, how many of us are willing to take a good, hard look at ourselves?
Don’t be a hermit! Scurry along to the sun-soaked sanctum of Terrigal to see this ever-tilish mosaic crab, who comes with his own oversized sea shell. Known as The Odyssey of Life, this salt-encrusted wonder takes pride of place outside the Central Coast Marine Discovery Centre and is sure to pinch a piece of your heart!
The Odyssey of Life was lovingly created by the dynamic duo of Christopher Pekowski and Carlos Diaz. So driven by a shared affection for Big Things are these lads, that they answer to the collective name of Christopher Diaz.
This Big stuns with its exquisite artisanship and impeccable attention to detail – you have to see it to believe it. And the art world agrees.
The Odyssey of Life picked up the Judge’s Choice award at the 2018 Sculptures @ Bayside festival in Kyeemagh, NSW. One Biggles Marion Bardot cast the deciding vote.
Apparently the runners-up were really crabby afterwards – teehee!
an active version of that sentence:
In 2022, the boys donated the sculpture – part of a series of works collectively known as Pacifica Australis – to the Discovery Centre. Since then, business has boomed, and Christopher Diaz have become the toast of the Coast’s so-shell scene.
If you don’t find my puns funny, babe, you must be shell-ucinating!
Odyssey is the Best Policy
This deliciously large Triton trumpet has become a much-loved feature of Terrigal’s burgeoning tourist scene, alongside The Skillion and underage drinking.
Christian Diaz, however, see it as much more than that.
“The ocean is a living organism in which everything is connected to everything, where constant migration and changes are turning it into a spectacular Odyssey of Life,” the boys explained when revealing their pièce de résistance. “It’s happening just under the water’s surface and we are a huge part of it having such an impact on life on Earth.
“Pacifica Australis, through its explosion of colours, complexity and bold appearance, is confronting two environments: trapped between concrete, a relatively modern world and natural forces that support life and sustainability on the planet since its beginning – both are vulnerable and closely related.”
Take that, anyone who believes that Bigs aren’t at the apex of haute couture. I mean, just take a look at the nearby Steel Stilettos.
Sadly, Gordon ruined our afternoon with The Odyssey by carrying on like a big baby after the crab nipped his tiny tootsie.
Oh, Gordon, don’t you know some of us would pay good money for that?
Nicaraguans are a bunch of big babies, so it should come as no surprise that they’ve erected a gran tótem to their favourite brand of comida para bebé. That’s baby food to you, el gringo.
The cherubic Nicas (as those of us ensconced within the beating womb of América Central call the passionate locals) are obsessed with Nido powdered milk. They sprinkle the scrumptious powder atop corn cobs, mix it in with arroz, or simply gobble it from the tin as they excitedly watch soccer games or participate in riots.
After discovering this quartet of king-sized cans in the rustic village of León, me pavoneé adentro para probar el delicioso manjar. Lo siento, I keep lapsing into española – I simply mean that I swaggered inside the barbed wire-clad shoppe and ordered a pitcher of Nido.
The drink I was served was as delightful as it was exotic, and each gulp took me closer to a life-affirming journey that I won’t soon forget.
All you Nido is love!
I found the pollo-flavoured dairy drink every bit as feisty and delicious as the Nicaraguans themselves. After besando al burro (oops! There I go again!) I skipped through León’s historic cobblestone streets and flounced upon a seat by the Parque Central to admire the sun setting behind the Real e Insigne Basílica de la Asunción de la Bienaventurada Virgen María.
Or ‘The big church in the middle of town’, for you gringos.
With the prebiotic fibres surging through my bloodstream, the years melted away and I reverted to a younger, more innocent version of Bigs Bardot. After wetting my pants and jigging awkwardly to a Wiggles song, I threw a good ol’ tantrum that I knew would bring me no comfort because Mum was over at the Grange putting the grocery money through the pokies and wouldn’t be home for days, probably with some hombre she’d just fallen in love with.
Ah, how different things could have been if I had grown up in León rather than Wyoming. Picking pockets by day, oohing and ahhing over Las Latas de Leche Nido Gigantes by night. Well, a girl can dream.
By the time I emerged from my Nido-fuelled psychosis, the lactose-infused dust covering every inch of my naked body, I realised I’d been robbed of everything bar my dignity. Although, on reflection, befouling myself in public and weeping upon the heavy bosom of a statue of the Virgin Mary probably wasn’t my finest hour. Sí!
Drenched in the blood of his foes and with his name echoing throughout the verdant pastures of Ireland, the mythical warrior Finn McCool set his sights on yet another adventure – a one-week getaway to a sensibly-priced singles resort in Benidorm, complete with half-board and the drinks package.
Spirits, of course, were extra, but Finn felt confident that he could smuggle a bottle of Jameson past the lass at the front desk and, if he erred on the side of caution, consume it in his room before heading out for an indulgent evening of fine dining and raucous dancing.
Sadly, whilst he was able to slay legions of marauders and lay dozens of nubile young temptresses, Finn was unable to overcome Ryanair’s lackadaisical attitude towards punctuality. Stranded in transit, Finn was. And so it came that we rendezvoused within the fertile bosom of Belfast International Airport‘s well-stocked sports bar.
Languidly tracing a slender finger around the rim of an extra-virgin Negroni Sbagliato, I eyed the swarthy stranger sitting alone in a dark corner of the pub. Jars of Guinness disappeared down his gaping maw at a brisk velocity and, with hesitation born of infatuation, I tiptoed up to the behemoth. Poised before his immense beard, I’d never felt so small.
Legend McCool
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, Finn,” I stammered, resorting to ethnic stereotyping in order to lower the giant’s guard. He poured another pint down his throat, belched loud enough to startle some nearby Korean tourists, and ran his chocolatey eyes over my trembling body.
“And the rest o’ the day to ya, Bigs,” growled the colossus, sliding over just a pinch to make space for little old me. “As the world’s leading expert on Big Things, roadside attractions and associated oversized oddities, I knew it was only a matter of time ‘fore you tracked me down.” “It wasn’t hard. There aren’t many passengers as large as you.” “Except for the Americans,” Finn chuckled, causing a trickle of beer to shoot from his nose. I had to admit that, although borderline xenophobic, it was a pretty good joke.
“How long have you been waiting for me, Finn?” “Since 2019, Bigs. After three long years in this terminal, I’m beginning to feel like Tom Hanks in that movie… oh, what was it called?” “The Terminal?” “No, that other one.” “Big?” “No, no. Splash. Because I had an unfortunate encounter with a fish.”
Finn swallowed heavily, dropping his guard. I fell hopelessly in love with his vulnerable side. He may be a leviathan, but Finn’s as human as the rest of us.
In like Finn
Time became sluggish, like a malcontent snail. I grasped the sad realisation that the apex of my tryst with Finn had come and gone. I sipped from my Negroni, soaking in the final decadent drops of alcohol-free deliciousness. Finn chugged from his beer before belching loud enough to send the Koreans running in terror.
And then, just quickly as it had begun, my dalliance with the legendary Finn McCool came to a shuddering halt. We embraced one final time. I nuzzled into his beard, wanting nothing more than for him to protect me from the outside world. There was a kiss, all too brief. Then nothing but tears and the heartache of parting.
Of course, my Ryanair flight was delayed and I had to spend another 18 awkward hours with Finn, but the leas said about that the better.
We will fly, to Leeds, oh my! Where the cold wind blows There is no sun, but it’s still fun There’s a stallion there, don’t you know? Equus Altus, by Andy Scott, is situated Deep in Trinity Leeds‘ beating heart He’s the most handsome hunk in the herd Caught above some shopping carts Can’t you hear him? Oh, he neighs so loud Casts his wild note over the gobsmacked crowd
That’s the way it’s gonna be, little darlin’ We’ll be admiring the horsie, yeah Way up in the sky, is this darlin’ And if he falls he’ll muck you up, muck you up
You will grow and until you go To see Yorkshire’s cloven pride And even then whisper the wind But don’t try to touch his side Or the ropes holding him may become unfurled A chubby chap below will cry As he watches the giant gelding falling down If it lands on him he’ll die Oh good, the chubby chap went to Gregg’s for a sensibly-priced sausage roll and the pony missed him Equus has plummeted to the ground Equus has landed outside the Pound… land
That’s the way it’s gonna be, little darlin’ We’ll be admiring the horsie, yeah Way up in the sky, is this darlin’ And if he falls he’ll muck you up, muck you up
Bubbling brooks blooming with brown trout. Mountain pathways, heavy with primrose, enticing the curious towards vantage points high above mist-filled valleys. Ancient villages, swarming with plump-cheeked villagers, beckoning wandering souls with a swarthy assortment of relishes, chutneys, and hand-knitted goods at reasonable prices.
The Lake District of Northwest England is one of the most spectacular settings on Earth, and provides the perfect backdrop for a weekend away with a loved one, sipping succulent coffee and creating lifelong memories.
But who really cares about any of that – we’re here for the Big Things!
Entrust, a giant set of hands carved out of wood, can be found a few kilometres south of Keswick. They were created by local lad John Merrill, and installed by the embankment of picturesque Derwentwater in 2002.
“I made this sculpture to mark the centenary of Brandelhow Park,” John told a clearly-excited reporter, who really seemed to have her finger on the pulse. “We carved this about about a quarter of a mile down the lakeshore. It’s just such a surprise in this location. It’s a little bit surreal – a little bit Alice in Wonderland.”
Well, John, I did feel a bit like Tweedlethumb whilst laying abreast your creation!
“It’s exciting,” John continued, whilst gesticulating dramatically, “to see how something you’ve made carries on in an ongoing legacy.”
Babe, that’s exactly how I feel about Land of the Bigs!
John’s had the whole world in his hands
Whilst many Bigs are designed to be venerated from a safe and respectable distance, John is more than slappy for Entrust to be a hands-on exhibit.
“What I find interesting is that as soon as people see them, then what they’ve got to do is climb into them and sit inside them,” he explained in his ever-punchy baritone. “I’ve seen dogs sat in there! It becomes really special for that reason.”
Well, if it’s good enough for a puppy, it’s good enough for the inimitable Bigs Bardot!
Thumb-fortunately, Endure has been palmed off to an overgrown corner of the park and can be hard to find, but if you knuckle down I’m sure you’ll nail its location. If, however, you’re looking for a Big in downtown Keswick, the hand-some Kong can be found in Heads Road. He might even give you a high-five when you show up!
Teehee, I’m not sure if I got every hand-related pun in there, but I made a good fist of it!
Yawn! Whatever, guys, I’m burnt out with travelling the globe in an endless quest for Big Things, and can’t even be bothered to get off the lounge. I’m just going to lay here eating popcorn chicken and binge-watching TikTok videos of people eating popcorn chicken.
The sofa I’ve chosen to take refuge upon is, of course, a giant one, and can be found betwixt the verdant lawns of Sydenham Green. Forget a three-seater Chesterfield, this primrose put-you-up could hold dozens of lounge lizards at once.
Thankfully I had the entire settee to myself, so was able to stretch out upon its luxurious cushions without the threat of actual human interaction. There’s even a powerpoint welded to the side of the Giant Sofa, so was saved the cloying fear of a dwindling smartphone battery.
I did reach between the cushions, but unfortunately was unable to find any Big Coins. Maybe they fell down the back of the Googong Giant Chair. If I wasn’t so lazy I’d head down to Canberra to see them, but they’re just sofa away. Whatever!
The Giant Sofa was designed by a gaggle of local artistes, with its intricate tile mosaic glued into place by the artistic students of Tempe High School. It serves as a memorial to the countless houses bulldozed to make way for the Sydney Airport runway extensions.
So a few thousand innocent people lost their family homes and were tossed out onto the cold, windswept streets of inner-Sydney, begging for loose change and plummeting further into a nightmare of addiction and depression? Honestly, guys, that’s a small price to pay for such a delightful Big!
Give peace a chance! Oi, thicko, I said give peace a chance, or I’ll knock ya bloomin’ teeth down ya throat!
Tee-hee, how did you like my tough guy impersonation? I workshopped it for months with my acting coach Reuben, before boarding the Land of the Bigs private jet for my visit to the machismo-fuelled Central American hotpot of Guatemala. The region’s earned a bad reputation for gang crime and kidnappings but, thankfully, the only thing the local Chapins stole was my heart.
Oh, and my wallet.
Guatemala’s frenzied capital, with its crumbling churches, endless traffic and sweeping views out over bubbling volcanoes, is also home to a fistful of beautiful Big Things. Most notable are the Monumentos a la Paz, several sets of enormous hands scattered throughout the citadel.
The original Monumento a la Paz was unveiled beside the National Palace of Culture on December 29, 1997, to much applause. Created by local artiste Luis Fernando Carlos León and cast from bronze, it took five months to build and cost 125,000 quetzales – a figure that must’ve caused much hand-wringing.
Two silken appendages, raised towards Guatemala’s eternal azul skies, seem poised to release a dove as a symbol of peace. The dove, sadly, was never actually installed at the original location – although I’m sure there’s a former government official out there somewhere with a lovely bronze bird sitting in the middle of his living room.
The base features 16 intertwined arms that symbolise the united people of Guatemala after years of civil war and bloodshed. Much like the counterfeit Nike shirts that are freely sold throughout Guatemala, reproductions of the Big Hands could soon be seen on street corners throughout this tropical paradise.
Hands up if you love Big Things!
Huge hands are popular across the glove – sorry, make that the globe! – with massive mittens to be found in Uruguay, England and the United States. None, however, are as Guatemazing as the Monumento a la Paz.
I encountered this particular set of clappy chappies in a well-manicured garden in the notorious Zona 1. Whilst it’s not the original version, it is the most spectacular, with dozens of chubby-cheeked Chapins lining up to place white roses upon its carefully crafted base.
The park the piece is perched within is, sadly, far from peaceful, with trucks and cars whizzing by. I found it quite difficult to pose for these photos with all the cat calls and offers of dates coming from the passing traffic.
Honestly, hombres, grow up! Until América Central moves past being a society sautéed in toxic masculinity and patriarchal hegemony, she shall never reach her full potential.
In saying that, Juan Pablo, you can pick me up for shucos and dancing at 8pm!
He was an old man who fished alone by the coast of Newcastle upon Tyne and he had gone five years now – ever since his arrival on September 24, 2017 – without taking a fish. For a few days in late-2022 an Australian boy named Bigs Bardot had been with him.
But after some time without a fish the local chavs had told Bigs that the old man, known as Fiddler’s Green, despite his impressive height of more than two metres, was unlikely to catch any fish as he was made from corten steel and, thus, unable to move his hands at all, and the boy had popped off to the nearby Wetherspoon for their famous Thursday night Curry Club meal deal, paired with a cheeky glass of Wolf Blass Sparkling Brut with a slice of strawberry.
It made the boy sad to see the old man sitting by himself each day, often with a chubby seagull perched atop his head, and he always trotted down there to munch on a selection of lovingly-prepared canapés whilst admiring the statue’s intricate details, which provided a haunting commentary on a world Bigs knew precious little about.
A tribute to the countless fisherman lost to the pitiless brine, Fiddler’s Green had been meticulously crafted by renowned artist and steel fabricator Ray Lonsdale. All who swaggered past remarked that his work had been a permanent success.
Even though he weighed more than two tonnes, the old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. Inspired by a photograph taken in North Shields in 1961 by local photographer Harry Hann, titled The Salt, the old man seemed to contemplate the fate of his fellow fishermen. Wordless, breathless, his gaze acknowledged that he, too, shall be lost to the ocean one day.
The severe, carved ridges in his tunic and the aching contours of his ruggedly handsome face stood as a testament to the brutal reality of life at sea. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.
Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same colour as the sea and were super cheerful and undefeated. Which came as no surprise to Bigs, as this memorial was designed with a life expectancy of 150 years.
“Fiddler’s Green,” the boy said to him as they huddled together in a futile bid to stave off the biting autumnal breeze. “You can come with me. We’ll move to Manchester, get a flat in a trendy, yet still affordable area, and make a life together.” The old man had taught the boy to love and the boy loved him. “No, Bigs” the old man said. “You know I’m enchanted by Manchester’s burgeoning craft beer scene and eclectic markets as much as anyone, but the waves will always be my home.”
“But remember how we popped out to the Gay Village for a quick watermelon and ruby grapefruit hard seltzer and then didn’t make it back to our hotel for three weeks?” “I remember,” the old man said. “I know you did not leave me even when I passed out in the toilets with a fishbowl on my head.” “It was the bouncer made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him.” “I know,” the old man said. “It is quite normal.”
“He threatened to punch me in the kidneys until I cried blood.” “Yes Manchester’s bouncers are notoriously violent,” the old man said. “They basically had to pour us into the street by the end of it, didn’t they?” “Yes,” the boy said. “Can I offer you a watermelon and ruby grapefruit hard seltzer on the Terrace and then we’ll go home?” “Why not?” the old man said. “I’ll pack a dufflebag!”
¡Ay Caramba! Hola, is me,El Grande Gonzales, greatest luchador in all México. As a red-blooded Latino it is in mi carazón to fight, so when I was invited to a big match in Sydney, I fly there straight away. Boy, are my arms tired! Sí, Gonzales also greatest comedian in all México!
But when I arrive do I find my greatest rival, Juan Carlos Sanchez, the man who once kidnap mi familia and make fun of mi perro? No, señor, it seems I have been forced to chase the wild goose!
I feel like the buttocks of donkey to discover that the ‘big match’ is just that – a mucho grande matchstick that stands as tall as 47 fried iguanas, or eight metres to you gabachos. To add incest to inquiry, there is another match next to it, and this one is all burnt like mi tío Pedro after he fall asleep cooking tacos. Pedro has never been the same!
This really boils my beans! Demanding answers, I choke passing gringo until he tell me that this monumento is called Almost Once, and was created by Brett Whitely and his tag team partner Matthew Dillon, and put into place in 1991. If I am to meet this señor Whitely, I will break him open like the piñata!
Perfect Match(sticks)
Once mi Latino blood has cooled, amigo, I develop mucho amor for what you Aussies call ‘Big Things’. Mi burning desire to cripple opponents was replaced by a burning desire to learn more about The Big Matchsticks. I discover that Almost Once is made from Blackbutt timber found in the exotic paradise of Grafton, and burnt to a depth of uno inch to achieve its unique look.
Maybe Pedro should have asked these dudes to burn him. Then maybe el niños wouldn’t burst into tears when they see him in street!
In fact, The matchsticks look so realistic that hopefully it will stop Sydney’s degenerates from forever asking me for a light. Just use the massive matchsticks, you bobos!
It (matchs)ticks all the boxes!
Almost Once was restored in 2017 – wood, paint, the whole enchilada – much as mi knee was restored after falling from cantina roof in 1987 after too much tequila. My retirement has been long overdue, as I can hardly do a top-top Huracánrana these days, so now El Grande Gonzales starts his new career as top reporter for México’s most favourite website – Land of the Bigs!
Sí, it will cause some light rioting when I next enter the Arena México and lecture the crowd for hours about Ploddy the Dinosaur and Lefty the Pink Buffalo rather than bashing in the brains of the baddies, but tough tortillas!
No longer seeking to travel the globe delivering beatings, I now swagger around spreading the gospel of Big Things to anyone I meet. Except if I find Juan Carlos Fernandez, ese. You just don’t make fun of a hombre’s perro and get away with it!
A tropical island full of women sounds like Hell on Earth to a man of my tastes, so it would take something special to lure me towards México’s Isla Mujeres. That something special arrived in the shape of an enormous iguana – named, creatively, Iguana – and so off I popped to the sultry Island of Women.
Isla Mujeres rests a few kilometres off the golden shores of Cancún, where sunburnt American tourists spend their days crowding around Clawdia the Crab and their evenings stuffing overpriced tacos into their faces. Ultramar run regular ferries to the island from Puerto Juarez, and if you’re lucky you might be entertained by a chubby Mexicán Elvis impersonator during the half-hour trip.
Juan Méndez say Only fajitas rush in But I can’t help eating nachos with you!
El Vis Pérez, Cancún’s third-chubbiest Elvis impersonator
The ferry, shockingly, doesn’t head straight to the Iguana, instead docking in a far less interesting part of the island. I couldn’t find a limousine, so had to jump on an overcrowded party bus like a filthy commoner.
There I was, surrounded by a gang of liquored-up British hooligans (who showed little interest in the cultural importance of oversized roadside attractions), with a voluptuous Latina perched upon my lap, her melon-heavy breasts suffocating me as she attempted to pour tequila down my unwilling gullet. Lo siento, Maria, but those aren’t the sort of Big Things I’m aroused by!
By the time I plunged sweatily from the bus at Punta Sur, my curvy admirer declaring her undying love for me, I was both physically and emotionally drained. I honestly didn’t know if I had the willpower to show the Iguana the reverence she deserved. I shouldn’t have worried, because what I found on that island filled me with a newfound respect for Mexíco and her people.
Hang around for a rep-while and I’ll tell you all about it!
I wish I was in Tijuana, kissing a giant iguana!
Iguanas have long been the symbol of the Yucatan Peninsula and, fortunately, the legions of drug-obsessed tourists haven’t managed to snort or smoke them all yet. The sociable sauropods slither over every scrap of Isla Mujeres, seemingly making a pilgrimage, like me, to the statue of their leader.
The Big Iguana sashayed into this sun-kissed spot in 2001, taking pride of place at the entrance to the island’s popular Sculpture Garden. ‘Iggy’ has changed colours and patterns many times over the years, so maybe she’s part chameleon!
She was all I could skink about as I followed a cluster of cold-blooded critters along the carbuncled coastline. And then there she was, standing proudly over the her kingdom, with the baying brine churning behind her. Queen Iguana, the Monarch of Mujeres.
Iggy’s spines are at once menacing and motherly. Her scales are shockingly lifelike, her eyes deep and regal, as though she knows more than the rest of us ever shall. This is a Big built not simply to attract tourists, but to pay homage to the rich local culture. Falling to my knees to nuzzle her noble nails, I came to realise that women aren’t so bad after all.
But I didn’t let Maria know that!
By the time the tangerine sun dropped into the turquoise sea, my fear of the fairer sex had quelled enough for me to pose not only with Iguana, but with a nearby statue of the shapely Mayan goddess Ixchel. One afternoon with this sublime squamate had done more to cure my fear of gynophobia than years of electroshock therapy ever did.
I love you, Iguana!
Iguana see more!
Has this scaly scamp left you hungry for more? Then scurry along to exotic Taree to see Joanna the Goanna, or spend a frilling afternoon with Frilly the Lizard in beautiful Somersby. There’s also Dirrawuhn, The Big Thorny Devil and The Big Water Dragon. For something closer to Méxicó, stroll over to Costa Rica for an unforgettable encounter with La Iguana. Yes, there’s more than iguana of them!
Honestly, if I had a peso for every Big Lizard I’ve visited, I’d be a chemeleonaire!
Hop along to Carrara Markets to meet Kat, the world’s largest wooden kangaroo. This five-metre-tall marsupial mixes brutalist design philosophies with a fun, quirky and approachable sense of honesty. You can even climb into her prodigious pouch to live out your fantasies of being a joey!
Kat bounded into the Gold Coast in 2016 (which was, appropriately, a leap year), and is the passion project of Danish sculptor Thomas Dambo. Originally joined by an equally-impressive wooden snake and shark, Kat’s the only one of the trio who hasn’t become extinct.
Planks for the memories, guys!
“I try to do art that inspires other people to have the same joy and adventure with using the world’s trash for something positive,” Thomas told a sunburnt reporter from the ABC. “To help people open their eyes to see that it’s a shame to throw stuff out that still has more value.”
Well, you know what they say; one man’s trash is another man’s achingly beautiful Big Kangaroo!
Kat’s not all, folks!
If you spot someone grinning unflinchingly up at Kangaroo Kat, tears of pride streaming down her face, then that’s the lovely lady this Big Thing was named after. Kat, a popular market worker, selflessly helped Thomas piece her together.
When morale was low, when storms battered in and it seemed as if the project would never be finished, there was Kat with a coffee and a chocolate bickie and a few words of encouragement.
It was her determination and grace that saw the kangaroo kompleted, and for that she was awarded the greatest honour known to mankind. Yeah, move over Kofi Annan, how many giant rats are named after you?
As I’m sure Kat will tell you, Carrara Markets are the place to walla-be. You’re bound to find some mar-super-ial bargains. As well as a pouch-standing selection of chutneys and relishes, there are also piles of pottery-roos and lollihops for the kids.
You might even find a snazzy jumpsuit for that special joey in your life. I tried my best to spend up a storm but, unfortunately, my cheque bounced.
Gangaroo activity
Australians roo-lly love their massive marsupials. Matilda the Kangaroo lives a few hours away in Traveston, while Rooey II can be found in Border Village, South Australia. You can have a devil of a time with the Big Tassie Devil down in Mole Creek. And there’s a plethora of koalas, with furbabies in Salt Ash, Doonside and Port Macquarie.
The towering critters have certainly scurried their way into my heart and so, overcome by lust, I bunkered down inside Kat’s pouch to start a new life. I allowed myself to fantasise about living inside her, safe and warm, the world’s frigid tendrils unable to reach me betwixt her sun-kissed wooden panels.
It was not to be, and I was plucked from her womb by a couple of burly security guards shortly thereafter. Too bad, I thought I’d finally found a kanga-room with a view!
They smell funny, strut around with their chests puffed out looking for fights, and love to eat rubbish they find on the ground. But enough about the good people of Blackpool, we’re here to talk about pigeons.
Of course I’m kidding; Blackpudlians are warm-hearted, perspicacious people (and I don’t want to get glassed next time I’m in town for a drag show!).
Standing 3.5 metres tall and weighing more than a tonne, Big Bird was built by MDM Props in Greenwich, London. The carcasses of 10 taxis were torn apart to create her womanly wings, sensual scapularc and melon-heavy breast. Oh, Big Bird, I’ve got a Taxi Cab Confession – you’re beautiful!
Modelled after the Trafalgar Square Pigeon – the second-least-diseased species of flying rodent – Big Bird first appeared outside the Museum of London a few years back. I certainly hope there was a good fish ‘n’ chip shop nearby!
Big Bird has since flown the length and breadth of the UK, bringing joy to lives of all who bear witness to her metallic grandeur. But, as she’s not nailed down, I hope the local tough guys don’t try to pinch-eon her during the night!
To sum things up, I like Big Birds an’ I cannot lie!
I would like to address claims that I, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, was seen scurrying from the bowels of one of London’s most notorious adult shops, beanie pulled down to conceal my identity. The shameful accusations – printed in many of the UK’s most contemptible tabloids – could not be further from reality.
The truth is that I was forced to pompously prance through the front doors of Cyberdog several times, waving a bag full of naughty goodies and screeching, “Oh, I hope nobody takes a photo of me – the inimitable Bigs Bardot – and sends it to the media” before somebody finally did just that. Honestly, why’s it so hard to get caught up in a scandal these days?
Unfortunately I was erroneously identified as one of the lesser-known members of Take That, but it’s just the first step in my journey towards being the most famous Antipodean in the UK. I’m coming for your crown, Rolf Harris!
Wanna Cyber? A/S/L?
There was another reason for my visit to Camden Town, though – the ravishing robots who stand shinily outside Cyberdog‘s flagship store. In an attempt to suit all tastes, one is a strong, muscular, brawny, handsome and virile chap with a cheeky smile and a bad boy mystique that we all wish to tame, and the other is a woman.
Each is around five metres tall, dominating the industrial landscape. Their incandescent irises lure unsuspecting shoppers into the labyrinthine boutique betwixt their metallic thighs. There’s a range of outrageous rave clothing and nerdy collectibles within the belly of the beast, but beware of venturing too far inside.
The basement of the store is home to Futurelovers, a depraved sex shop with the totally inappropriate tagline of, ‘Live long and perverted’. Some of the creatures found inside were doing their best to live up to that, rubbing their leather-clad rumps against me as I shielded my eyes.
So disgusting was their behaviour that I was barely able to find a suitable set of battery-powered crotchless knickers with matching nipple clamps before racing out of the store and into the insatiable gullet of the paparazzi.
Seeking refuge in a nearby discoteque, I fell in with a group of glowstick-waving ruffians I’d seen inside Cyberdog. Against my best judgement I indulged in several cups of the local mead and some biscuits the ravers produced from clear ziplock bags, and woke up on a deserted beach in Ibiza without my clothes and with another man’s name tattooed athwart my lower back.
She’s green, she’s a queen, and she needs to be seen – get your sourdough toast ready for the scrumptious Big Avocado. This four-metre marvel can be found at Tropical Fruit World, and is exocarp-ly guac you’ve been looking for.
The Big Avocado was revealed to a curious public in 1983, promoting what was then known as Avocadoland. Still a working farm, the renamed Fruit World is now home to cafes, markets, restaurants, a small train, and 500 different fruits. Well, 501 when I visited – teehee!
You’d have avoca-no problem spending an entire avo-noon there, especially as you don’t have to cough up any avoca-dough to enter the plantation. And your friends will be green with envy when the find out where you’ve been, because there’s a second – yes, a second! – Big Avocado only minutes away.
This roadside rascal seduces motorists by the side of the Pacific Highway, and has been split in half to reveal her delightfully creamy insides and plump, sensual stone. It’s a wonder there aren’t constant pile-ups as rubber-necked drivers try to catch on last heavenly glimpse.
Needless to say, these two are the perfect condiment to any trip north.
And they all lived happily avo after…
Avocados come from Central America and, like all Latinas, the Big Avocado has a feisty, yet morally virtuous attitude, with a chubby bottom that begs to be groped. Yes, she’s passionate, romantic and… and… I’m sorry, I can’t do this any longer. It’s just too much.
Every time I pass this emerald colossus, my heart hurts. The memories of the original Big Avocado – who lived in nearby Alstonville until being murdered by hateful thugs – wash over me like a pantothenic acid-rich tsunami of hot, gooey sorrow.
This Avo looks so similar to my former bosom friend, but just can’t fill that avocado-shaped hole in my soul. Yes, she’s a verdant emerald. Yes, she’s fun to take photos with. And yes, her texture is botanically accurate. But will she ever hold me when the hot knives of panic slice their way through my reality?
This astonishing aguacate will be the highlight of your trip through the north coast of New South Wales. The photos you take with her will remain treasured trinkets, passed down through the generations of your family for centuries to come. But, for me, being near her is like hot death.
I avocadon’t think I can deal with the pain anymore.
It’s common to catch crabs in Cancún and, with cuties like Clawdia, that’s cause for shellebration. Just look at her melon-heavy cephalothorax – who wouldn’t want to drizzle lemon juice all over it ?
The leggy Latina lives atop Ferry’s Cantina, which is famous throughout México for its fresh fish tacos and all-you-clam-eat lobster burritos. I’m on a low-crabohydrate diet, so went with a nip of tequila with a pinch of salt… and some crabtivating conversation with Diego, the restaurant’s ever-attentive busboy. What more could a guy mollusc for!
Better still, it’s right next to the ferry to the salubrious Isla Mujeres, home to the much-loved Iggy la Iguana. I suggest you power up with a plate of tostadas al pastor before making the trip out there – you know how crabby you get when you’re hungry!
I want to scuttle those persistent rumours and say that, despite being enthralled by her soft, pink, juicy meat, Clawdia and I are just claws friends. However, I did go out on a date with Miguel, one of the restaurant’s handsome security prawns, but his feisty Latin temperament was just too much for me.
Honestly, Miguel, did you have to beat up every man who looked my way? You’re shrimpossible sometimes.
Oh well, there’s plenty more shellfish in the crustacean!
Long before the humble ‘avo’ became the brunch of choice for perpetual children the world over, the Big Avocado was providing comfort and companionship to the damaged kiddies of Australia – including a very young Biggles Leticia Bardot.
Aw, just look at how gosh darn cute we both were!
The riboflavin-rich ragamuffin stood sentinel outside the House with No Steps in leafy Alstonville for time immemorial, but was demolished in mysterious circumstances many moons ago. For most, he’s but a fading fantasy. I, however, remember my adventures with the Big Avocado as if they were yesterday.
When I close my eyes I’m overcome by his sweet, nutty scent, and can feel the warm embrace of his wrinkled skin. The Big Avocado was everything to me, and now he’s gone.
Do not, however, allow my impish grin and stylishly minimalist board shorts deceive you. For this was a tumultuous period of my life, one that took me to the very brink of desperation and cast me on a treacherous journey through a pitch-black cave of depression and self-loathing.
Were it not for the unconditional love of the Big Avocado, I may not have survived to become Australia’s leading historian of Big Things and oversized roadside attractions. You would not be reading this website. The world would be a colder, less personable place.
The Big Avocado saved a generation from the crushing pressure of depression and self-harm. In the end, the only one he was unable to support was himself.
Does someone need an avocuddle?
It would be easy, and somewhat lazy, to say that it was love at first sight. I doubt The Big Avocado even noticed the awkward, shy boy who was dumped at his bulbous bottom by a hard-faced madame from the Department of Community Services. If I, on the other hand, even saw him through my waterfall of tears, the trauma of that day stripped his presence from my mind.
That awful moment had been a long time coming. A series of increasingly bizarre outbursts had seen me shuffled between almost a dozen foster homes. I was a boy in search of love and safety after years of neglect, and struck out at anyone who tried to help me.
The only people who understood me were Australia’s Big Things but, sadly, my attempts to be adopted by Charlie the Chicken proved unsuccessful.
Eventually, after a particularly unpleasant tantrum that was widely covered by the tabloid press of the time, my few worldly possessions were gathered up and I was dispatched to a controversial high security detention centre on the far north coast, where I’d receive the care and supervision I so desperately needed. The silver lining was that, to prevent further flare ups, I was to be imprisoned at the only juvenile delinquent centre with a resident Big Thing.
The Big Avocado had rescued many a hoodlum from a life of hatred and crime. It was hoped that the same would happen to me.
You guac my world!
Those first few months at the House With No Steps rolled by in a chlorpromazine-induced haze of paranoid delusions and electro-shock therapy. My counsellors did their best, but I was falling further into a bottomless abyss of foolishness. Known as a ‘biter’, I was cut off from human contact, locked away in a dingy basement.
And then, on a crisp winter’s morn, I was strapped to a gurney, my mouth ensconced in a muzzle, and gingerly wheeled out the front gate. Breaking many human rights regulations I was left, drool pouring from my gaping maw and eyes spinning with madness, at the foot of the Avocado.
I may have been there minutes or I may have been there days, but I clearly remember the point where I looked up and saw that bright green orb hovering in front of me. A calm swept over me that I had never known, and I allowed myself to become one with the Big Avocado.
“Bigs,” he told me, “you are following the wrong path. Your life has been lost to lunacy and ultraviolence, but is destined to be one of peace and love and really tired puns.”
I waited for him to order me to kill my tormentors, as my bed had told me earlier that day, but the words never came.
“My life has no meaning,” I slurred, the heady mixture of muscle relaxants and methylphenidate finally wearing off.
“Yes it does. You are destined to build the greatest website dedicated to Big Things that the world has ever known. It will bring a new era of harmony to a very troubled world. You will unite people of all races, genders, sexual orientations and body shapes with your unabashed enthusiasm for oversized roadside attractions.”
Of course, this was many years before the internet was invented, so I might be misremembering the conversation, but that’s pretty much the gist of it.
And they all lived happily avo after
No longer a twisted creature brimming with vulgarity and loathing, I took to wearing pink short-shorts and mincing around in a flamboyant fashion. My days were spent chatting with the Big Avocado, who became my spiritual guide, muse and – all too briefly – romantic partner.
Unmuzzled and uncaged, I was even allowed to visit other Big Things in the region, such as the Big Prawn and the Big Pineapple. My life became one of joy and wonder, and it was all thanks to that spherical sweetheart by the front gate.
When I was finally released from detention, the Big Avocado was there to bid me adieu. He glowed with pride, and we embraced through a flurry of tears.
“Go out into the world, Bigs,” he told me. “Go out into the world and spread a little magic. Bring a little happiness to those who need it the most.”
“I love you, Avocado,” I wept.
“I love you too, Bigs,” he replied. They were the words I’d waited a lifetime to hear. We would never see each other again.
By the time I returned to the House With No Steps 30 years later, it had been transformed into the flourishing Summerland Farm, and there was no sign of my friend. I like to think that, after decades spent saving young lives, he’d finally taken some time out for himself, enjoying retirement on a farm somewhere in the sunshine.
Most likely, he was pulled down and tossed into the garbage. I prefer not to think about it. There is an imposter nearby, but he doesn’t have the presence, the heart, of the original. Just knowing he’s there hurts.
Wherever he is, the Big Original Avocado will live on forever in my heart, and within the hearts of so many juvenile delinquents. He rescued me from myself. I’ll always love you, my friend.
Beg, borrow or peel, because the time is ripe to orange a visit to the sweet seaside village of Dania Beach, where The Big Orange is open all year rind. Squeeze be advised that this mandarin-credible roadside attraction can be found round the side of Alex’s Flamingo Groves & Gift Shop. Pre-pear for a bargain, as prices have been rejuiced!
You might find my jokes pith-etic, but pomelo out, dude. I reckon I’m hi-spherical!
Whilst The Big Orange offers a nice place to citrus and think, or maybe even get a suntan-gerine, the sense of neglectarine is pulpable. It really is a lime against humanity, because all this pipular tourist trap seeds is a little love. Hey, hey, don’t fruit the messenger and stop threatening me with valencia – I mean you no harmalade!
The Big Orange doesn’t quite measure up to Fort Lauderdale’s other Big Things, such as Thrive and Pegasus, but I probably shouldn’t manda-bring them up. Honestly, that would be like comparing apples and… well, some other sort of fruit.
Well that’s enough navel-gazing from me, so all the zest!
A single, trembling chela drew me closer. A set of bulbous eyes crawled across my lithe body. Shivers ran down my spine and, for the briefest of moments, I contemplated following my deepest carnal urges. Then reason returned and I struggled against the advances of the massive crustacean.
Klaws Kinski, with his movie star good looks and bad boy swagger, was the sort of enormous crab who drives all the boys wild. So why did I find myself pulling away from his powerful grip?
“Bigs, relax babe, is 2022,” Klaws gurgled in his syrupy Eastern European accent. “Nobody shocked by same-sex relationship anymore. Especially not here in Tweed Head.” “Firstly, Klaws, I’ll thank you not to assume my gender,” I replied, pushing away his powerful propodus. “But it’s not that.”
“So is because I am crab? Bigs, I thought you were more open-minded than this. I mean, I am not the first oversized sea creature you’ve been with.” “You leave the Big Prawn out of this,” I snapped. “What we had was very special and he remains an important decapod in my life. If I’m going to be honest, it won’t work out between us because…”
“Because of what, Bigs?” Klaws snapped, flexing his unguis. He had a reputation for being an intense, erratic and intimidating crab, but even I was shocked by his behaviour. “Because of what, you big baby?”
“It’s because you’re only half a crab, Klaws. Your head, thorax and hind legs are painted onto the side of a barn.” “What are you trying to say, Bigs?” “You’re a billboard with pincers, Klaws. You’re not a Big Thing at all. Now get your filthy – yet juicy and delicious – fingers off me.”
Klaws, but no cigar
Despite being several thousand times the size of a regular mud crab, Klaws suddenly seemed very small indeed. I’d like to say I’d never seen him looking so flat, but come on, he’s mostly a two-dimensional drawing, so that’s just how he is.
But something made me turn back. Klaws is capable of anything – what if my harsh words had caused him to self-harm? He may have even found solace in the alcoholism that had made him the most reviled roadside attraction to come out of the legendary Natureworks studios.
I should’ve known better. Within minutes of telling me I was the only one he had eight eyes for, Klaws had already moved on. There he was with a group of young Korean tourists clasped within his burly grip, posing for a selfie.
He sautéed them with the same saccharine words used to lure me in – all “I’m crayfish for you” and “Do you want to see my love mussel?” At that moment I realised that a crustacean like Klaws Kinski, even when slathered in a rich garlic sauce, can never truly feel love.
Liam Hemsworth. Luke Wilson. Dewey Schwarzenegger. Being the lesser-known brother of a beloved celebrity can be a heartbreaking struggle – just ask wannabe actor Bronson Pinchot (née Bardot), who will go to any lengths to step out of my shadow.
And so it is for the Big Prawn at Tweed Heads, who will forever be compared to his much larger sibling in nearby Ballina. This surprisingly shrimpish shrimp, who measures around 1.5 metres from adorable antennule to upbeat uropod, can be found in front of the popular PKG Seafood restaurant. Come for the stylish shellfish, stay for the sprawling array of fresh and cooked ocean treats!
As a connoisseur of anything plucked from the swirling brine and tossed into a vat of oil, I recommend the legendary Neptune Basket. Overflowing with calamari, fish pieces, hot chippies and, of course, prawn cutlets, it’s absolutely divine! There are no crab sticks, but you might be able to find some of those two minutes up the road.
Best consumed whilst sprawled in the gutter beneath the Big Prawn, tartare sauce smeared across face, gazing in childlike wonder at the cantankerous crustacean.
Nobody said tracking down Big Things was a glamorous pastime!
Get off mah prawn, ya dang kids!
If you’d like to slip yet another shrimp on the barbie, splash on over to Crangan Bay. There you’ll discover the remains of a ten-legged freak of immense proportions. Sadly, some badnik lopped off his head – and I’ll waste no time deveining the culprit when I catch him.
Oh me, oh my, if we find any more Big Prawns we’ll have enough for a shrimp cocktail!
Fort you’d seen everything Lauderdale has to offer? Then allow Thrive to cement your decision to return to this tropical paradise. This 27-foot-tall bombshell, designed by delightful South African artiste Daniel Popper, can be found begging for attention on a dank street corner beneath an apartment block – but she’s certainly no street walker.
Well, she doesn’t have any legs, does she?
What Thrive does possess is supple lips, luxurious hair and perky bosoms, making her Flori-dang gorgeous. And whilst Thrive may have a heart of stone, she’s willing to lay it bare for anyone willing to peer inside her torn-asunder chest. Cripes, if all women were this open then perhaps some of us wouldn’t have grown up so confused.
Thrive is a remarkable example of urban art; an exquisitely-realised sculpture who brings life and wonder to an otherwise drab area of town. The city itself, impersonal and grey, seems to have taken human form in order to embrace those who live amongst its cold cement and senseless steel.
Impossible to ignore, it’s common to see an eclectic mix of tourists, office workers and street urchins ogling Thrive’s voluptuous physique . I even saw a local drunk trying to chat her up! Oh, my silly friend, don’t you know she’s asexual?
“In many ways it’s a symbol of hope and transformation which has been central to many people’s worlds during 2020,” ‘Poppy’ said of Thrive, whilst sadly misgendering her. “I hope they will continue to interact with it and enjoy it and that the message and feeling continues for many years to come.”
I’m not sure you’d be saying that if you witnessed the way the local drunk was trying to ‘interact’ with your masterpiece!
Sister Act
Thrive may seem like a unique butterfly, a paragon of unmatched magnificence and grace, but she does have twin sister. The hedonistic Ven a la Luz lives in the Mexican party mecca of Tulum, where she was installed by Poppy in 2018.
With her salacious wooden peritoneum and fiery Latina temperament, Ven a la Luz provides a natural and carefree counterpoint to Thrive’s modern-day sensibilities. The two look so similar but couldn’t have more disparate personalities – one sagacious and glamorous, the other passionate and free-spirited.
Despite their idiosyncrasies, I’d love to see Thrive and Ven head out on a double date with fellow legless giants Ernie and The Viking.
Well, where did you think baby Big Things come from?
‘Stayin’ with Thrive’ by the Bee Geez-She’s-Big!
Well, you can tell by the way Bigs walks I’m a concrete woman’s man, of her I talk Bosoms large and smile warm, she grows from the ground She is enorm And now it’s alright, it’s okay I guess if I’m love her I can’t be gay We can try to understand This Florida giant’s effect on man
Yeah I might be a brother with issues about my mother But I’m stayin’ with Thrive, stayin’ with Thrive The love we’re makin’ has my booty shakin’ And I’m layin’ with Thrive, layin’ with Thrive Ah, ha, ha, ha, playin’ with Thrive, playin’ with Thrive Ah, ha, ha, ha, I’m finally alive Oh, when you walk
Moo Moove over, because there’s a really cool motorbike coming through! Permanently parked across the road from the Moo Moo Roadhouse, this super-sized superbike is three times the height of the one Wayne Rainey rode to the MotoGP world championship in 1992.
Yessir, this replica Yamaha YZR500 is nigh-on identical to the one made famous by the legendary American, with everything from the spring forks to the rear-wheel shock absorber on display – just a little larger than you may remember.
Thanks, Wikipedia. I know nothing about pushbikes, so you helped me sound like a real boy!
Bikies and less intimidating members of society alike can often be found lined up in the main street of Mooball to take a selfie with The Big Motorcycle, which is every bit as scrumptious as the range of freshly-cooked schnitzels and burgers found within the roadhouse. And the milkshakes? To die for, which is no surprise in a place called Mooball!
There’s plenty of motorcycling memorabilia, which fans will find wheelie interesting. Personally, I couldn’t tell Mick Doohan from Mick Not-Doohan-Nothin’, so it didn’t appeal to me, but I appreciated the gesture.
The Bike’s owner, the charismatic Mark Murnane, can hardly handlebar his excitement at owning his own Big Thing.
“This bike is very unique,” Mr Murnane (yes, that’s his surname!) told a bewildered crayon-pusher from The Daily Telegraph. “It’s done the rounds in 1993 for the Grand Prix, then the Sydney Ducati store bought it and had it as a display before it went to the Queensland Motorcycle Museum.”
Geez, he must be pretty tyred by now!
The Ride of Your Life
Despite its enviable size, this motorbike couldn’t outrun the law. Until 2014 The Big Motorcycle featured sponsorship for icky cigarette company Marlboro, just like the delightfully powerful two-wheeler he was modelled after. Then the boys in blue rolled into town and ordered it to be taken down.
“It’s just crazy,” Mr Murnane wept. “I tried to explain to them that we don’t sell cigarettes in the Moo Moo Roadhouse; we sell coffee and food, and have a museum and antique store. I also tried explaining the bike is a replica, purchased from a museum, but they said it breaks the law, so we’re going to do what they’ve asked.”
So now, instead of a sticker advertising cancer sticks, there’s a sign for the Roadhouse, which is cute enough to get your motor runnin’!
Even without his naughty tattoo, the Big Motorcycle oozes testosterone. He does have a gentler side, though – just look at his wee little training wheels!
Sadly, it’s not possible to jump on top of the Big Motorcycle but, trust me, that’s probably for the best. I’ve had my heart broken by enough bad biker boys to know that they’re nothing but trouble.
Only one question remains; the bike’s in Mooball, so why is it a Yamaha and not a Cow-asaki?
War, huh, yeah! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing other than creating an awesome Big, uhh!
War, ebony heartthrob Edwin Starr once sang, should be despised as it means the destruction of innocent lives. But war was also the inspiration for these remarkable Toy Soldiers, so I guess it’s not all bad.
Officially known as Monument to the War of 1812, these sexy servicemen have turned the once-peaceful streets of Toronto into a battleground, and serve as a commentary of the infamous scuffle between the Yanks and the Poms.
Canadian creative Douglas Coupland fashioned the piece after realising Southern Canadians (or Americans, as they like to be referred to these days) don’t mind rewriting history.
“I’ve grown up and a lot of people have grown up thinking ‘Oh, Americans lost that one didn’t they?”‘ Coupland (Digital Orca; dozens of other artworks that aren’t oversized objects and so are of no interest to anyone)gabbled during the shrine’s unveiling in 2008.
“But once I began getting involved in the project and doing research, I began noticing that the Americans are now starting to change history and they’re saying, ‘Well actually we won that,’ or, ‘Actually, we didn’t lose’ or whatever.
“So it’s a war monument but it’s also an incitement for people to remember what’s going on in the present as well as the past.”
Plus, they look really cool!
Love is a battlefield
Big Things are usually peaceful, contemplative creatures (with the obvious exception of Canada’s other giant toy soldier), so it was heartbreaking to find these two at each other’s throats. I mean, you’re hardly likely to see Pat the Dog curb stomping Bruno the Peacock, are you?
Pleading with them to put their differences – and their bayonets – to one side in the name of love, I assured them that we’re all the same colour on the inside. It was a lie, because I’m all red and bloody and full of guts, and they’re made of off-white styrofoam, but I was willing to say anything to stop the fracas.
I cradled the boys in my arms. Asked about their hopes and fears. Massaged their ceremonial bonnets. Normally I love a man in uniform, but this display of toxic masculinity was just too much. Nothing could stem the tide of unrestrained, bestial brutality.
Unfortunately, bringing an end to war was too much for even me. Oh well, I might as well cancel my lunch with Vlad Putin and Volo Zelenskyy.
Put the hot chips away, because the Gold Coast has been taken over by a behemoth beach chicken with an amazing appetite. Fortunately, Katey Seagull is as hungry for hugs as she is for deep-fried potatoes.
Named after glamorous Married… With Children actress Katey Sagal, this super-sized seabird has made her nest out front of the Tugun Domestic and Commercial Waste Facility.
Leggy Katey was crafted from recycled metal that’s been allowed to rust, giving her a weathered, world-weary demeanour. Seagull, that is, not Sagal – who simply doesn’t seem to age!
The towering tern is extremely welcom-wing to strangers and has a flappy-go-lucky attitude. Sea-ing really is beak-lieving, so why not pop in for a flight-hearted conversation? I’m talon you, though, Katey can be a bit gull-ible at times – teehee!
Feather you want to squawk about it or not, I suspect fowl play!
The Big Seagull’s sensitive, reflective nature has, unfortunately, made her an easy target for local bullies. Gee golly, I know what that feels like. Upon first encountering Katey, I made the un-pheasant discovery that hoodlums had placed a bright orange witch’s hat over the bird’s majestic rostrum.
Small things amuse small minds, but this act of bigotry could have ended in tragedy. Not only did the cone leave the well-proportioned creature looking peck-uliar, but it prevented her from eating and drinking. I reached her just in time. Who knows what would have happened had that awful hat remained upon her for even one more minute?
“Yeah, that was some of the local punks,” a gruff garbageman informed me, before casting aside his carefully-curated tough guy image to allow himself to fall, weeping, into my arms. “They just won’t stop putting those cones on her beak!”
When I find the perverts responsible – and I can assure you I will – I’ll waste no time inserting a witch’s hat somewhere very unpleasant indeed. Trust me, it shan’t be on their noses!
They’re a weird mob, these immigrants. With their moon-shaped heads, olive skin and bizarre clothing, they just don’t look like us.
And, of course, they’ve already had a baby! And the father’s wearing a tie, so he’s probably after jobs that the rest of us would never consider doing in the first place.
Soon there’ll be so many immigrants that you won’t be able to walk through Toronto without bumping into a nine-foot bronze sculpture with a bulbous bonce.
To my disgust, these were my first thoughts upon meeting the immaculate Immigrant Family. Sure, you could blame my upbringing in a dilapidated caravan, raised by my violent white supremacist step-brother Jeong-ho. But, really, that’s no excuse.
Within moments of arriving in Ontario, I’d fallen victim to the siren song of a group of hatemongers, who surrounded the Immigrant Family to shower them with abuse. It was only as I prepared to hurl a tomato at the father’s oversized cranium that I realised I, too, was a stranger to this land.
As an Australian confused by the silly-sausage customs of Canadians, I had more in common with the Immigrant Family than these unwashed, toothless, inbred, hockey-loving racists. I dropped the tomato and flung myself into the bosom of the family.
“Guys, I know the intoxicating allure of bigotry can prove irresistible,” I told the baying mob. “But Otterness’ work recalls the experience of new immigrants to Canada, capturing their sense of wonder at seeing the city, while gently bringing them close together as they embark on their new life.”
The hateful horde paused for a moment, taking in my heartfelt words, before one particularly unappealing xenophobe rose above the others.
“Firstly, Bigs,” he hee-hawed, “you obviously stole that quote from an art website, and you’re better than that. Secondly, if you’re one of them dang immigrants, we’re gonna have to whoop ya.”
And then, with my new family watching on, the terror began.
Meet Tom Odderness… sorry, Tom Otterness… no, it’s definitely Tom Odderness
Tom Otterness, the savant behind Immigrant Family, can best be described as a lunatic. Despite being one of America’s most prolific sculptors, with his work exhibited from New York to The Netherlands, he’s best known for shooting a dog in 1977.
Frustrated by his inability to find acceptance in the dog-eat-dog world of contemporary art, a young Tom turned to shock tactics to gain attention. He tied a labradoodle to a tree, made sure his Fujifilm Super 8mm camera was rolling, and blasted the poor critter in the face with a Glock 43.
These days that would gain him a cult following on Tik Tok, but in those less enlightened times was met by stunned silence. Disheartened, Tom skippered plans to film himself bonking a cow with a baseball bat, and left the lucrative world of animal snuff films forever.
He turned to something even more disturbing – corporate art, financed by faceless megaconglomerates intent on ruling the world. Whilst his work has been called everything from flaccid to morally bankrupt, it did deliver us the Immigrant Family in 2007, and so what if we had to lose a few dogs along the way to get there.
Meanwhile, back at the scene of the crime
Having had their way with me, the white supremacists raced off to find another minority to oppress. Silence descended upon Toronto, and I lurched into the gentle embrace of the Family.
As I snuggled in, my tears drying upon their rotund bodies, it became obvious that we spoke a common language; one of ambition and hope despite a lifetime of persecution and ridicule. Finally, after decades of searching, I’d found my tribe.
“I love you, Mummy,” I chirped. “I love you, Daddy.” Time stood still as I waited for words of affirmation that never came. They just smiled into the distance, clutching their beloved baby. There was no room, it seemed, for one more son. I gathered the pieces of my shattered soul and staggered into the night.
They didn’t beg me to come back. They never do. Although I’m not proud of it, I punched a street sign on my way home, breaking my hand in several places. The silver lining was that I was sequestered away to Toronto Women’s Hospital, where the service was exemplary – hi, Mahmoud!
My tragic experience shouldn’t prevent you from visiting the Immigrant Family, however. They’re charming, huggable and extremely quirky.
Just don’t get too attached. They’ll kick your hopes dreams into the gutter, and leave you guzzling Prosecco out of an ice cream container in a futile – and really quite destructive – attempt to dull the pain. Just let them go off and play happy families by themselves.
The Man on the Bike has been the heart and soul of the Tallebudgera Valley for more than four decades, and anyone who says otherwise is pedalling misinformation.
The dapper gentleman, complete with boater and bowtie, coasted into the Gold Coast in 1970 when the tandem of Cliff Douglas and shock jock Bob Rogers bought him from a ski school. I guess he could snow longer handle the cold winters.
And what a monument to the strength and temerity of the local population he’s proven to be! Perched proudly atop his vintage penny-farthing, the Man can be seen by all who approach the roundabout he watches over, many of whom circle several times to admire their hero, causing serious traffic congestion.
The locals had another larger-than-life legend to lolligag over the day that I, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, turned up to for this exclusive photo shoot. Wanting me to feel like part of the community, I was greeted to hearty calls of, “Get off the f***ing road!” and, “Die you lycra-wearing scum!” by passing drivers.
I’ve never felt so welcome in my life.
Feel the burn!
It’s been quite a ride for The Man on the Bike, with more ups and downs than a stage of the Tour de Mudgeeraba. Most notably, his admirers were left sui-cycle when, in 2014, a gang of unchained lunatics decided to be wheely mean by setting the Man alight.
The statue was burnt to the ground and Tallebudgerans – many of whom are re-tyre-ees – were forced to consult cycle-ologists to deal with the trauma. The wheels, however, were soon in motion to rebuild this bicycling bad boy.
Like Cadel Evans rising from the ashes during the penultimate stage of the 2011 Tour de France to gazump Andy Schleck on his way to becoming the oldest post-World War II winner of the iconic race (and the only one from Katherine), The Man on the Bike exhibited the determination and return from oblivion – with a little help from his support crew.
And so, it seems, that all roads in the valley lead towards the Man on the Bike and the pizza shop named in his honour. It’s not unusual to find lycra-clad bike-sexuals, legs shaved, helmets strapped firmly to heads despite the low probability of collisions, chowing down on the restaurant’s famous pepperoni pizzas.
I’m not sure what they cost, but it couldn’t be much more than a penny farthing.
Everybody wants to eat something From the Giant Table’s top Everybody wants something They’ll try to climb it But never get up
Everybody get ready With sandwiches and beer The Harbour Square sensation, The only and only Giant Picnic Table’s here
Everybody face up to The facts as they are You have to seat it To believe it ‘cos it’s The size of a car!
A word on Colin Hanks
As you can see from these photos, I encountered popular character actor Colin Hanks during my time with the Giant Picnic Table. Colin, an affable fellow with a dry wit and an intoxicating aroma, often clambers atop the enormous wooden totem to meditate, but was pleased to have his peace disturbed by this lifelong fan.
We subsequently spent several days exploring Toronto and each other, but Colin asked me to keep the details of our encounter to a minimum. Out of respect for him, I haven’t included the delightfully crude love heart with ‘Colin Hanks 4 Bigs Bardot 4 Eva’ that he inscribed on one corner of the table.
If you want to see it, you’ll just have to go there yourself.
The mournful cry of a kookaburra swept across the frozen valley, and then the world was blanketed by deep, velvety silence.
Within our lonely cabin, a carefully-prepared platter of calamari linguine lay restlessly upon the kitchen table, unloved and cooling as the interminable minutes ticked by. Gordon Shumway, my lifelong partner and bosom friend, was late home from work again. Welcome to the worst days of my life.
And so I sat, wine glass in hand, and waited. Finally, as the moon climbed through the clouds towards its apex, the front door creaked open and a tiny alien stumbled into the cabin’s milky light.
The sweet stench of buttermilk schnapps heavy on his breath, Gordon lurched towards his dinner. I stood in silence and scraped the cold, yet probably still quite delicious, pasta into the bin for dramatic effect. The distance between Gordon and I seemed to open up like a vast chasm.
“You probably drowned it in garlic aioli anyway,” Gordon spat, his cruel taunt slicing through me like the precision-made Wüsthof knives we’d received as a gift during happier times. “Subtlety never was your forte, Bigs.”
“What happened to us, Gordon?” I asked, struggling to mask the wobble in my voice. “There was a time when we could lay beneath the stars, your furry body in my powerful arms, and just talk. Now we can barely be in the same room together.”
“I think…” Gordon’s words trailed off as he turned away in a futile attempt to hide the tears swelling in his chocolatey eyes.
“You think what, Gordon? You think what?”
“I think we should see other people.”
The little alien’s big words hung in the air like dewdrops on a spring morning. Now it was I who turned away, not wanting to show weakness, hoping only to cloak the destruction that had swept across my face. Deep down I’d been expecting these words for a long time, but they still shattered my very soul. Hours seemed to pass, and I found myself holding him in a rare sign of affection.
“Alright, Gordon,” I sighed, pressing my forehead against his. “Let’s see how it works out.”
When Gordon Met Mike
It was, perhaps, inevitable that Mike would steal Gordon’s heart. The metre-tall teddy bear is super cute, extremely sassy, and designed by Academy Award winner John Cox. In other words, everything a diminutive alien could ever dream of – and everything I’m not.
Gordon was in an excitable mood as he groomed himself for his first playdate with Mike, and I even helped him pick out the perfect tunic. It might sound strange, but preparing him for another man brought us closer than we’d been in months. I was just happy for his happiness.
As we swaggered past a clutch of clusterberries, Gordon took my hands in his and leant in close. “Thanks for supporting me through this, Bigs, it means the world to me,” he whispered. “But there’s one thing I didn’t tell you. This is a double date.”
It was at that moment I saw her, as we crested a knoll, and my life was forever changed. A giant girl, sunhat on head, wistful grin on face, eternally staring out at the ocean. I loved her before we’d even met.
“Her name’s Maddie. I thought you might like her. Run along and say hi.”
When Bigs Met Maddie
Maddie, with her big, blue eyes and feminine wiles, is not the type I’m usually attracted to. You’re more likely to find me on the arm of a muclebound tradie like Ernie the Shepparton Giant, or with a bearded bad boy like Ned Kelly. Women, even those who are 2.5-metres tall whilst sitting, just aren’t my cup of tea.
I’m not too proud to admit to envying Maddie’s lithe frame and luxurious locks. Her eternal youth – forever seven years old, despite being created in 2010 – tormented me. Maddie’s one of the most beautiful Bigs on the planet, and I felt inadequate in comparison. I also yearned for the instant attraction and easy repartee that was so evident between Gordon and Mike.
But, as Maddie and I watched our significant others cosying up to each other, an unbreakable bond formed between us. Maddie proved to be wise beyond her years, with a cheeky sense of humour and a devilish wit. She loves Mike just as I love Gordon, and by the end of the playdate it felt like we were just one big family.
As the sun set behind the Gold Coast’s rolling hills, I took a very tired, very satisfied Gordon into my arms. The four of us embraced, and I whispered into Maddie’s ear that I loved her. And then we were gone. Gordon and I, on our long journey back to that cabin in the valley.
“Hey Bigs,” Gordon said sleepily as our moped bumbled along, “can you make that seafood linguini for dinner tonight? You know it’s my favourite.”
Sew, you want to visit Toronto’s most fashionable tourist attraction? Then it’s thimble – oops, I mean simple! Pop over to the corner of Richmond and Spadina, where you’ll find Uniform Measure/STACK, a three-metre-tall Big Thimble that seams too good to be true.
Needles to say, you’ll have a great time!
This zany bunch of buttons and bits and bobs was patched together by the ever-trendy Stephen Cruise, who wanted to celebrate the area’s stitch – oops, I mean rich! – fabric and textile history.
The bonkers monument may soon be the only sign of the area’s industrial past. The factories and sweatshops have been torn down, replaced by co-working spaces for so-called digital nomads who sit, frappe in hand, slaving away on text for websites that will barely be read and certainly not appreciated.
“As much as the street signs have the additional text to them, saying ‘fashion district’, in another short period of time it’s going to be just a memory. So the stacking of the buttons and placing the thimble atop it, there was this thought that I was creating a memory. So it’s evidence of what once was a colourful past.
“It really was not the beginning of an industry,” the maestro pronounced, “but the signing off of it.”
I think you’ll agree it’s a knitting – oops, I mean fitting! – tribute
A Thimble of Hope
After spending years roaming the area’s abandoned textile mills in search of inspiration, Mister Cruise finalised his bizarre design and found a location for the five-tonne behemoth. “That’s the only position on that little triangle of land that that amount of weight can fit,” the artiste thread – oops, I mean said!
The project took 18 long months to complete, and faced cost blowouts due to the ambitious nature of the work. So Doctor Cruise, like many artists before him, took up work in a nearby steel foundry to pay for it.
For months he slaved away in the oppressive heat, sweat pouring down his brow until his muscles rippled like those of a Greek god. Side-by-chiselled-side with a foundry full of handsome, masculine, frustrated steel workers, each brawny and brave, many with long beards and even longer stories to tell, this sculptor-turned-sculpted sex symbol forged steel as he forged lifetime friendships.
One sweltering afternoon, when the fiery furnace burned so fiercely that the men were forced to strip to the waist as they grappled with a particularly strenuous task… [alright, alright, that’s enough! Bigs kept going on with this for almost 3000 words and entered some very troubling territory, so I had to give him a good dressing gown – oops, I mean dressing down! Let’s just keep going – ed].
In return for his hard work, Professor Cruise was able to forge the thimble and buttons out of 28 separate sections of brass. His outlandish masterpiece was formally handed over to the people of Toronto in 1997, which gar-meant a lot to all involved.
“It’s great that they’ve embraced it,” Lord Cruise tapestry-vealed, “and it’s become part of their neighbourhood.”
Alright, I’m out of material – hope you enjoyed my yarn about the weird and wonderful Uniform Measures/STACK!
I look at the Hard Rock Cafe, see the people there eating While my Big Guitar gently weeps My love for him will not be fleeting Still my Big Guitar gently weeps
I don’t know why nobody told you The Guitar was installed in ’96 It cost half-a-million to mould you I long to hold you
In 2004 I noticed the Big Guitar was burning Yes, my Big Guitar gently weeps Within a few months, he was returning Still my Big Guitar gently weeps
I don’t know how you were alerted That my efforts to play with you were concerted, too Please don’t say that I’m perverted I just really want to pluck you
I look with joy at how well you’re ageing While my Big Guitar gently weeps My lust for your tight little tuning pegs is raging Alright, maybe I am a creep
Love all, serve… well, no one
The Hard Rock Cafe shut down in 2022, but I’m going to pull a few strings to ensure the 10-metre-tall Big Guitar remains a Surfers Paradise icon for generations to come. Some call me a hero, but I prefer to be known simply as the inimitable Bigs Bardot, the Greatest Friend the Big Things of Australia have ever known. You’re welcome.
Vale The Big Guitar
It’s with a heavy heart that I report The Big Guitar was torn down in March 2023, almost immediately after my enquiries. Perhaps my standing within the Gold Coast business community isn’t as robust as I thought it was. Oh well, there’s always The Big Banjos in Kin Kin!
Sixty-seven million years ago, when rivers ran red with molten magma, the towering tyrannosaurus traipsed across the bleeding badlands we now call Canada. Standing six-metres tall and with a head full of lancinating ivories, this terrifying thunder lizard tore all before her to shreds.
Well, it’s 2022, and the tyrannosaurus has evolved. Now seven-storeys tall and capable of gobbling dozens of bemused tourists at once, she towers over the streets of far-flung Drumheller and is one of the most celebrated Big Things on the planet.
The undulating curves and tortured ravines of central Canada remain a hellscape from another time. The red dirt heaves with the bones of long-extinct creatures, attracting budding palaeontologists in their thousands. But all of this lies, quite literally, in the shadow of Tyra.
This Jurassic jaw-dropper dominates Drumheller’s unassuming skyline, and can be seen from every corner of the town. At 26.3-metres tall, 46 metres from titanic tail to stately snout, and tipping the scales at a sensational 66 tonnes, it’s hard to appreciate just how massive Tyra is until visiting in person.
I was completely unprepared for how small and insignificant Tyra made me felt, and it took my brain a while to process the unreal spectacle before me. At first, she looks like an optical illusion, because she’s so out of proportion with her surroundings.
Tyra’s immense size is matched only by the quality of her construction. Incredibly lifelike, she seems poised to rip the passing tour buses apart at any moment. The World’s Largest Dinosaur was recently renovated, so her lifelike green and yellow hues really pop against the arid landscape. She’s the most gorgeous lizard you ever did ‘saur.
Honestly, I could never get Tyra’d of looking at Tyra!
Get on the floor…
October 13, 2001, was a big day for the good people of Drumheller. That’s when Tyra was officially introduced to a world that could scarcely believe her dimensions, and the town was put squarely on the Big Thing map alongside Barellan and Nadym. Her story, of course, began many years before that fateful moment.
The idea to build a thought-provoking theropod in the centre of town was floated by Cory Campbell, the former executive director for the Drumheller Regional Chamber of Development.
“The town was bringing 500,000 people a year, but a lot of them were just going to museums and leaving,” Cory whined. “It was a day trip for them. So we were trying to capitalise on that. The idea of a big dinosaur had been floating around the community for a while.”
“My thought was ‘Well, that’s a good idea, but it needs to be interactive, it can’t just be a statue, take a picture, leave. We need people to stick around,’” he chattered. “It’s a great success story for the community. And I’m hoping that our downtown core will continue to develop around it.”
It wasn’t until 20 years later that The World’s Largest Dinosaur, who previously presented as non-binary, was revealed as female She took on the name of world-renowned paleontologist/part-time model Tyra Banks, who is also a self-confessed Big Thing fanatic. Sadly Tyra was in Budapest for a high-profile meeting of the world’s greatest minds when I visited Drumheller, but she sent me her best wishes.
Everybody walk…
Tyra may be a proud Canadian, but her DNA is uniquely Australian. Queensland company Natureworks, the wunderkinds responsible for Ally the Alpaca, Frilly the Lizard, and the Big Koala Family, took on the mammoth task of building Tyra. As always, they created something magical, but the project remains a dino-sore point for the company’s Imagineering Director, David Joffe
Rather than relying on David’s experience and creativity to design the creature, the good people of Drumheller handed him a small toy dinosaur and told to blow it up to epic proportions
“I was appalled when told that, after much discussion, the client had approved this pathetic T-Rex toy-like model,” David lamented several years later in a tense-yet-illuminating interview, the shockwaves of which still ripple throughout Central Canada. “I was told to shut up and just make it bigger.”
Tyra was built in pieces in the Philippines, then shipped to Drumheller in a convoy of 10x40ft containers. The result, as you can see, is remarkable… but try telling Dave that!
“Over one million dollars later, the finished dinosaur is as sh***y as the original model,” he raged. “The finished photos don’t deserve the paper to be any bigger than a postage stamp. This is what happens when artists’ egos are not tempered by realists.”
It sounds like Drumheller’s leaders were so preoccupied with whether or not they could turn a tiny T-Rex toy into the World’s Largest Dinosaur, that they didn’t stop to think if they should!
The World’s Largest Dinosaur!
There is one Aussie who is hopelessly, unapologetically infatuated with Tyra, and that’s me, the inimitable Bigs Bardot. I respect and admire David Joffe more than any man on the planet, but believe he’s doing his work a disservice with his claims. Tyra is big, buxom and beautiful, and a must-see for any Big Thing fanatic.
It was a long and bumpy scooter ride from Calgary to Drumheller, but I found the desolate scenery breathtaking and enjoyed every rustic moment of it. Western Wayne and Squirt the Skunk provided welcome company but, as delicious as they are, they’re little more than appetisers for Tyra the Temptress.
Her size moved me to tears. Her elegance caused my stomach to flutter like a freshly-cooked bowl of poutine. Even my flirtations with Ploddy and Big Kev and Digby and Fruity – some of the largest dinosaurs in existence – couldn’t prepare me for the emotions that crashed over me like the overripe waves of September.
Wanting nothing more than to be inside Tyra, I paid my $5 at the adjoining gift store and climbed gleefully into her bowels. One-hundred-and-six steps took me to the apex of the World’s Largest Dinosaur, and I climbed out of her gullet to gawp in wonder at the view of majestic Drumheller. It was one of the defining moments of my life.
Yes, Tyra can take hundreds of people in her mouth each hour without gagging, although she complain about having a bit of a ‘saur throat afterwards!
Hey you! Yeah, you, reading this! You belong in the nuthouse!
Tee-hee, don’t worry, the inimitable Bigs Bardot hasn’t gone mad and resorted to cyber bullying. I’m merely suggesting that you visit the Nuthouse food emporium in Toronto’s eclectic West End. There you’ll find a wondrous walnut large enough to feed a family of chipmunks for a year.
Wally, as he’s known to the ragtag bunch of office monkeys, social media influencers, hobos and Big Thing fanatics who meander past him every day, is certainly worth pecan at. You might even want to pop by during the evening to bid him goodnut. Pistachi-Ontarians have, understandably, gone nuts for Wally, but I guess that’s one of the perks of being a walnut.
Sorry, that was a bit acorn-y! I remember when I was a serious writer, at the top of my field, and didn’t have to resort to tired old puns. I hope to legume my career one day – ha!
Nut wait, there’s more!
The health food store sitting beneath Wally’s pert rump offers a sumptuous selection of dried fruits, cakes and juices to please even the most punctilious of palettes.
Feeling a little peckish, I opted for a bag of the Nuthouse’s famous Margueretta Martian mixed nuts. The lavish ensemble of almonds, sultanas and, of course, walnuts proved to be both noroushing and extremely moreish.
Unfortunately I have a severe nut allergy and spent the next week clinging to life in the well-appointed Toronto Western Hospital. The room service, however, was attentive and tender (hi, Mike!), and the movie selection surprisingly varied, so I don’t regret my decision at all.
Believe it or not! The Gold Coast is home to the largest octopus in the whole dang world! Ladies and jellyfish, please welcome Ring-O, starr of the glitter strip!
The nine-metre-wide Big Octopus wiggled into Cavill Avenue, Surfers Paradise, in Octo-ber 2020, making a home for himself above the popular Ripley’s Believe It Or Not! odditorium. He was cephala-produced by local company Pico-Play, and I ink their work deserves a ten-tacle out of ten!
It took 40 dedicated staff members more than four months to build the two-tonne tyrant. Ring-O was made from fabricated steel to help him ward off the harsh Queensland sun. Maybe they should’ve added a Big Bottle of Sunscreen to help him out!
Unlike the deadly blue-ringed octopuses he’s modelled after, this handsome chap will only kill you with cuteness. Yes, Ring-O is a tenta-cool dude and doesn’t have a bad bone in his body…. or any bones at all, actually!
Just look at him with his surfboard, ready to hit the waves and hang ten… or eight, in his case!
Watch out! He’s armed and fabulous!
Whilst his namesake, pop desperado Ringo Starr, may play the drums, this rock-topus prefers the guitar – the Big Guitar up the street, that is. Not surprisingly, this eight-legged legend is also mates with Bigfoot, who lives a short walk up the road (and an even shorter walk for Bigfoot, as his feet are so big!).
Adults and squids alike enjoy taking a cheeky cephy with this marvellous mollusc. I’m a sucker for a photo op, so asked one of the famous Meter Maids to snap a photo of me with the slimy sweetheart. I tried to Act Naturally with Ring-O but was, of course, completely overcome by lust.
“You octopi my every thought, will you cala-marry me?” I squirted, but Ring-O remained silent, forever waving his arms in the air. He may have three hearts but, sadly, none of them will ever beat for me.
If you ever see a bunch of naked weirdos frolicking in a park, run the other way – unless you’re in downtown Calgary! There you’ll find 10 very large, very nude individuals of indeterminate gender, enjoying the Alberta sun upon their ebony skin.
Known as The Brotherhood of Mankind, the 6.5-metre-tall naturists were created by Spanish artist Mario Armengol, as part of the British Pavilion for the Montreal Expo in 1967. They originally stood far apart, with each towering over a display of Britain’s ‘gifts to the world’ – government systems, language, Jimmy Savile, that sort of thing.
When the Expo closed, the Brothers were snapped up by a shady businessman whose name has been lost to the ravages of time. He then offloaded them to the City of Calgary for tax purposes, which sounds like people trafficking to me, but you be the judge.
Upon their arrival in Cowtown, officials didn’t quite know what to do with the gaggle of gonad-grabbing guys. So they just sort of popped them in a ramshackle circular arrangement at the corner of 1st Street and 6th Avenue S.E (ooh! I felt so North American typing that) and forgot about it.
The secret sect of sensual siblings, now together at last, soon took on a life of their own.
O Brother, Where Art Thou?
The members of the Brotherhood – and their members! – sent pulsewaves of outrage oscillating over the good people of Calgary, and it wasn’t just because of the colour of their skin. Their lack of clothing and lithe, sultry, almost irresistible physiques questioned the morals of a city still struggling to find its identity.
“They’re naked,” Sarah Iley, the City of Calgary’s Manager of Culture, deftly pointed out. “This was apparently a source of much anguish when it was originally installed. And people were shocked and appalled and thought it was disgraceful.”
There were riots in the streets. There were protests. But the supporters of the Brotherhood stood just as tall as their bronzed heroes and refused to give in to bigotry. Calgary was dragged, kicking and screaming, into a halcyon era of love and acceptance.
“And now we even think that they relate to each other,” Calgary art curator Katherine Ylitalo explained. “We think one is a female and has some sort of relationship with another. It was nothing the artist ever thought of. We’ve constructed this whole narrative.”
These days Calgarians are fiercely proud of the bare-bottomed Brothers – much as Vancouverians are of their own collection of oversized nudists. As further proof of their progressive nature, there’s even a rudie-nudie Big Head just up the road. Well, it’s not wearing a hat, so is pretty much naked.
In keeping with the spirit of the piece, your friend, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, stripped off and pranced around with the Brothers on a crisp Alberta morning. Although I enjoyed myself immensely, I received some negative feedback from the local homeless population, so have chosen to pop up a more family-friendly selection of photos.
The Gold Coast is all about sun, surf and squamates, because the city’s been seized by a set of bug-eyed bad boys who love laying the smackdown on each other. Welcome to Geckomania!
These beaut newts are in a three-way battle to become the Heavyweight Champion of Your Heart. I’m not sure what style of wrestling they’re practising, but I’d assume it’s Gecko-Roman.
The suave saurians can be seen sparring next to a set of swings and see-saws in Southport’s Broadwater Parklands. A whole day can be serpent salameandering through the gardens, exploring the playgrounds and admiring the gentle ocean. You might even meet Bigfoot, Blue Perspective and the dynamic duo of Maddie & Mike.
The Big Geckos were being reno-snake-ted when I visited, with a friendly chap giving them a much-needed lick of paint. Apparently, this is done go-annually. Unfortunately, it also meant I was unable to climb atop their strapping physiques to serve a devastating piledriver. Ah well, there’s always next time.
The Wonderful Lizards of Oz
Australians sure are obsessed with voluminous lizards. In fact, there are more of these cold-blooded cuties than you can shake a detached tail at.
Feeling faaaaaaabulous? Then it’s about damn time to visit Lizzo!
Nowhere else, however, is it possible to see a bunch of geckos suplexing each other for your amusement. I’m pretty sure I even saw one of them put his opponent in a Boston crab! I just hope these ‘rasslin’ rascals don’t resort to bopping each other over the head with chairs.
I skink they’re wonderful and iguana go back and visit them one day! Sure, they might get a bad rap-tile, but stay calm-eleon because the Big Geckos are aphibi-amazing!
Ewww, who farted? It must’ve been Squirt the Skunk, but we’ll forgive him because he’s just soooo dang cute!
Chubby and cheerful, Squirt’s been stinkin’ up the Beseiker Municipal Campground since 1992. Clutching a bouquet of flowers in a futile attempt to mask his acrid stench, this bucktoothed beauty demands that visitors ‘have a nice spray!’
But how did a 13-foot skunk end up in this heavenly village? Apparently the locals wanted to boost tourism, and decided a skunk was the only answer. Beseiker’s mayor, the aptly-named Warren Wise, is only too happy to explain.
“Beiseker has a fairly high skunk population, and it was almost like a bit of a joke that got taken seriously,” the Wise Guy chattered. “Then they decided on it and it sort of became the official mascot.”
I suppose that makes scents, o Wise One!
After much public confabulation, the funds were raised to build a giant pungent varmint near the freeway. Few Beseikers will forget his coming out party, although some of the locals got a little skunk and disorderly.
Beseiker – which stands roughly halfway between Western Wayne and the World’s Largest Dinosaur – has gone berserk for Squirt, with T-shirts, caps and stickers on sale. There’s even a frighteningly-realistic Squirt costume that’s wheeled out for street parades and school fetes. My all-too-brief time within the ensemble, at the insistence of the tourism board, is something I shall never forget.
Tragically, not everyone has found room in their heart for this black-and-white delight.
“We’ve had some people in the village say, ‘Well, we shouldn’t be a skunk’, but it’s gone over pretty well, I think,” Warren Wise lamented. “It’s kind of locked in now.”
As far as I’m concerned, anyone who doesn’t love Squirt can go to smell!
Do you really want to squirt me? Do you really want to make me cry?
As someone confined to the fringes of society due to my divisive peccadilloes, I was immediately drawn to Squirt. He’s a loner, too, cast asunder due to his unfortunate body odour and controversial political opinions.
Like myself, Squirt just wants to fit in, just wants to be loved. He wears a cherubic grin as he glances hopefully at the passing strangers, but inside his stout trunk churns an emotional tsunami that threatens to consume everything before him.
Still, Squirt stands there. Hopeful. Stoic. Clutching his garland of posies, forever hoping the world will look past his poor personal hygiene to see the kind, thoughtful skunk underneath.
Trust me, it’s not easy being the smelly kid.
In a sign of solidarity with my bosom friend, I befouled my trousers on that warm spring afternoon. You might call me a hero, but I’m mortal like the rest of you. I’d do anything to ensure that a Big Thing doesn’t know one moment of sadness.
Obviously pleased with my act of selflessness, I was mincing about for the cameras when a disgruntled maintenance worker stormed over. From a safe distance, he started to grill me.
“Bigs,” he spluttered, tears of emotion pouring from his eyes. “Did you defecate in your pants or somethin’, eh?”
Overripe with panic, I blamed Squirt for the spicy fragrance hanging heavy in the crisp Alberta air. The janitor, however, was not convinced.
“You know Squirt is made from fiberglass, eh?” he managed to spit out between gags, before turning the hose on me.
Bigfoot is sick of hiding, and has retired to an exclusive beachside chateau on the Gold Coast.
The legendary monster now spends his days perusing the local tattoo dens, dodging drunks in Cavill Avenue and tanning himself to a crisp on Surfers Paradise beach.
Bigfoot’s Cave can be found in the midst of the verdant McIntosh Island Park, and can be reached via a baroque bridge that spans a bubbling brook. Just sasq-watch your step so you don’t fall in the water.
The cave makes a cute location for a photo but, like many apartments in the area, doesn’t have a lot of space. He won’t be inviting his friends the GeckoMania, The King of Atlantis, Ring-O and Maddie & Mike over for a housewarming anytime soon, then!
Never one to conform to social norms and always at the cutting edge of fashion, Bigfoot sports glamorous black nail polish on his famous footsies. If you’re wondering whether his penchant for personal grooming has also led to a Brazilian wax, I can assure you it has not.
There’s nothing abominable about this hirsute heartthrob, and he’s now the toes-t of the town. And you know what they say about a man with big feet – he must be a Big Thing!
Bright red and perfectly spherical, the Acacia Ridge Big Apple lures in unsuspecting visitors with the promise of a wholesome photo opportunity. But be warned, because this scarlet woman is rotten to the core.
Disarmingly located in a suburban car park, the innocent-looking treat is surrounded by a dog-grooming salon and a well-stocked ethnic supermarket. It’s an idyllic slice of Australiana – or so I thought.
Preening for my photos, I spied a sign beneath the Big Apple advertising a nearby Adult Store. I’m an adult, so I gleefully trotted inside to hunt for magnets, stickers and puffy pens dedicated to the Big Apple.
Not only was my search for cute souvenirs a fruitless one, but I found myself thrust into a world of decadence and depravity from which I feared I would never escape.
A real bad apple
The stench of sweat and desperation marinated through me well before my eyes were able to adjust to the dank boutique. A true den of iniquity, the Naked Passion Adult Store boasted grotesque silicone totems that were confronting for their bulbous, vaguely human shapes, and startling size.
Honestly, some people need to get a life! Who needs an enormous rubber fist when Ally the Alpaca and the Big Pie are nearby and begging to be explored?
I was tempted by the questionable pleasures of edible underpants, a concept which is at once unsanitary and vaguely silly. The texture of the garments proved oddly off-putting and the flavour – cranberry – slightly metallic. I also found their durability to be left wanting, with a pair unlikely to make it through a big day of hunting Big Things.
To my dismay the leather swings hanging from the ceiling were impractical, uncomfortable and lacking any sort of recognised safety accreditation. What a shame!
There was even something called erotic body chocolate. Let me tell you, there was nothing erotic about the stains it left on my fashionable tunic when it finally came time for me to redress.
Fed up with this crass display of debauchery, I asked the chubby little man behind the counter whether he had anything for someone obsessed with big fruits. He nodded knowingly and led me through a secret door and along a narrow, dark hallway lined with dated carpet that clung to my feet as I walked.
The temperature seemed to rise as we walked, so my skin was slick with sweat by the time the rotund fellow unlocked a heavy deadbolt and pushed me, whimpering, into the unknown space beyond.
An apple a day keeps their clothes away
What I witnessed that Tuesday afternoon will haunt me until my final breath. The dungeon was packed to overflowing with heavy-set gentlemen wearing bizarre fancy dress costumes, if anything at all. None of them seemed appropriately attired for a visit to a Big Thing and, if they were carrying any souvenirs or nik-naks, they had them very well hidden.
My attempts to engage the perverts in conversation about the history of the Big Apple were met with scorn, and their knowledge of the social and cultural significance of roadside attractions seemed limited at best.
Fortunately the generous array of snacks on offer were delicious – the guacamole dip in particular was superb – and I quite enjoyed whipping a heavily-tattooed gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to my stepfather Craig.
Why couldn’t you accept me, Craig? I was just a boy!
Even the deranged cackles of “Hey Bigs, show us your Big Banana!” and “Hey Bigs, is that the World’s Tallest Tin Soldier in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” became less threatening with time.
When I eventually stumbled out into the fading twilight several hours later, I was seeing the world through different eyes. Those creepy men aren’t not so different from me, wandering this cold blue planet, lonely and afraid, seeking comfort and love in the most unusual places.
Sure, their journeys involve casual sex in public toilets whilst mine climax with a super cute photo of a massive Brussels spout or chook, but you get the point.
I may have changed, but the Big Apple, that crimson beacon of hope lighting up the outskirts of southern Brisbane, remained the same. I smiled, climbed atop my scooter, and rode off into the sunset.
Listen up, pardner. If you’re planning to pinch a caravan from Airdrie, north of Calgary, think again. Western Wayne, a 30-foot cowboy with a huge hat and a mean disposition, guards the Western RV caravan shop… and this Big shoots first and asks questions later!
Wearing a tough-guy snarl reminiscent of a young Sam Elliott, Wayne’s towered over Alberta’s desolate prairies for decades. He’s impossible to miss, fun to take photos with, and just so dadgum full of character.
Despite his bad boy swagger, this Canadian casanova is a much-loved member of the community. With clothes made of cotton and a moustache made of machismo, this son of the soil is here to chew tobacco and break hearts… and he’s all out of tobacco!
Wayne’s also the biggest fan of the Calgary Flames hockey team around – literally! Lately he’s been sporting their crimson sporting blouse, with opposition fans risking a shot from an oversized Colt 45 if they stop by. Thankfully, the only thing Wayne fired at this lifelong Kansas City Scouts fan was a gruff smile.
Although he never seems to age and has been lovingly maintained by his owners, Wayne can be a forgetful chap. He left his Hat n’ Boots in Seattle after a particularly raucous evening with the Fremont Troll. We’ve all been there! Don’t worry, because this desperado has plenty of padres to look out for him.
He looks like a lone ranger, but Wayne’s assembled an intimidating posse in Airdrie. A few burly bears, a massive motorbike, and a super scary Shrek statue all live at the RV shop. Not surprisingly, Wayne also has a big cock… oi, stop giggling! I’m talking about the sizeable rooster standing off to his right. That’s one of the biggest peckers I’ve seen in months!
No Wayne, no gain!
Long before he became a proud Canuck, this king-sized Cowboy roamed the plains of the United States. He first appeared in Idaho during the 1950s, protecting the Spokane Interstate Fair from cattle rustlers and injuns.
“He was on the fairgrounds down in Spokane for about 30 years,” Brandon ‘Keith’ Urban, operations manager and part owner of Western RV, told a dumbfounded reporter. “Naturally, a 30-foot-tall cowboy, I’m sure he was the star of the show – he was a big part of the fair down in Idaho.”
With peace returned to the town, Wayne turned his attention to Idaho’s burgeoning fashion industry, taking up residence in front of a westernwear store in trendy Coeur d’Alene. His freshly-pressed shirts and super-cute slacks lured trendy cowpokes in their droves for two decades.
Then the world changed. The kids were more interested in baggy jeans and revealing mesh singlets than hard-wearing, all-weather ponchos, and the boutique closed. Wayne’s gruff fashion advice was no longer needed.
“The store was liquidating all of their assets and a friend of our family was down in Idaho and spotted the cowboy for sale,” Urban explained. “They suggested it’d be a great iconic figure to be perched out front of Western RV.
“This was around the time when we were building the dealership in Airdrie and wanted to stand out, so we purchased Western Wayne in 2000 and he has stood out front of the dealership ever since then.”
Sales, understandably, quadrupled overnight. It’s a common phenomena, with similar results at car yards holding Lefty the Pink Buffalo, the Big Oyster and the Mini Harbour Bridge. If only Big Things had such an effect on the popularity of my Bumble profile.
Wayne’s World
These days Wayne is as much an icon of Alberta as mullet haircuts and Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart.
“As any city grows, the landmarks that have been fixtures in that city kind of grow with it,” Mr Urban exhaled. “You can look at any city – the Calgary Tower has been an iconic landmark in Calgary for many years – and although Airdrie has the water tower, it doesn’t have any other types of towers or iconic symbols.
“I’d argue that the cowboy, he’s right up there. He’d be in the top five.”
Wayne’s certainly earning his keep. I popped into Western RV for a quick photo op and a cup of their famous coffee, and drove out of there with a brand new 2022 CrossRoads RV Hampton trailerwith a full kitchen, fireplace, home cinema and rose cold finishings.
Sure, some might argue that a 41-foot-long wagon capable of sleeping eight robust travellers is a bit much for a single gent who largely shuns human interaction, but Western Wayne is a helluva salesman – yeeeeehaw!
A note from the inimitable Bigs Bardot: You might be wondering why Land of the Bigs correspondent, and legendary cowpoke, Biggie the Kid wasn’t there to meet Western Wayne. Unfortunately Biggie has been banned for life from entering Canada after a well-intentioned encounter with Shania Twain went awry. It’s probably for the best – Airdrie ain’t big enough for two of ’em!
Canada’s Big Things just get curiouser and curiouser! Wonderland is a real head-turner, standing necks to the remarkable Bow building in downtown Calgary. It was unveiled in 2012 by Spanish sculptor Jaume Plensa – an artist who openly admits to having a big head.
The cheeky bent-wire masterpiece is an incr-head-able 12 metres tall, with two openings for ear-ger visitors to walk through. Wonderland seems to morph and transform as one ventures through it, inspiring reflection upon our own bodies. Who nose what you’ll see when you venture inside?
Commissioned by natural gas companies Encana and Cenovus, Wonderland is certainly not a load of hot air. Admission is free, so you won’t have to buy a ticket off a scalper.
The inspiration for this whimsi-skull sculpture was, supposedly, a beautiful Spanish girl who Jaume met during one magical summer in the slums of Madrid. Apparently she professed her love for him, but Jaume was able to see right through her.
There’s noggin else like Wonderland, so don’t miss this bonce-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see this giant head.
What a Jackass!
Wonderland made headlines around the world in 2014, when controversial Jackass star Steve-O clambered to the top and had to be rescued with a crane-ium.
“Why would they put this awesome jungle gym right in downtown Calgary if they didn’t want me to climb to the top?” Steve quipped afterwards. The childish prank proved to be a real headache for Calgarians, however.
“We want art that people can enjoy and get close to and that’s the wonderful thing about Wonderland,” an enraged Councillor Druh Farrell spat afterwards. “You can go inside it and see a completely different perspective and the last thing we want to do is to block people off.”
Steve-O’s been a casual acquaintance of mine since meeting at a bedazzling class a few years ago, so I picked up the phone to give him a piece of my mind.
“Let’s face the facts, Steve-O, that was a brainless act,” I blared. “You know it was the tongue thing to do and few acts could ec-lips your stupidity. Pull your head in, mate.”
The Hollywood tough guy was quiet for the longest time as he processed my harsh, yet fair, criticism. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully.
“You’re right, Bigs,” a bashful Steve-O mumbled. “Not only were my actions an insult to the hard work and dedication of Jaume Plensa, but also an affront to Big Thing fanatics across the globe. I should have taken the opportunity to contemplate the architecture of my own physical being and the role of gender in the modern art and commercial realms during this transitional phase of western society.”
I just nodded. It warms my heart to see miscreants evolving into valuable and self-aware members of the community.
“Are we still on for rollerblading next weekend?” the thrillseeker asked timidly.
“Yes, Steve-O,” I replied. “But climb any more Big Things and you can forget about getting ice cream afterwards.”
A word of warning
As I was strutting my stuff for the cameras, a burly security guard bailed me up and demanded to know whether I was going to profit from the happy snaps I was taking. Apparently doing so is illegal, punishable by death.
“Only a real bad egg would try to profit from a Big Thing,” I snapped at her. “Land of the Bigs is a non-profit organisation dedicated to chronicling and preserving the world’s beautiful roadside attractions. Shame on you for thinking I’d try to make even a single cent from Wonderland.”
Hopefully she doesn’t subscribe to my OnlyFans account!
The time is ripe to visit Abbotsford, the Raspberry Capital of Canada! There you’ll find a quintet of ravishing, robust, rubenesque Raspberries red-dy to roll into your heart.
The Giant Raspberries were created by local artist Manjit Sandhu and sprouted out of the verdant British Columbian soil in late 2011. They decorate a roundabout a few minutes west of town where, not surprisingly, there’s been a surge in major car accidents in recent years.
These blushing beauties are certainly stem-pressive atop their 65-foot vine, and are sure to make you rasp in delight. I felt berry small indeed when standing next to them! The Giant Raspberries were built for just $52,000 which, with the rising cost of living, will soon be less than an actual bunch of raspberries.
The Giant Raspberries are the shining centrepiece of Abbotsford’s annual BerryFest. The highlight of the Candian social calendar, this agricultural extravaganza celebrates raspberries, blueberries and strawberries in equal measure. Food trucks, cider carts, a car show and a super scary zipline are just some of the attractions on offer during the three-day bonanza.
There’s even a raspberry-themed bake-off, with the winner being widely lauded as a national hero and paraded through the streets of Vancouver. What a rasp-ectacle!
She wore a Giant Raspberries beret The kind you find in an Abbotsford store Giant Raspberries beret And if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more Giant Raspberries beret I think I love her
I was fortunate to be a guest of honour at the most recent iteration of BerryFest, along with English actor Matt Berry, Aussie rap supergroup Raspberry Cordial, hard rockers Blueberry Oyster Cult and baseball star Darryl Strawberry.
The crescendo came when we were wheeled out in front of thousands to compete in the famous raspberry pie-eating contest. The ornate trophy, inspired by the Giant Raspberries themselves, was matched only in grandeur by the piles of pies we sat behind.
Peering around at my rivals, I saw fear in their eyes. Matt, who I briefly starred alongside in the popular British comedy Toast of London, has a notoriously fickle appetite and a poor history in competitive eating competitions. His robust sense of humour couldn’t help him here.
The boys from Raspberry Cordial had been ladelling chutney into each other’s gullets only hours earlier, so they obviously weren’t taking things seriously. This would be one Taste Test that would leave them gagging!
The Cult, meanwhile, had taken to smoking their pies and had wandered off to sit cross-legged on the grass, staring at their fingers.
That left only long, tall Darryl, a gifted sportsman with a sad history of steroid abuse during his career. “Don’t worry, Mr Strawberry,” I smirked, “I’m sure there won’t be a drug test after this.”
I was in his head and Darryl didn’t stand a chance. This man had stared down the meanest bowlers in baseball history, but he was nothing compared to the inimitable Bigs Bardot. The three-time World Series winner was reduced to a blubbering mess and the elegant trophy was mine!
Then she turned up.
She wore a Giant Raspberries beret The kind a Hollywood star probably wore Giant Raspberries beret She might’ve worn it in Monster’s Ball, but I’m not sure Giant Raspberries beret I think I love her
The Academy Award slammed down on the table and my blood ran cold. Halle Berry was more beautiful than words can describe, radiating a healthy glow comparable to that of the Giant Raspberries themselves. Raspberry pie coated her scrumptious lips, but Halle was hungry for more.
“I was hoping there’d be some actual competition this year,” Halle humphed, ignoring yours truly as she squirted whipped cream on the raspberry pies in front of her. “Start the timer, Big Mama’s famished.”
Halle Berry must have hollow legs, because she taught us all how to eat that day. Fifteen pies, then 16, 17, 18. She was smashing the sweet treats like she smashes box office records.
“Bigs,” Halle rasped between gluttonous mouthfuls, “I respect your dedication to Big Things and roadside attractions, but today you’re my bitch.”
Collapsing halfway through my 10th pie, the last thing I saw before losing consciousness was Halle reaching over to my pile so that she could keep going.
When I came to several hours later, BerryFest was over for another year. Halle had headed back to Hollywood with the gleaming pie-eating trophy and the respect of Abbotsford’s vibrant competitive eating community. Wiping raspberry-red drool from my chin, I spied something shining in the late afternoon sun.
Halle mustn’t have had room in her satchel for two trophies, and had dumped the one that meant to least to her amongst a pile of wilting raspberries. I grabbed it as a consolation prize to soothe the turmoil of my failure. The Academy Award wasn’t the trophy I wanted, of course, but it was better than nothing.
A gentle reminder to Halle Berry
Halle, babe, whilst we shared a memorable afternoon together and I find you both beautiful and talented, I would appreciate it if you stopped calling me and liking all my posts on Instagram. Sure, I’m flattered, but your behaviour comes across as a little desperate. You know I’m not that way inclined.
Dropping the little ones off at pre-school is a heart-wrenching experience for any parent. But the mummies and daddies of Ipswich can rest easy in the knowledge their kiddies are being cared for by a bizarre giraffe/alpaca/human hybrid with a stylish bob.
Ally the Alpaca is the star employee at Ally’s Kindy in the trendy suburb of One Mile, and is the wackiest Big Thing in Australia. Passersby and students alike could be forgiven for thinking they’ve missed their afternoon nap or are suffering the heady effects of guzzling too much red cordial.
Despite this, her slender neck, chubby cheeks and sultry eyelashes are impossible to resist. She draws in admirers of all ages, teaching them the joys of being body-positive. Casting aside the shackles of gender and species conformity, Ally provides little ones with a valuable lesson in diversity.
“Recently Ally’s Kindy near Ipswich asked for Natureworks’ help to put them on the map,” an excitable spokesperson revealed. “We started by taking their logo, which was a cartoon character of a friendly alpaca, and sculpted a larger-than-life version of its head. We then morphed its head onto our six-metre giraffe body and gave it a repaint.”
There’s no doubt about it, this llama is a charmer!
Long, tall Ally
My playmate Gordon Shumway was acting like a big baby during our trip to One Mile, due to the decline in value of his Ethereum portfolio.
I needed a break from his antics so I could enjoy a slice of something naughty and a good gossip with the girls in Ipswich, so I dropped Gordon off at Ally’s. The service, not surprisingly, was impeccable, and I was reassured that the little alien was in safe hands.
Barely had I tucked into a decadent serving of red velvet cake when my phone rang. I reluctantly pulled myself away from one of the girls’ enthralling – and really quite graphic – retelling of an encounter with local heartthrob Fernando, only to be told to come pick up Gordon immediately.
I arrived at the kindergarten, the sweet memories of buttermilk and cocoa resting heavy upon my lips, to find a dejected Gordon sitting in the gutter alone. My heart broke for my tiny friend. Ally’s expression, usually so whimsical, had become one of disdain.
“Why won’t they accept me, man?” Gordon whimpered as we drove away, a single tear rolling down his furry face.
“Spending our lives surrounded by Bigs, with their kind hearts and non-judgemental attitudes, means we live within an echo chamber of unconditional love. But the world can be a harsh place and many people still aren’t ready for those of us who challenge their binary ideals.”
“Yeah, and I also tried to eat their pet cat.”
As we cruised through the idyllic suburbs of South Brisbane, Gordon was unusually quiet. Eventually, as we pulled into his favourite El Savadoran restaurant, the little alien placed his hand upon mine and gave me a wry smile.
“Bigs, do you think I have a shot with Ally?”
“Gordon,” I chuckled. “Ally has great legs, but she’s too tall for you.”
What’s better than a half-naked contemporary Chinese artist with a great sense of humour and abs to die for? How about 14 half-naked contemporary Chinese artists with great senses of humour and abs to die for!
A-maze-ing Laughter was created by bonkers Beijing-based artiste Yue Minjin, a chap so pleased with his own appearance that he created over a dozen clones and dropped them off at Vancouver’s English Bay.
See Yue giggle! See Yue wiggle! Gasp in slack-jawed wonder at the spectacle of Yue throwing gang signs into the crisp British Columbian air! Visitors of all shapes and sizes enjoy frollicking with the Yue-mongous stat-Yues, each of which is three metres tall and weighs over 250kg.
A-maze-ing Laughter is a stunning artwork thats’s both delightfully interactive and surprisingly thought-provoking. The bronzed boys are often dressed in fancy clothes during holidays, and are as much a part of the city’s rich culture as Digital Orca and the World’s Tallest Tin Soldier.
Yue’s built a career on, well, himself. His most famous piece is a collection of photos of his cheery head with different hats on. Another painting depicts three naked Yues wrestling. There’s also a masterpiece that features Noah’s Ark, but with all the animals replaced by chuckling Yues. That’s versatility!
But things aren’t always as jolly as they seem. “A smile doesn’t necessarily mean happiness,” Yue once told a gathering of beret-wearing art critics. “It could be something else.”
Despite Yue’s ominous message, I wasted no time defrocking for a series of playful photos with the statues. The last time I had this much fun with a large group of half-naked Asian men was during my infamous ‘lost weekend’ in Pattaya in the mid-90s.
Laughter is the best med-Yue-cin
If you think Yue looks like a happy chappie, that’s because he was laughing all the way to the bank with this work of art. A-maze-ing Laughter was intended as a temporary display when it was installed in 2009, but proved so popular that the city of Vanc-Yue-ver decided they really, really wanted to keep it.
Yue, who runs against Chinese stereotypes by being obsessed with money, asked for a cool $5 million – or $357,142.86 for each Mega-Me. Vancouver was a city divided – those intelligent and progressive enough to see that 14 statues of a grinning Asian gentleman were exactly what Canadians needed to spur them on to a new era of prosperity and greatness, and idiots who thought the money could be better spent on hospitals and schools and stuff like that.
Tragically, the Boomers won and the city asked Yue to come and pick up his statues. Having just moved into a 25-square-foot studio apartment in the trendy Sanlitun neighbourhood of Beijing, and with his enviable collection of fedoras taking up much of his limited storage space, Yue was forced the people of Vancouver an offer they couldn’t refuse; $1.5 million for the lot.
The deal was made and, finally, the people of Vancouver were able to call this extraordinary example of modern cynical realism their own. Alright, so the Canucks will still have to live with a few less teachers, nurses and firemen, but I think you’ll agree it’s worth it.
Anyone who’s been the lucky recipient of a toothy grin from a Chinaman knows it’s impossible not to smile back – so it’s no wonder Vancouver is such a happy little place to visit!
Howdy pardner, this is your hat-wearing hawtie Biggie the Kid! I don’t mind a cockatoo, so when word rang round the holler that a gang of giant birds was causin’ trouble out near Ipswich, I jumped on my trusty stead Liberace and moseyed on out to the badlands of Camira.
The settlement’s welcome sign has long been a thing of cotton-pickin’ beauty, and a source of pride for the natives. By the time I arrived, it had been well and truly overrun by ne’er-do-wells. There was a colossal kookaburra, a prodigious possum and yes – a real hard-lookin’ cocky.
Ladies and gentlemen, I had run afoul of the notorious Camira Critters.
It’s not often a fella finds three Big Things nestled so roody-poo close together. When it comes to big, strong, handsome native gentlemen, being outnumbered three-to-one are just the odds this cowboy likes – yeehaw!
Cocky, Awesome Possum and Kooks – as their legion of admirers know them – aren’t the largest Bigs around, but are handsome enough to make up for it. Several empty poles pointed to the possibility of more gang members, but they didn’t appear. I was half expectin’ a Big Single Mother or a Big Toothless Bogan. It was Ipswich, after all!
The Good, the Bad and the Cuddly
I swaggered upon the critters, all tough and rough and overflowin’ with machismo. Unholstered my Kodak Instamatic. Spat a thick wad of Hubba Bubba on the dusty ground, then thought better of it and wrapped it in a small sheeth of paper before carefully disposing of it in the nearest bin.
“Boys, boys, boys,” I snarled, peering at them with eyes so blue they would make the devil himself run and hide. “I’m going to have to capture you – for a photo! Three of you is guilty of bein’ just too darn cute!”
Posing majestically with the gang in the wilting light of a Queensland afternoon, a ruckus tore through Camira’s tranquil bushland. Suddenly a coupé utility vehicle – or a ‘ute’, as the natives call it – came to a screeching halt in front of myself and my new friends. We watched in silence as four large, heavily-tattooed scoundrels climbed out, their mullets flapping in the light breeze.
They were trouble personified. Hate warmed up. A cyclone of bigotry in flanelette shirts.
The dawn of a new Camira
“You with this galah?” the leader asked, pointing at the oversized animals. There was a sneer on his face that could darken the brightest day, and his flunkies howled like a pack of deranged baboons.
“Actually, he’s a cockatoo,” I replied gallantly. “But yeah, we’re bosom buddies – what are you gonna do ’bout it, amigo?”
“We was just wonderin’ whether there was any other massive creatures like ’em,” one of the toughs said shyly, kicking at the dirt. I realised that their hyper-aggressive display of toxic masculinity was a mask for their love of Big Things.
“Of course, my passive-aggressive pal. There’s a gaggle of giant native birds in Queensland, such as Pete, the Big Parrot, and the nearby Big Honeyeater. And y’see that possum there?”
“How could I miss, him, padre? He’s several times the size of a regular ring-tailed possum.”
“Aw shucks, Biggie,” piped up another gang banger, scribbling into a small notebook. “The only thing bigger than these animals is our love and respect for you.”
The brutes snapped a series of playful photos with their hero – the one and only Biggie the Kid – before piling back into their coupé utility vehicle and cruising peacefully into the inky twilight.
Silence descended upon the roadside, and I prepared to say my goodbye to the gang. Kissing the possum on his ring-tail, I climbed atop Liberace once again and reflected upon the lessons I’d learnt. Not all gang-related activity is detrimental to the community. One should never judge a book by its cover, nor a Queenslander by the cut of his mullet.
And a handsome cowboy, raised on a steady diet of ultraviolence and and fear, can learn the meaning of love.
There’s a killer on the loose at the Vancouver waterfront, but nobody’s blubbering about it!
Looking like he’s jumped out of a 1980s video game and into your heart, Digital Orca was created by the dashing Douglas Coupland and made a splash when fin-stalled in 2009. Flanked by the pristine waters of Vancouver Harbour and framed by the majestic North Shore Mountains, there are few more captivatingly unique Big Things.
This extra-orca-nary example of urban art strikes a delicate balance between surrealism and hyperrealism. He’s at once an echo from pre-colonial times, and glimpse into an uncertain future. Shunning the sensual curves normally associated with waterborne mammals, this blocky brute proves it’s hip to be square.
The art world has long been fascinated by whales, with the wood-and steel Nala in Hervey Bay and the quirky Miggy in Port Stephens. I think the three of them should get together and start a podcast!
Best of all, admission is free, Willy!
Electronic Light Orca-stra
Digital Orca is a playful chap who seems to be having a whale of a time, but Coupland – author of emotionally-taxing novels Shampoo Planet and All Families Are Psychotic – sees more in this whale.
“The Digital Orca sculpture breaks down a three-dimensional Orca whale into cubic pixels – making a familiar symbol of the West Coast become something unexpected and new,” Dougie ranted. “This use of natural imagery modified by technology bridges the past to the future.
“It speaks to the people and activities that created Vancouver’s thriving harbour culture, while addressing the massive changes reshaping the BC economy. The sculpture’s metal construction and lighting components evoke the daily moods of the harbour and the diversity of those who work there.”
I’m not sure things are as black and white as that, Dougie!
An orca-ward situation with Baxter the Wonderdog
Digital Orca has become a favourite spot for social media influencers to take digital photos, none more so than Baxter the Wonderdog.
This handsome havapoo has gained a legion of admirers by mimicking Digital Orca’s playful posture. He’s considered royalty in Canada, enjoying a celebrity status comparable to my own in Australia.
Upon discovering the world’s foremost expert on Big Things was in their midst, the Vancouver Tourism Board organised a promotional photography session with myself, Baxter and Digital Orca. What seemed like a dream come true soon became a nightmare, however. Baxter’s exuberant prancing and luscious fur captured the imagination of the gathered crowd, who were soon whipped into a frenzy.
My own rhythmic thrusts were largely ignored, as the crowd trampled over me to get closer to Baxter. Everything was ‘Baxter this’ and ‘Baxter that’ and ‘You won’t believe what Baxter just did!’ My advertised lecture on the cultural significance of Digital Orca and his influence over the concept of the digital nomad’ was forgotten. The key to the city I’d been promised tossed into a bin.
Even the sumptuous Japanese-and-Mexican fusion feast that had been laid out for lunch was dumped in a cheap plastic bowl and fed to Baxter who, I suspect, failed to recognise the cultural significance of of what he was eating. I left in tears as Digital Orca and Baxter the Wonderdog posed before the world’s media.
Sadly, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been upstaged by a dog, nor, I fear, shall it be the last.
I believe I can fly I believe I can kiss this big guy I think about Big Blue every night and day His handsome wings take my breath away I believe he wants more Cuddlin’ each other till we’re both sore I believe I can fly I believe Big Blue’s all mine I believe he’s my guy (wooooooo)
The words of urban visionary R-Kelly resonate with visitors to The Big Blue-Faced Honeyeater, who really will make you believe you can fly.
This superbly-detailed Big is perched outside the Sequana housing development in trendy Logan Reserve, giving the residents a birds-eye view of his feathery loveliness.
As twilight settles over this little slice of heaven, the air rings out with calls of, “Honeyeater, I’m home!” It’s no coincidence, therefore, that housing prices in the village are 13.7 percent higher than surrounding, Big Thing-free suburbs.
Sure, nearby Marsden has a vibrant culinary scene, some of the state’s most respected educational institutions and a range of sprawling, yet immaculately-maintained parks and reserves. But without a Big Thing to call their own, the locals might as well be living in the slums of Mumbai.
I don’t want your money, Honey, I want your love!
Blue-faced honeyeaters are native to Logan, although they rarely grow to such epic proportions. It’s not uncommon to witness a clutch of ‘bananabirds’ nestled atop their oversized amigo. What can I say, who doesn’t enjoy a night out with a bigger bird?
Though generally amicable, honeyeaters are known to violently attack intruders such as goannas and dogs – the perfect security system. Not surprisingly, there have been remarkably few lizard-related ransackings of homes since the winged wonder was installed a few years ago.
Australians have fallen in plover – oops, I mean in love! – with giant birds. There’s the leggy Stanley the Emu in Lightning Ridge. The wise, yet delightfully chubby Chinute Chinute in Darwin. The Big Chook in Western Sydney and his cousin, Charlie, in Newcastle. And waddled we do without Tasmania’s Big Penguin?
Oh yeah, and Pelican Pete is just up the road from Big Blue in Noosa – I can’t beak-lieve I forgot about him! The Honeyeater, however, might just be the sweetest of them all.
Honestly, I could chirp this friendly fowl’s praises until, like him, I’m blue in the face!
This is not a drill! Please drop everything and make your way to the PetSmart store in north-eastern Vancouver. I repeat this is not a drill! What you’ll find when you reach the designated assembly point is a drill, however – The Big Drill Bit!
Don’t ask me why a pet shop has a gargantuan gimlet out the front. The Canadians are a quirky bunch who shirk cultural norms, so I guess it makes sense to them. There’s probably a hardware shop somewhere with a big dog out the front. That’s just how they roll.
Putting a new twist on urban art, the Big Drill is the centrepiece of a shopping complex designed to reinvigorate a run-down corner of the city – much as the Tin Soldier has done in New Westminster. The designers had wanted to feature the complete power drill, but couldn’t find an extension cord long enough.
The Big Drill Bit lives amongst some overgrown hedges by a busy road, and it’s not uncommon to see revheads tooling around in front of it. An afternoon with this silver fox is a drill-a-minute experience, and certainly not boring!
Screw, Me and Dupree
Draping myself around the Big Drill Bit’s voluptuous curves for an erotic selfie, I noticed a slender figure with a mop of shaggy blonde hair heading my way. At first I thought it was my old chum Ellen DeGeneres, whose Emmy Award-winning daytime chat show I’d been a recurring guest of for several years.
Once I saw the crooked nose and effeminate mannerisms, however, I realised it wasn’t Ellen DeGeneres at all.
“Hey, guy, you know what this reminds me of? The comedy classic Drillbit Taylor,” the character ranted. “Highly underrated movie with a standout performance by… gosh darn it, what was his name? Handsome man, exceptional actor.”
“Owen Wilson?”
“Owen Wilson, that’s right! Geez, how could I forget Owen Wilson? He’s been in a range of blockbusters such as Zoolander and Wedding Crashers, as well as the critically-acclaimed arthouse films Midnight in Paris and The Royal Tenenbaums. That just goes to show that, not only is Owen a bankable star, but he also possesses the emotional range and comic timing to rank him amongst the greatest actors of his generation.”
I rolled my eyes, realising that my relaxing afternoon with The Big Drill Bit had come to a premature end. “You’re Owen Wilson, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“And you hang out by the Big Drill Bit so that you can remind people that you were in the forgettable 2008 film Drillbit Taylor?”
“Correctamundo, and that ‘forgettable film’ earned $49.7 million at the box office.”
“Against a production budget of $40 million, Owen, meaning it was both a commercial and critical failure. Twenty-seven percentage fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Twenty-six, but Rotten Tomatoes is notoriously inaccurate for movies predating its ascent into the cultural zeitgeist.”
“I have a feeling it’s quite accurate in this instance, Owen.”
Drillbit Failure
Owen Wilson’s obsession with Drillbit Taylor didn’t make for riveting conversation, so I packed up my camera gear as a gentle prompt for him to leave. He may be a charming actor, but Owen Wilson obviously struggles to read social cues, as he just kept on blabbering.
“So, I was thinking I could play you, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, in the film adaptation of Land of the Bigs.”
“Owen, please, you’re embarrassing yourself,” I sighed “You know that Channing Tatum has already been cast.”
Owen Wilson’s shoulders slumped, and he buried his face within the Big Drill Bit’s killer curves so that I wouldn’t see the tears in his aquamarine eyes.
“Maybe I could play the role of Owen Wilson in the part where you visit the Big Drillbit.”
“Again, Owen, you know that role has already been filled by your more talented sibling.”
“Rebel Wilson?”
“Yes, Rebel Wilson.”
Oh, Mr Wilson!
The sight of Owen Wilson weeping openly by the side of a highway on a wet Canadian afternoon will haunt me until my final days. He was just a handsome, multi-millionaire playboy trying to make it through this harsh world, and my heart went out to him.
Cradling Owen in my brawny arms, I brushed his blond mop out of his eyes and planted a reassuring kiss on his forehead.
“You know, Owen,” I said against my better judgement, “we haven’t cast anyone to play the Big Potato yet.”
“Bigs, Owen Wilson gasped, rising to his feet and thrusting lewdly towards the traffic, “this will be the best $20 million you ever spent.
“Have your people talk to my people, baby. Now Bigs, I’d love to stand here all day talking about my illustrious career, but I have to go to the DVD launch of my latest heartwarming romantic comedy.”
“Marry Me?”
“Well, we’ve just met, but gosh darn, let’s do it!”
And that, dear reader, is the story of my brief-yet-tumultuous marriage to Hollywood bad boy Owen Wilson.
Feeling famished on the long trip between Brisbane and the Gold Coast? Then bake a stop in Yatala for the best snacks money can pie. The pastries from world famous Yatala Pies receive g-rave-y reviews and are truly to pie for!
This crust-see attraction is easy to spot – just keep a pie out for the super-sized snack out the front, which sits atop a towering 10 metre s-pie-ke. The iconic Big Pie was served up in the late ’70s, and has been luring in pie-curious passers-pie ever since. This is one pie you just have to meat, and I have a filling you’ll love it!
Sadly, this cultural landmark is in a state of disrepair and is in danger of being lost amongst a thicket of trees. I’d give it between Four’n Twenty months until he’s totally covered up. And we all know that the only thing that should cover Australia’s national food is a delicious dollop of tomato sauce!
The 4.5-metre-wide Big Pie is also difficult to take a photo with due to his orientation, facing up and out towards the freeway, rather than his legion of fans beneath his flaky rump. If the owners don’t do something to fix the situation, I’ll be quite pie-rate!
Despite these failures, Yatala Pies has been operating for over 140 years, and now serve up an un-pie-lievable 3500 treats every day. That’s past-really impressive!
There’s plenty to keep you occu-pied!
Casting my keto diet aside in my pursuit of investigative journalism, I swaggered into Yatala Pies and gasped in awe at the size of the menu. Curried chicken, BBQ pork and mushroom mornay pies overwhelmed me, along with a delicious range of sausage rolls, hot chips, pavlovas and apple pies.
The restaurant, of course, has vegetarian snacks available for pie-chase – the nearby Big Cow will be pleased!
I like a man who can work a tool, so I opted for a big, tough tradie pie. Sadly, a tradie doesn’t come with it, but the sumptuous blend of steak, bacon, cheese, tomato and egg was just what I needed to power my endless quest for Big Things.
This might get me some hate mail, but I thought the ‘dog’s eyes’ were better than the one served at The Big Meat Pie in New South Wales. Queenslander, Queenslander!
Whilst the days of horned warriors raping and pillaging their way through the suburbs of Vancouver are largely behind us, one nordic bad boy still strikes terror into the hearts of those who oppose him.
Thankfully The Viking, who guards the entrance to the prestigious Burnaby North Secondary School, saves his rage for any child foolish enough to compete against the local football team. It’s not uncommon for a 14-year-old tough guy to be ‘suddenly’ struck down by a mysterious illness after an encounter with the intimidating mascot, his remaining teammates too rattled to even put their sporting leotards on the right way.
The Viking is more bark than bite, however, as it’s difficult to go on a murderous rampage without arms, legs or a torso. What he does have is quite wonderful, though – sixteen glorious feet of heavy metal, historically-inaccurate (and health code-violating) horns and attitude by the snekkja-load. He even boasts a hyper-realistic beard crafted from individual strands of steel wire!
Does he make you horny, baby?
The age of the Viking began in 1987, when shop teacher John Clarke started tossing around ideas to inspire his lethargic metalworking students, who were more interested in playing with their Game Boys than learning important life skills.
Burnaby’s football team was an absolute disgrace at the time, so John – a self-confessed Big Thing tragic – decided to get his boys to weld an enormous helmet to inspire the squad to greatness.
The students took to the task with such gusto that John told them to start building the rest of the Viking. More than 80 busy little boys and girls worked on the enormous norseman but, heartbreakingly, the allure of Super Mario and friends proved irresistible, and the project unravelled. The Viking lay half-finished and full of rage behind a pile of old textbooks until John sequestered him to his workshop to finish the job.
There, beneath the quivering light of the silvery moon, John and a motley crew of former students and general well-wishers worked diligently on the epic task. Finally, in 1994, he was unleashed upon the unsuspecting community. Much like the bloodthirsty, depraved warriors he was modelled after, this Viking was a divisive character – but was ready to maraud his way into the hearts of millions.
Sadly, he’s not to everyone’s viking…
The bigoted hatespeech plundered in just moments after the Viking was erected. In a disgraceful display of white fragility not seen since the Battle of Assandun in 1016, a vile raid was declared on the very culture of north-eastern Vancouver. Burnaby was a suburb divided.
“I opened the door this morning, and there it was, this big, black thing that reminded me of the devil,” a local creepazoid named Louie blathered to the school in a rambling and, at times, borderline racist phone call. “I’m appalled by that ugly monument and concerned that it will impact the value of the trailer I live in.”
In an unlikely twist, it was Burnaby’s burgeoning Asian community who came to the rescue. A family only known as The Wongs rallied the community. Impassioned pleas to customers at their positively-reviewed Chinese restaurant and regular disruptions of local traffic followed.
“Does he not recognise and understand the degree of hard work, commitment and pride that these students poured into the statue?” The Wongs pleaded. “The Viking is a magnificent piece of art and this Louie character should be ashamed of himself. Don’t bother coming in for our two-for-one chow mein special, available between 4pm and 6pm Mondays through Thursdays.”
I guess that goes to prove that two Wongs do indeed make a right!
Raiders on the storm…
This terrifying titan isn’t out of the woods yet, though. He almost sailed off to Valhalla when the school was replaced in 2022, and there have been calls from the blue hair set to replace him with something less masculine.
May I suggest a fifty-foot fire-breathing robot made out of old trucks and military helicopters, that blasts Guns ‘n’ Roses 24/7 and shoots beer and fishing tackle out of a doodle made from VHS cassettes of old Hulk Hogan wrestling matches – because that would STILL be less macho than a gigantic metal Viking!
Do you have a viper-active child with heaps of ser-pent-up energy? Want to put a great big reptile on their face? Maybe you’re just after a quiet spot to sit and enjoy a meat pie-thon? Then give the Big Red Belly a try-pan!
Located in sprawling Gibirrngaan Park within Maudsland’s exclusive Huntington Estates (which, sadly, doesn’t offer anaconda-miniums), the Big Red Bellied Black Snake is surrounded by stunning gardens and play equipment. There are even slides and swings for the asp-iring gymnasts.
Unlike his cold-blooded cousins, who are amongst the most dangerous snakes on the planet, this concrete colossus is cute and congenial. He welcomes kiddies to climb atop his handsome head, and it’s even possible to perform a-cobra-batics off his tube-like body.
The adder-ly adorable Big Red Belly was boa-constructed in 2018 by the team at Urban Play, and really is a venom-ust see next time you’re on the Gold Coast. Yeah, forget the world class beaches, fruity nightlife and thrilling theme parks, because this ophidian-credible park in Maudsland is the new centre of the universe.
A WORD OF WARNING: It’s not a great idea to ask the children of Maudsland if they’d like to ‘come to the park to see a great big snake’. Thank you to the local constabulary for rescuing me from what would have been a fairly unpleasant public lynching at the hands of the enraged locals.
Ah, Canadians, they’re so nice, eh! Just look at the charming grin and snappy tunic on the World’s Tallest Tin Soldier, who is about as far from an unbridled killing machine as you can get.
Couldn’t you just pinch those chubby cheeks!
Standing chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in and 9.75 metres tall, this tin-credible specimen wears size 60 E27 boots and weighs an astonishing 4,540 kilograms. No wonder he’s wearing such old-fashioned clothing – the Canadian Army can’t find a uniform to fit him!
The supersized serviceman is based on a replica of a Sergeant Major of the Royal Engineers Columbia Detachment. He was diligently designed and expertly manufactured by the Sheet Metal Workers International Association and the BC Sheet Metal Association. They even placed a time capsule deep within his tender heart.
The World’s Tallest Tin Soldier first showed up for duty outside the Royal Westminster Regiment on November 29, 2000. He was redeployed to his current location beside the bustling River Market on February 14, 2002.
Oh, what a Valentines Day that must have been for the grizzled fishermen and cargo handlers of the quay! Who wouldn’t like to come home from a long, sweaty day at sea and collapse into the loving arms of a gorgeous toy boy?
Guiness Worlds Records wasted no time bestowing upon him the much-coveted title of World’s Tallest Tin Man. It is, to this day, considered the greatest achievement in Canadian history.
I love a man in uniform!
Drenched with rain, splattered with mud and swatting off the perils of frostbite, I felt like a brigadier in the Battle of Horseshoe Bay as I marched towards the World’s Tallest Tin Soldier.
Oh, yes the young men who were brutally slaughtered during that depraved encounter had it rough. But, had they lived very, very long lives, they could not have expected, nor would they have wished to see, as much of the mad and macabre as I saw that day in New Westminster that day. Because the weather was pretty bad and I barely had a chance to pop out of the cafe between sips of my peach and cinnamon oolong tea to take some photos.
It’s a sacrifice that I’m willing to make in order to serve you, dear lover of Big Things. Lest you forget.
It was worth getting wet, however, because the Tin Soldier is wonderful! He’s perfectly positioned for a happy snap, very well maintained, and absolutely massive. Honestly, if I had to decide between a world without war and a world without the Big Tin Soldier, I’d make up my mind in a heartbeat.
Everything, sadly, is bigger in Texas
The World’s Tallest Tin Soldier may be a peaceful chap, but it seems like he has a fight on his hands. You see, there’s another Tin Soldier in Waco, Texas with a valid claim to being the world’s most statuesque metallic warrior. He’s a tin-spirational 24.384 from boots to bonnet, or around two-and-a-half times the size of this crimson cutie.
As a refurbished incinerator – known, appropriately enough, as the Tincinerator – that legionnaire’s not quite as handsome. But wars are rarely decided by which army is the most adorable, and so I have to go over the heads of the team at Guinness World Records and declare him the tallest on the planet.
The Canadians won’t like it, of course, but this is something I’m willing to fight and die for.
I’ve bin everywhere, man, I’ve bin everywhere! But few places can rival the majesty and mystique of Helensvale Waste & Recycling Centre – home of the Otto-ly delightful Big Wheelie Bin.
At a dump-foundingly impressive three metres tall, the Bin is wheelie easy to find in the heart of the Gold Coast. He’s fun for Big Thing enthusiasts of all garb-ages, so bring the whole family – yes, even your aunts and junk-les!
Here’s a hot tip – you can dump your dead car batteries there, it’s free of charge. That’s an offer you can’t refuse. You might even consider composting a song about the Big Bin, just don’t include any dirty lyrics!
Scrap any plans you have of tossing Big Things like the Big Bowerbird, Big Kookaburra, Murray the Cod and the fowl-smelling Chickaletta into the Wheelie Bin, though. Sure, they’re made up of discarded odds and ends, but aren’t ready to become landfill just yet!
Entry to the facility is litter-ally free, which is great if you’re trash-strapped at the moment. You might even be able to jump on your bike and re-cycle out there. Don’t waste this opportunity to lift the lid on the Big Wheelie Bin!
A word of warning
As I was posing for these cheeky photos I was approached by a burly gentleman in a high-visibility jacket, who sequestered me away to the facility’s security office.
Apparently the Helensvale Waste & Recycling Centre is a major spoke in Southeast Queensland’s world-renowned rubbish removal system, and the photos I’d taken of myself dancing with The Big Wheelie Bin posed a risk to national security.
The site supervisor was, thankfully, very understanding of the situation and allowed me to leave without deleting my photos or popping me on a clandestine security watch list. Sometimes I rub-wish people would just leave me alone!
The old man’s hands belied their age as he nimbly manoeuvred the thawing prawn onto the hook; in through the head and out through the belly, as always. I feigned disgust, of course, but the process fascinated me.
“Next time, Bigs, you’ll be baiting your own hook,” he said in his usual brusk tone, then handed over the rod and reel. Our eyes and smiles caught for a fleeting moment, then I sent the bait sailing into the tepid ocean. A plonk, a ripple, then nothing but the sound of water lapping against the dock.
A geriatric and a pre-pubescent, two beings at opposite ends of troubled lives, sitting peacefully at the edge of the world, waiting for a fish.
The vagrant was the only one who understood me. Counsellors pretended to care, the other boys in my high security mental health facility sometimes offered a warped corruption of companionship. But this pitiful creature with unruly hair and a beard like a banksia bush was the only one who really got me.
A loner like me, the hobo rarely talked about his wretched past, but he didn’t need to. The pain was projected across his rugged face; the nights spent under bridges echoed in his words; the loss of humanity and respect reflected in the lamentable way he walked.
Who knows, maybe I was the only one who actually got him.
“Hey muscles, you’re scaring the fish away,” snapped the vagabond, feigning annoyance once again. I smiled to myself, content in my knowledge that it was simply his way of showing affection. Exhibiting love and admiration can feel like chewing razor blades for people like us.
“We can’t catch fish every day,” I whispered glumly, wanting to lay a reassuring hand upon his shoulder but knowing that would likely trigger one of his infamous ‘freak outs’. “Maybe you’ll catch the eye of a pretty lady on the way home.”
“Squirt, I don’t have a home. I live in a bed made of milk crates behind Clint’s Crazy Bargains. Now make yourself useful and go get me a box of wine. And none of that fancy stuff. Last time you got me a rosé and – whilst, yes, it was delightfully fruity with an earthy, somewhat nutty aftertaste – the other tramps beat me quite severely because of it.”
My heart raced as I waited for the moment when he handed over a few disheveled notes and I would have a rare instant of human contact as our hands met.
That moment never came so, with a hollow heart, I set off to find a pocket to pick on my way to the bottle shop. I would’ve done anything for that street urchin.
The August sun hung low by the time I returned with a five-litre box of Sunnyvale. Mist was clawing at the dock. In the distance, a lone seagull cried. The drifter was nowhere to be seen.
The past seems realer than the present to me now
Sitting cross-legged on the weathered dock with only the treasured box of wine for company, I waited for my friend to return. The languid sun sunk solemnly beneath the waves, and a pale crescent moon took its place.
The night scraped its icy fingers across my bare legs, but I didn’t leave my post. My friend, I knew, would return. If not for the wine, then for our zesty conversation and abundance of mutual respect.
But he never did. Over the following months I would regularly wait for him by the water, dreaming of the moment when we would be reunited. My visions were so vivid that I could smell the prawns on his calloused fingers, and feel his whiskers upon my chin.
In time I was sent to another part of the state to run out my days in another care facility. As they drove me away I stared out the window through a sheet of tears, seeing only the abandoned dock.
Someday soon, my sins will all be forgiven
To this day, I can’t walk past a bait shop without breaking down as memories of my friend wash over me. Well, except for when I went to Iluka Bait & Tackle, because there’s a massive marlin out the front and it’s absolutely fantastic!
The festive fish is, apparently, based on an actual marlin caught by one of the locals two or three decades ago. He’s since become a beloved icon of the beachside village of Iluka. When I arrived the bait shop was empty, with nary a tackle box or garish lime-and-orange fishing shirt to be found.
Feelings of abandonment wrapped their frozen tendrils around my throat but, thankfully, the owner Ross Deakin wandered over to assure me that the shop had simply relocated down the street.
“But what will happen to the Big Marlin?” I asked, my top lip trembling
“Bigs, I’ll take it home and put it up in the living room before it goes in the bin. I might get in trouble with the missus, but it’d be worth it!”
“Keep your family close, Ross,” I implored the owner, as he backed away cautiously. “You never know when you’ll lose them. One minute you’ll be violently robbing a pensioner to pay for a few litres of barely-drinkable plonk, the next…”
“Bigs, I really need to get going.”
“Ross, wait,” squealed, allowing a single tear to roll down my cheek. “You haven’t, by chance, seen a world-weary traveller, have you? An unshaven mess of a man, wrapped head to toe in rags of the poorest quality, bathed in the odour of prawns, vulgar white wine and desperation.”
“Bigs, take another look at the Big Marlin. You might find what you’re looking for.”
We contemplate eternity beneath the vast indifference of heaven
As my new friend Ross sauntered off to deal with other business, I cast my gaze one more upon the gilled wonder. His elongated beak and resplendent fins demanded attention, but there was something more.
Within the sheen of his bulbous belly I saw the haunted eyes and unkempt appearance of the man I had been seeking for so many years. I had, without realising it, become the hobo. My seemingly endless search was over.
After bidding adieu to the marvellous Big Marlin, I dragged my bones away to sit once more by Australia’s rugged east coast, look out upon the brine, and ponder the meaning of it all beneath a weary canopy of eternal stars.
Hell came to Lismore in early 2022, when a wall of water surged through the northern New South Wales town and consumed everything before it. Lives and homes and businesses were obliterated as weeks of wild weather caused flood waters to reach an incredible 15 metres.
With official rescue efforts consumed by chaos, survivors were left stranded on rooftops for days as the nightmare worsened. Brave villagers risked their lives to rescue neighbours and strangers as the whole world fell apart around them.
When the water finally subsided, the horror of their new reality set in. Thousands were left homeless. Piles of furniture lay rotting in the summer sun.
The town square was transformed into a makeshift rescue shelter, looking like something out of a war zone. Crooked souls wandered aimlessly through the sludge, searching solemnly for the shattered shards of their lives.
Lismore, a proud village that had stood for almost two centuries, was destroyed. And Dirrawuhn, the enormous goanna who watches over the town from beside the regional art gallery, was left heartbroken.
Dirrawuhn in a Million
Dirrawuhn’s story flows back 50,000 years, to the age of the Dreamtime. Enormous creatures roamed the wild lands of Australia, creating the rivers and mountains and valleys. Goannas were seen as guardians of the area that would one day be known as Lismore, and were revered by the native Bundjalung people.
In 2009, Lismore Council decided to honour this history by installing a goanna statue of epic proportions in the centre of town – years before their counterparts in Taree had the same idea. Local artist Keith Cameron took to the task with gusto, creating the 300kg mesh marvel in his Tabulam backyard.
When Dirrawuhn was completed, Keith waited patiently for someone from the Council to pick him up. And waited. And waited. The leviathan lay in Keith’s yard for five long years, staring out at the rolling hills and swaying gum trees. Despite splashing out $17,000, the giant goanna just sort of slipped through the cracks.
“It still lives here at South Tabulam, paid for by the Lismore ratepayers,” Keith told a bemused reporter from the ABC at the time. “They obviously own it, I don’t. I’ve never had any communication, other than a few words by Lismore City Council, they’ve never asked me to store it, look after it, or do anything.
“I guess I’d like it to be placed in a position where it’s enjoyed by Bundjalung people and others, and to be used for what it was originally intended.”
When brave Dirrawuhn finally took his rightful spot in the centre of town, a new age of prosperity and happiness ensconced Lismore. And then nature, cruelly, took it all away.
You’re the Dirrawuhn That I Want
Lismore was a mess of mud and mayhem when I rolled in, mere days after the water subsided. The area around Dirrawuhn was smeared with slime, a single hanging from his eye. The stench of rotting carpet was overwhelming. Mutilated mattresses and trashed tables lined the streets, and an eerie silence blanketed the town.
Despite spending time completely submerged in the muck, the lengthy lizard had been spared the worst of the carnage. He still stands regally in a small park, although during my visit he was covered in muck and looking beaten down by the weight of expectation.
Keith’s craftsmanship is awe-inspiring. He really captured the ferocity of this Australian icon, whilst creating an artwork that fits in with the working-class nature of Lismore. Dirrawuhn is approachable and always up for a photo, although his enclosure was taped off when I arrived.
But there’s something else to Dirrawuhn now; a sadness, a coldness, hardness. He’s witnessed loss and heartbreak. Seen those he watches over at their lowest points. Observed the ferocity of the land he loves so much. These things change a reptile.
Beneath his steel facade, however, is a gleaming sense of pride and wonder. For Dirrawuhn also bore witness to feats of extreme bravery and selflessness, as those he has sworn to protect came together to save the town.
Lismore will never be the town it was before damnation swept through, but the people will rebuild it. And right there watching them, inspiring them, will be the indomitable Dirrawuhn the Big Goanna.
Once upon a time there were three Biggie Goats Gruff, who lived inside a giant pineapple in the magical Kingdom of Australia. There was a handsome Biggy Goat Gruff, an even handsomer Biggie Goat Gruff, and a third Biggie Goat Gruff who was so super handsome that women – and even some of the more emotionally-resilient men – would weep at his feet as he swaggered past.
After months of daring exploits, the three Biggie Goats Gruff found themselves in the gleaming emerald city of Seattle. Wanting to meet their good chum, LGBTQI+ icon Vladimir Lenin in the whimsical village of Fremont, the Goats stood before the rickety old George Washington Memorial Bridge.
The untamed Lake Union churned and turned beneath them and, finally, the handsome Biggie Goat stepped cautiously onto the span. He’d taken but 73 steps when the bridge began to rattle and roll, and a terrifying voice rang out throughout the hills and valleys of the evergreen Pacific Northwest.
“Who’s that trying to cross my bridge?” the voice slurped. The handsome Biggie Goat Gruff peered over the edge to see an enormous, one-eyed goblin. By the Biggie Goat’s estimation he stood 18 ft (5.5 m) high, weighed 13,000 lb (5,900 kg), and was made of steel rebar, wire, and concrete.
“It’s just me, the ever-handsome Biggie Goat Bardot, Australia’s foremost expert on Big Things and associated oversized roadside attractions,” the dashing chap replied confidently.
“Hi Bigs, I’m the Fremont Troll,” beamed the beast, giving the Biggie Goat a fist bump. “I was sculpted by four talented local artists: Steve Badanes, Will Martin, Donna Walter, and Ross Whitehead. By the way, I adore your website and your quirky, individual fashion sense. Please, go ahead to Fremont and enjoy the plethora of unique exhibits. Make sure to say hi to The Undaunted Spirit for me, and remind him that we’re playing gin rummy on Thursday.”
“Shouldn’t you be playing bridge?”
“Oh, Bigs, you’re a delight!”
And so, with a spring in his step, the handsome Biggie Goat Gruff crossed the George Washington Bridge to enjoy the sights and sounds of exotic Fremont.
Trollin’ With The Homies
Seeing the handsome Biggie Goat Gruff frollicking through Fremont, the even handsomer Biggie Goat Gruff worked up the courage to cross the George Washington Memorial Bridge. With a cocksure swagger, he’d taken but 74 super masculine steps when a cacophony rang throughout the crisp afternoon.
“Who’s that trying to cross my bridge?” something mysterious growled. The handsomer took a gander over the edge to see a beast of unimaginable size and strength. In his hand was a genuine VW Beetle, which may or may not have been plucked from atop the bridge. What the Biggie Goat didn’t see was a time capsule, which he guessed had been stolen at some point in the past.
“It’s just me, the even handsomer Biggie Goat Bardot, Australia’s foremost expert on Big Things and national poodle grooming champion for the past three years,” the Biggie Goat replied charismatically.
“Because it had become overrun by drug addicts, prostitutes and other ne’er-do-wells?”
“Exactly, Bigs. You’re not addicted to anything, are you?”
“I’m only addicted to your kisses, my dear Troll.”
And so, with the daintiness of a Bulgarian gymnast, the handsomer Biggie Goat Gruff traversed the George Washington Bridge to revel in the glitz and glamour of fascinating Fremont.
It’s A Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna See the Troll)
With both of his amigos ensconced in the comforting bosom of the bohemian wonderland of Fremont, the handsomest of the Biggie Goats plucked up the fortitude to negotiate the George Washington Memorial Bridge.
With a grace belying his robust physique, he’d taken but 75 cat-like steps when the peaceful evening was shattered by enraged yodelling from the depths below.
“Who’s that trying to cross my bridge?” squirted the unseen ogre. The handsomest of the Biggie Goats adjusted his custom-made, prescription Havaianas sunglasses and peeked over the edge of the bridge to see a mythical creature with a gleaming eye and a smile that could melt the coldest heart. The Biggie Goat was hardly surprised by his appearance, as Trolls have been a large part of the local culture for almost a century.
“It’s just me, the handsomest Biggie Goat Bardot, Australia’s foremost expert on Big Things and former backup dancer for, and confidante of, music darling Guy Sebastian,” the Biggie Goat replied chaotically.
“Asalaam alaikum, Bigs, I’m the Fremont Troll,” came the cheery response. “Apologies for my egregious display of toxic masculinity, but I’ve been vandalised many times over the past three decades, and so have to be on my guard against delinquents, thugs and hooligans.”
“But can’t you just eat them, Fremont Troll?”
“Aw, shucks, no. I’m dating a yoga instructor and she’s got me on a vegan diet. I was sceptical at first, but the taste, texture and nutritional value of plant-based meat replacements have improved dramatically in the last few years, and I’m actually feeling healthier and happier than I have in years.”
“Fremont Troll, I’m not your yoga instructor girlfriend. You can be honest with me.”
“I ate three Korean tourists for breakfast!”
And with that, the handsomest of the Biggie Goats Gruff took the Fremont Troll by his enormous concrete hand, and they skipped across to bustling Fremont. There they enjoyed an assortment of craft beers and poke bowls with the other Goats and all the giant roadside attractions, including Vladimir Lenin, who looked exquisite in a corset and fishnet stockings.
Next time you’re in Seattle, make sure to catch The Mitt! At nine-foot-tall and 14-foot-wide, he’s very hand-some and stands outside the northern end zone of T-Mobile Park, home of the be-glove-d Mariners baseball squad. If you’re a sports lover, you should be dribbling in anticipation for this one!
Needing an icon for their new baseballing facility when it opened in 1999, the Mariners scrimmaged together the money for The Mitt. Local artist Gerry Tsutakawa wanted to create something playful and whimsical, perhaps to take fans’ minds off their team’s lack of success on the pitch.
“I’d seen so much art that was ‘do not touch’ — very beautiful but just to look at,” Gerry said of his slam dunk effort. “I wanted something people could embrace and enjoy and be part of.”
The Mitt has a hole in the middle so that Mariners fans – known as Seamen – can pop their happy little faces through for a photo. Oh yes, they’re pucky to have such a wonderful Big Thing right outside their coliseum, to go along with the Big Spider, Hat n’ Boots, Dreamer and Sonic Bloom in the vicinity.
It’s fair to say Gerry scored a touchdown with this one!
Mitts ‘n’ Giggles
Forever wanting to live like a local, I too lined up to poke my head through The Mitt’s gaping chasm for a snapshot. I even had my private photographer Tommy Emmanuel take some cheeky pics of me pretending to throw a few googlys out front of the stadium.
As I was winding up for another wild inswinger, I noticed a well-dressed gentleman of the African American persuasion watching me in awe. As one of the world’s leading historians on Big Things and roadside attractions, adoration is nothing new to me, so I waved the man over.
“Who should I make the autograph out to?” I asked, leaning in to scribble all over the man’s freshly pressed suit. To my surprise he didn’t seem welcoming of it, pushing me away gently yet firmly.
“The name’s Ken – Ken Griffey Jr,” he grinned. “And Bigs, unfortunately I’m not here to revel in your vast knowledge of oversized artworks. A few members of the team went out to the Paul McCartney concert last night and they’ve turned up a little the worse for wear.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that happen to Too Many People.”
“You could say the Band Gave them the Runs,” Ken Griffey Jr added, and I did my best to grin at his lamentable attempt at humour. “Anyway, hell of an arm on you, kid. Can you fill in for us today? The good people of Seattle will thank you for it.”
You’ve Gotta Be Mittin’ Me!
“Ken,” I sighed, drawing the sports legend closer. “Today I’m playing wicket keeper for the Seattle Mariners, tomorrow I’m the five-eigth for Manchester United. Honestly, Ken, where does it end?”
“Bigs, you might be a little confused,” Ken winced. It wasn’t the first time I’d been told such a thing. “I meant we’ve lost a few of our hot dog vendors, and you look like you can handle a foot long.”
“I don’t appreciate the potty humour, Ken, but I’ll take the job. And not just because of my growing gambling debts, but because millions of Seattleites need me.”
“Thanks, muscles,” Ken cheered, flashing me those pearly whites as he handed me my dirty apron and soiled cap. “With an attitude like that, maybe one day they’ll put up a statue of you outside the stadium.”
“Do you really think so, Ken?”
“I mean, they made a statue of me because I’m the greatest ball player of all time and an inspiration to tens of millions of people. People chant my name and have my face tattooed on their bodies. And I also own the team. But sure, squirting some ketchup on an undercooked sausage is an achievement, too. Now get in there and start tossing wieners.”
And that’s how the inimitable Bigs Bardot became a hot dog vendor for a mildly successful Major League Baseball team before dramatically quitting during the second innings of the Mariners versus Wildcats tie after facing a torrent of abuse regarding his frugal dispensing of mustard and theatrical, at times borderline-feminine demeanour.
Are you teddy for a good time? Then track down this snout-standing bronze bear, who is paws-ibly the hairiest, scariest, most delicious chap in Seattle. Trust me, you’ll fang me for it later!
Known as The Undaunted Spirit, the giant grizzly can be found outside the un-bear-lievably bargain-priced Brown Bear Car Wash. They boast centres across the hiber-nation, most with ultra-sized ursidaes out the front. I guess they just like panda-ing to bear lovers.
This ferocious fourteen-footer was created by local artist, horseman and naturist naturalist Lorenzo Ghiglieri. He fell in love with the rugged Washington landscape decades ago, and dedicated his life to recreating it through his art – often working bearfoot.
Never bear us apart!
This cute little cub has been on the lookout for a big, strong, handsome bear to growl old with. Upon meeting The Undaunted Spirit, I threw restraint out the window to bear my very soul to him. Sadly, despite being un-bear-ably handsome, this hirsute hunk can also be a little aloof, and rebuffed my advances. I guess he might be a bi-polar bear.
My visit to the Brown Bear wasn’t a complete waste, however. Not having a car to wash due to an international driving ban that American authorities take surprisingly seriously, I strolled through for a much-needed shower after weeks of wandering the highways of the United States.
Yes, I ended up with industrial strength bleach in my eyes and the bristles left several serious lacerations on my face and thorax that may never heal, but it was nice to chat with people afterwards without them wincing at my musky stench.
Fremont really does have anAn em-bear-assment of riches when it comes to Big Things. The Undaunted Spirit isn’t fur from the tendentious Lenin statue, and the Fremont Troll is also claws by. It seems like every street offers a kodiak moment!
Don’t know if words can say But Marlin I want to play With you in the endless turquoise sea But it isn’t meant to be ‘Cos you’re a work of wooden art And in the ocean you will fall apart
Oh Marlin’ I dream about you often my pretty Marlin’ (Marlin’ you’re so fine) I love the way you lure tourists into Ohana Island Creations Where they can buy wooden crustaceans
I feel like half a man Next to you, because you’re so grand Your pointy beak thing is really rad Sexiest fish I ever had Gonna love you every single night Until your owners hide you outta sight
Oh Marlin I dream about you often my pretty Marlin (Marlin you’re so fine) I love the way you’ve been painted purple and blue If I ever marry a sea creature it will be you
Woah oh oh oh Every night Marlin Gonna love you every single night, as you wish What’s the difference between a marlin and a swordfish?
Oh Marlin I dream about you often my pretty Marlin (Marlin you’re so fine) I love the feel of your wooden fins A kiss from you makes me forget all my sins
Oh!
Thanks to pop stalwarts The Beach Boys for inspiring this article with their ditty Darlin’. Of course, this may actually be a sailfish, but that doesn’t rhyme with any Beach Boys songs, so let’s just keep it as is.
