Category: Big People

  • Heart of Country, Fairholme, NSW

    Heart of Country, Fairholme, New South Wales

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Welcome to Country

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Big Diver, Darling Harbour, NSW

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And it was all by design.

    The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

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

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

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

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

    Coda

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

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

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

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

  • iDIDIT!, Birtinya, QLD

    iDIDIT!, Birtinya, Queensland, Australia

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

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

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

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

    “I did it!” he cheered afterwards.

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

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

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

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

    New Kid On The Block

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Well I Guess This Is Growing Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Angel of the North, Gateshead

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

    Girl, you’re my angel, you’re my northern angel
    Close to Newcastle in England’s east, baby
    Shorty, you’re my angel, you’re my northern angel
    Girl, you’re a friend to all Geordies, lady

    A hedonistic folly of steel and ambition, The Angel of the North serves as a tribute to the unique soul of those oop norf. Mired in controversy, and loved and loathed in equal measure – much like the people of the region – this remarkable example of post-minimalist roadside architecture is now one of the most recognised sculptures on the planet.

    And holy moly, is this Angel big!

    The Angel – who uses they/them pronouns and is known as ‘Angie’ to enamoured locals – rests on a seraphic hill on the outskirts of Gateshead, right between the A1 and the A16-heaven… oopsies, I mean A167! It’s an appropriate location, given Gateshead is best described as Shangri-La on earth.

    You’ll be cloud nine if you go there – teehee!

    Completed in 1998, The Angel of the North is the pièce de résistance of the cherubic Sir Antony Mark David Gormley, a sculptor blessed with godlike talent. Answering the prayers of all Northerners, he apparently modelled the piece on his own physique. If that’s the case – wow! – I have to get the number of his Pilates teacher.

    “To me the Angel is about being alive today, but I want everyone to have a personal relationship with it,” the artiste sermonised. “I hope it will encourage people to think and ask themselves questions.”

    Thanks but no thanks, Ant. I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing those sorts of questions.

    “My part in this was small,” Brother Gormley preached. “It’s of and from the people of the North East, and was made by them. It was entirely the result of working with local people.”

    I hate to play the devil’s advocate but, after 26 years in the diabolical Gateshead weather, Angie is showing a bit of Tyne and Wear and tear. Hopefully there’ll be some divine intervention by the local council soon to spruce them up!

    Say halo to my not-so-little friend

    • Angie is believed to be the biggest angel sculpture in the world – being slightly larger than the statue of Angel from Home & Away found outside the Beachside Diner.
    • They weigh 208 tonnes – a little over 100 tonnes for the voluptuous body and 50 each for the wings. Oh, Angie, Wetherspoon’s Thursday Night Curry Club shall be the unravelling of us all!
    • Angie’s 54-metre wingspan is wider than that of a Boeing 757. And they look more comfortable than a RyanAir flight!
    • At 20 metres tall, The Angel of the North is the height of a five-storey building, or four Monuments to Vimto stacked on top of each other.
    • Made from weather-resistant Cor-ten steel – enough to make 16 double-decker buses or eight quadruple-decker buses – Angie is designed to mellow with time. We’re both aging like fine wine, toots!
    • The Angel is built to last for 100 years – so plan your trip to the Northeast for before 2098 to avoid disappointment.
    • Angie has yucked it up with many celebs, including Weird Science minx Vanessa Angel, charismatic professional wrestler Angel Garza, and gender-bending illusionist Criss Angel. Local lads – and self-confessed Land of the Bigs tragics – Ant & Dec have also visited, but they don’t have ‘Angel’ in their names, so who cares?
    • Thanks to colossal concrete pillars, each 20 metres deep, Angie can withstand winds of more than 100 miles per hour. If Angie ever decides to wear a hat – and I really hope they do! – those sorts of winds will blow it off.
    • The total cost of The Angel of the North was £800,000, or 13,911,914.02 Botswanan Pulas. I’ll take five!
    • The Angel is seen by an estimated 33 million people every year, which is slightly fewer than the number who visit Land of the Bigs.

    Woah! This Geordie sure is big!

    For time immemorial, The Angel of the North has beckoned me with their siren song. The image of those ethereal wings, that stoic expression, consumed me. I was so obsessed that, for time, I became the self-styled Angel of the West Wyalong.

    I stood outside the IGA for months, arms outstretched, painted a sort of rusty orange. Few people , sadly, afforded me the attention I so craved. But then again, I couldn’t hope to compete with the butcher’s two-for-one rissole deals.

    And so, able to resist the calling no longer, I bestowed my earthly belongings to a local church and made my pilgrimage across the globe to worship at the feet of this sacred Big.

    What I experienced that clammy afternoon can only be described as a rebirth.

    Even as the world’s greatest historian of oversized art, a visit to The Angel of the North proved to be an imposing encounter. Towering above me, their industrial frame cutting through the sullen northern air, they made me feel tiny and insignificant. As I sat beneath a swaying poplar tree, I began to question my very existence.

    What am I doing here? Does my life have value? Am I foolishly worshipping false idols?

    “That’s it,” I decided. “I’m ditching the garish clothes and the partyboy lifestyle and joining the seminary.”

    Just then, dark clouds swept across the field and an icy wind chilled me to my very bones. Illuminated in the fog, The Angel’s face angled ever-so-slightly towards me.

    “You’re already walking the righteous path, Bigs,” a celestial voice boomed. “People find meaning and hope in your writing. It may not always seem like it, but you’re doing His work.”

    And so, with a spring in my step, I wrapped a pair of hot pink sunglasses on my handsome head and swaggered into the sunset.

    “Toodles, Angel,” I cheered. “I’m heading off to get some taco empanadas and take selfies with The Big Fisherman over in North Shields. Tell Father Roderick not to expect me for dinner!”

  • Giant Prospectors, Goodsprings, Nevada

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

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

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

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

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

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

    There’s gold in them thar hills!

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

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

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

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

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

    Fallout Boys

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

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

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

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

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

    How about Bill and Ben the Prospector Men?

  • Forever Marilyn, Palm Springs, California

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

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

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

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

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

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

    There’s No Bigness Like Show Bigness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Something’s Got to Bigs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Forever, Bigs.

  • The Big Tutankhamun, Buronga, NSW

    The Big Tutankhamun, Buronga, New South Wales, Australia

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

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

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

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

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

    Stop by to say say hi-roglyph!

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

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

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

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

  • The King of Atlantis, Main Beach, QLD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Hail to the King, Baby!

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

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

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

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

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

  • Big John, Helper, Utah

    Big John, Helper, Utah, United States of America

    Look at me and my big, black friend! Of course, as a progressive gentleman I’m proud to have many friends of colour, including Larry Fishburne, Halle Berry, and that dude who sings in Counting Crows.

    Wait, maybe he’s not black. But he does have a great set of dreadlocks, so I’ll count him anyway.

    Anyway, back to Big John, the 18-foot-tall coal-black miner who stands silently outside the local library in Helper, Utah. With his square jaw and robust physique, John has watched over the sleepy main street for decades, with the Uinta Mountains rising solemnly behind him.

    And, I’m pleased to say, Big John’s story is every bit as extravagant as he is.

    Back in the early-60s, the proud people of this historic village were in a state of flux, as Helper transitioned from coal mining hub to tourist mecca. With the Western Mining and Railroad Museum – widely known as ‘the Utah Disneyland’ – ready to open, a committee decided that a major miner was the best way to capitalise on the waves of holidaymakers. Sounds like a drill-a-minute experience to me!

    The Helperians approached the good folk at International Fiberglass – yes, those responsible for Harvey the Rabbit and Chicken Boy – to construct a collier of extraordinary proportions. Starting with a mould of Paul Bunyan, the team swapped out the axe for a prodigious pick and packed him off to the mines.

    With their tall, dark and handsome prospector on the way, the good people of Helper just needed to sit back, relax, and wait for the tourist dollars to start pouring in. But first they needed a name just as big and bombastic as as their hero…

    You were always on my mine

    Ev’ry mornin’ at the mine you could see him arrive
    He stood six-foot-six and weighed two-forty-five
    Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip
    And everybody knew, ya didn’t give no lip… to Big John!

    In 1964, the streets of Helper hung heavy with the dulcet tones of Jimmy Dean and his poignant hit, Big Bad John. The tale of a brawny coal miner who meets his fate at the bottom of a pit, the song resonated with the hardworking locals. And so it was only fitting that their shiny new Big would borrow the name.

    Although the Helperians did drop ‘Bad’ from the name, possibly to avoid a copyright claim from Jimmy Dean’s notoriously dogged legal team. Or maybe because there’s nothing naughty about this fellow at all. Big John is a kind, considerate and surprisingly sensitive giant, with a broad smile for all who wander the dusty streets of Helper.

    Sadly, Big John’s not allowed into the bar up the road, because they don’t serve miners – teehee!

    As he stands afore the well-stocked library, I took the opportunity to stretch out ‘neath John’s size-72 boots and polish off a few chapters of Between a Rock and a Hard Place, a romance novel set in the coal mines of 1870s Utah.

    Of course, with that cheeky grin beaming down at me, I found it impossible to concentrate and kept reading the same page over and over again!

    Johnny Be Good!

    Big John’s just as coal as a cucumber and certainly never boering. So it comes as no surprise that he’s inspired several other Bigs around the globe – and you won’t have to dig deep to find ’em!

    Standing in John’s towering shadow, one can’t help draw comparisons to another ruggedly gorgeous pitman on the opposite side of the world. Map the Miner, a 23-foot copper excavator, guards the South Australian hamlet of Kapunda. Two big, strong, working chaps who all the boys want and all the girls want to be.

    Then there’s The Big Gold Panner Man, The Big Miner’s Lamp and The Big Gold Pick and Pan, all on the edge of the Aussie desert. For something closer to Utah, there are a couple of gigantic prospectors just outside Las Vegas for those hoping to strike it rich!

    Over the years John’s helped Helper grow and flourish into a quirky, artistic outpost with some high-class restaurants if you’re into fine mining. It’s also become a town that prides itself on ethnic diversity. With a noble black man as its most famous resident, how could it be anything but?

    Big John, the Utahn miner with a face full of soot and a heart full of gold, has shown the world that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. We can achieve racial harmony through oversized roadside attractions.

    Bigs, my friends, not bigotry.

  • Ven a la Luz, Tulum, México

    Ven a la Luz, Tulum, Quintana Roo, México

    Forget about Cristiano Ronaldo, Kylie Jenner and Jiffpom the Pomeranian, because there’s only one Instagram influencer who matters – the incomparable Ven a la Luz. This 10m-tall wooden beauty is synonymous with the social media platform, serving as the backdrop for millions – if not billions – of carefully-copped selfies.

    No trip to Tulum is complete without a happy snap with this fiery Latina. Her voluptuous curves, haunted eyes and flagrant (although never vulgar) promise of promiscuity surprise and delight all who stand before her. And, unlike most Insta celebs, there’s nary a scrap of silicone nor a bit of botox to be found.

    Ven is the crowning achievement of South African visionary Daniel Popper, who spent one long, glorious month piecing her together from rope and natural fibres. Created for the 2018 Art With Me festival, she was originally placed upon Tulum’s world famous white sand beaches.

    Tulum’s nascent tourism industry exploded, drawing six-pack wielding gym bros and lip-syncing single mothers, and Bigs-thusiasts from across the oceans. Digital nomad cafes, picturesque but ultimately impractical gyms, Bitcoin boutiques and vegan restaurants sprouted up overnight.

    So many photos of Ven a la Luz were posted that the world experienced a short, yet quite destructive, internet crash. Although I’m pretty sure the simultaneous launch of Land of the Bigs had something to do with it.

    The line for a photo op with Ven stretched all the way to Cancún. Faced with the prospect of traffic chaos – something unheard of in México – the difficult decision was made to relocate the colossal statue to her current home at the Tulum Sculpture Park.

    So popular is Ven that Mr Popper was inspired to craft a similar concrete version in Fort Lauderdale. Thrive, however, is the inverse of Ven; the whimsical mystique of nature replaced by the harsh reality of modernity.

    I strongly suggest taking a cute selfie with both women – don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone!

    Bigs and Poppy

    February 2018, Wednesday, 3:17pm. Your guide through the Land of the Bigs, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, is enjoying a luxurious chamomile tea with a sprig of thyme in the mountains of Sri Lanka. Suddenly, outrageously, the peace is broken by the frantic cries of a distressed installation artist.

    “Bigs, Bigs!” the desperate South African wails, and I can tell by his weathered fingers that he is the artist Daniel Popper.
    “Over here, Poppy,” I gesture, sliding another decadent slice of mudcake into my mouth. “I’ve been waiting for this day to come.”

    The wild-eyed artist sits a little too harshly in his seat. I present him with a kind, knowing smile, and pour him a cup of tea.
    “Drink,” I intimate, repeating it softly until Poppy takes the cup to his lips. “Now, why have you sought my advice?”

    “My artworks just aren’t selling,” he weeps. “I mean they’re very large and truly inspired, but they’re just not grabbing the public’s attention. They’ll send me back to the steel mill, Bigs!”
    “Stephen Cruise worked in a steel mill, and you know what happened to him?” I shrug. “He built Uniform Measure/STACK and became a legend.”
    “Yes, but I’m not Stephen Cruise, I’m Daniel Popper. I need to find my own way through the dog-eat-dog world of immense outdoor artworks.”

    Poppy’s eyes burn a hole in me as he awaits answers. I just sit and sip and watch a quail frolicking in a bird bath.
    “You need to make something Insta-worthy,” I eventually say. “Create something the whole world wants to like and share and remix, and you shall be the most famous artist on the planet.”
    “Will that really work?”
    “Trust me, Poppy, I’m a social media phenomenon.”

    “Really?” he gasps. “How many followers do you have?”
    “Over 200,” I reply nonchalantly.
    “200 million followers, wow! I had no idea you were so popular!”
    “Well, Poppy. 200 million. 200 thousand. 200. What’s the difference? And it might be a little bit lower since I had that falling out with the girls from aquarobics and they unfollowed me.”

    Daniel Popper grins one of his distant grins, then snaps his fingers. “I’ll do it!” he chirps, then polishes off his tea. And, with that, Daniel Popper trots off to change the face of social media forever

    #bigsbardotsavesthedayagain #hero #humble

    Tulum, you saw me standin’ alone

    The year of our Lord 2024, Tuesday, 11:48pm. An older, wiser, ever-so-slightly more cultured Bigs Bardot basks in the luminescence of Ven a la Luz, as a pale crescent moon rises betwixt the palm trees. With the long lines of admirers gone, the Tulum Sculpture Park is overwhelmed by the hedonistic cadence of the jungle and the crashing waves.

    Bigs’ eyes flitter from his phone to Ven and back again, as he feverishly edits his Instagram photos. After finally settling upon the Reyes filter due to its dusty, vintage visage, he posts his selfies with Ven to his growing legion of fans, then puts down his phone. The first likes start ticking by.

    Now, the only light comes from the mournful lamps at the base of the statue, and he stares longingly at her ample bosom.

    “I made this,” his thinks. “Of course, I have to allow Poppy some of the credit, but… I made this.”

    Bigs drifts off into the world of dreams, a vast land of enormous lizards and guitar-wielding chimps, and when he awakens the warming sun is bathing Ven in its glory. Bird calls soon give way to a cacophony of calamity, and when Bigs crashes from the jungle into the main street of Tulum, he is met by scenes of great confusion and violence.

    Cars are upturned, store windows smashed in. The boba tea emporium appears to be out of boba tea. The apocalypse has arrived. Bigs grabs a small taco salesman and spins him around just as a jumbo jet falls from the sky, barely missing a dreadlocked travel influencer.

    “Señor,” Bigs cries, “what is going on?”
    “The internet, the internet!” the little guy blubbers. “Someone made an Instagram post last night so popular that it caused the whole network to explode.”
    “Someone broke the internet?”
    “Sí, señor, someone broke the internet!”

    “What time was the post made?” asks Bigs, but he already knows the answer.
    “11:48pm.”

  • Blue Perspective, Southport, QLD

    Blue Perspective, Southport, Queensland, Australia

    Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s learnin’ how, come see Blue Perspective with Biggsy (and Bigella, Gordon and Gordina!).

    Surf’s up, dude, so wax up your board and don’t forget the shark spray, because this perspective will blue you away! With skin and hair as azure as the Pacific, this three-metre tall surf rat is hard to miss. She stands alone in Southport’s Broadwater Parklands, gazing earnestly towards the ocean. If you’re paddling past, give ‘Bluey’ a wave!

    Chic and stylish, yet bright and bubbly, Bluey superbly encapsulates the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the modern-day Gold Coast. A positive vibe and clean, healthy attitude make her the perfect role model for kiddies, which is a good thing because there’s a totally tubular playground just metres from her robust thighs.

    Blue Perspective was shaped by the legendary John Cox (yes, he responsible for the nearby Maddie and Mike) for the 2013 SWELL Sculpture Festival at Currumbin Beach. Bluey made such a splash that she remained there for several years after the festivities wiped out. Considering how sunny Queensland is, I hope she had plenty of zinc on her nose!

    Bluey was then purchased by the Big Thing-loving Gold Coast Council, who paddled her north to her current location. I don’t know the date she was installed, but assume it was on a Big Wednesday. The lovingly-presented park, with this immaculate Big, should be enough to tide you through many an Endless Summer.

    Cowabunga, dude!

    She’s blue (da ba dee da ba di)

    Longing for the authentic Surfers Paradise tourist experience during our visit, Bigella and I signed up for surf lessons. Not wanting to spend a morning surrounded by wine-drunk backpackers from Yorkshire, we instead decided to sit beneath the learning tree of the wise and eternal Blue Perspective.

    Of course, I would’ve approached my good chum Mick Fanning, but the surfing legend has some pretty ripe views about The Big Wheelie Bin. You might’ve punched a shark, Mick, but you also punched a hole in our friendship!

    With Gordina and Gordon (complete with super-cute flotation ring!) in tow, we were delighted to discover that Bluey is as charismatic as she is iconic. Her ample bosom and lithe, feminine curves aren’t usually to my taste, yet aroused a corporeal longing deep within my soul that had me yearning to hang ten compliments upon her generous hips.

    “Blue Perspective, the transcendent and career-defining opus of John Cox, shreds with a cobalt angst that belies her carefree visage,” opined Bigella, who had obviously been working her way through the thesaurus I’d bought her for Christmas.

    “I’m just jealous of her bikini line,” added Gordina.

    Our surf lesson went splendidly, until Gordon pretended to drown in a desperate attempt to lure one of Queensland’s bosomy, bikini-clad lifesavers in to rescue him. Oh, how we laughed when he was instead dragged to shore by Waldemar, a six-foot-four Lithuanian bodybuilder with a toothy grin and a pair of Speedos two sizes too small.

    I hope they’ll be very happy together.

  • Dream, St Helens, England

    Dream, St Helens, England, United Kingdom

    Wander into the roughest pub in St Helens, amigo, and tell the toughest hombre you find that he has a big, fat head. Go on, padre, do it! You’ll be delighted to discover that, rather than break a pint of Old Speckled Hen over your cabeza, he’ll thank you for your kindness, take you by the hand, and lead you on a whimsical journey through the sun-dappled streets of northwest England, before the two of you plunge, giggling like la niñas, into a verdant garden clearing caressing a massive cranium that’s been cast from sparkling white Spanish dolomite.

    Or at least that’s what will happen if you whisper such sweet nothings to Doug the plumber who hangs out at the Zoo Bar, señor. I no promise the other local thugs will be quite so gregarious (or have such smooth, inquisitive hands).

    But where is mi manners? It is I, El Grande Gonzales, most bonita luchador in all México! I am here to tell you all about Dream, the 20-metre-tall, 500-tonne-heavy sculpture that I encountered in the Sutton Manor Woodland that magnífica afternoon. Sí!

    This maravilloso example of baroque architecture was created by the incomparable Catalonian sculptor – and my former wrestling tag team partner – Jaume Plensa. Who could forget our infamous barbed-wire hardcore match against the formidable pairing of Hulk Hogan and Louise Bourgeois?

    “When I first came to the site I immediately thought something coming out of the earth was needed,” Señor Jaume explained during a rare moment when he wasn’t crafting one of his signature giant heads out of rock or bashing someone’s skull in with a steel chair. “I decided to do a head of a nine-year-old girl, which is representing this idea of the future. It’s unique.”

    Maybe ‘unique’ is stretching it, Jaume, because you has created dozens of similar statues all over el mundo. But whatever help you sleep at night, chico!

    Sí, Dream is mucha attractiva, but I wouldn’t want to be nearby when she blow her nose!

    Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

    Like the nightmares I have about walking out to the wrestling ring without my tights, this Dream came about due to too much television. In 2008 the good gringos of St Helen took part in a program called The Big Art Project, which aimed to present some English towns with gigantic artworks. I do not know all the rules because this program conflicted with my favourite telenovela, Mi caballo, mi marido.

    The people wanted an artwork to revitalise their home, a former coal mining town which had been a bit sad since all the mines go away. But Gonzales think they really want a giant head to scare away evil spirits and werewolves. This why we build build Big Things in México.

    When St Helen was announced as a winner, the town celebrate with an all-day drinking session. Or maybe this is just because it was a Tuesday. ¡Arriba, Arriba! ¡Ándale, Ándale!

    Dream cost 1.8 million English pesos, and was moulded out of 90 concrete pieces. She was completed in April of 2009 and, finally, St Helens took its place as one of the world’s great cultural cities. Take that, Widnes!

    Señor Jaume had plan for a beam of light to shoot out of the top of Dream, with the original title being Ex Terra Lucem (“From the ground, light”). But then some spoil sports claim the lights may cause car accident. I don’t see what is big deal. In México is muy bien to have car crash outside house – you no have to put on pants to go steal hubcaps!

    Tell Her She’s Dreamin’!

    Dream is estupendo, and the highlight of any vacation to England. Forget Big Benjamín, Henge de la Stone, or the White Cliff Richards dos Dover – just fly straight to St Helens and spend your entire European holiday there. Thank me later!

    The sculpture even featured in the popular television drama Stay Close. Again, I do not watch because of Mi caballo, mi marido – oh, the love between Pamela and Señor Biggles bring tears to this old luchador’s eyes. Not even Equine Herpesvirus can keep them apart.

    Whilst St Helens has since become a place of love and laughter, my visit was ruined by the actions of the repugnant. It was with a heavy corazón that I discover a local bad boy, in a disgusting display of depravity, had graffiti a big, veiny penes on the side of Dream’s supple neck. Gonzales know that if the locals see this desecration they will riot, but chill out dude! I track down the pervert responsible, put him in a chokehold and call in my amigos from the cartel.

    Next time someone take their dog for a walk in Sutton Manor, they find one more disembodied head amongst the trees – teehee!

  • Nachi Cocom, Chetumal, México

    Nachi Cocom, Chetumal, Quintana Roo, México

    Nachi Cocom was a brilliant and inspirational Mayan chief who led his people with a stern yet fair hand, before standing up to the Spanish conquistadors as they raided his lands. He also looked really cute in a loin cloth, which is much more important – tee-hee!

    Unveiled in 2018 before dozens of shirtless admirers, this statue depicts Nachi in his traditional battle attire, ready to deliver the Spaniards a good ol’ knuckle empanada. The five-metre-tall warrior cuts a handsome figure against the swaying palms and azure Caribbean water of Chetumal’s world-famous harbour.

    The Nachi-ral born thriller stands with a slight inclination not because of scoliosis, but to lure his adversaries into a false sense of security. Apparently that’s something trained pugilists do. I wouldn’t know because, when startled, I burst into tears until the bully leaves in disgust. It’s surprisingly effective!

    But back to Nachi. He is, in a word, concupiscible. He even has a pet iguana, just waiting to be kissed. Due to his disconcerting two-dimensional proportions, however, I was unable to provide the lizard with his own entry on Land of the Bigs.

    Chetumal is a heavenly slice of the real México, a world away from the botoxed lips and digital nomad cafes of nearby Cancún and Tulum. The city is a haven for Biggies as well, with La Gran Caracola and Monumento al Renacimiento just a few minutes away from Nachi.

    I must confess that my rudimentary grasp of the Spanish language led me to believe I was going to visit ‘The Big Nacho’, and turned up with corn chips and guacamole. Ever the chameleon, I quickly disrobed instead, but my hardline pescatarian diet meant I was unable to eat my delicious, yet ultimately useless, props.

    Oh well, the López family seemed to enjoy their free meal.

  • The Ponderer, Canillo, Andorra

    The Ponderer, Canillo, Andorra

    If you’ve been pondering a visit to the picturesque European microstate of Andorra, don’t put it off for another second. For there, high in the Pyranees mountains, rests the handsome and mysterious Ponderer, forever gazing out over the verdant valleys of this remote oasis.

    Mirador Roc del Quer is a tranquil viewpoint that sits hundreds of metres above the charming village of Canillo, and it’s here that The Ponderer can be found. A surveillance platform – which is surely one of mankind’s finest architectural triumphs – extends an awe-inspiring 12 metres from terra firma, providing and experience that won’t simply take your breath away, but which will make you question everything you know about the world.

    To stand upon this belvedere, gazing down in slack-jawed wonder as life trickles by hundreds, if not thousands, of metres below, is to truly find the meaning of life. The panorama is constantly evolving, challenging the observer as it transforms from the verdant greens and yellows of summer, towards the flamboyant whites and purples of winter. To share such a soul-defining moment with The Ponderer shall fill your heart to the point of bursting.

    The road to the summit, which meanders through captivating farms and traverses sheer mountain drops, is certainly daunting. Getting there, however, is not. Comfortable buses travel from the town to the top, and the cheery drivers are a highlight of any journey (hola, Luis!). A short walk up the hill is required after disembarking, with a stylish vendor selling refreshments in preparation for the epic encounter to come.

    After that, all there is to do is strap in and prepare for the feeling of soaring, unencumbered by the stresses of modern life, eons above the valley floor.

    The Ponderer was created by Miguel Ángel González and arrived in 2016. His stoic, yet melancholy personality simultaneously comforts visitors in their spiritual journey through this landlocked principality, and confronts them to step out of their comfort zone.

    Sí, he really is Andorra-ble!

    Intermission: The Ponderer (to the tune of The Wanderer by Dion DiMucci)

    Oh well he’s the type of guy who will never make you frown
    High above Canillo, looking down upon the town
    After seeing him and kissing him you’ll never be the same
    This shirtless, bronzed Andorran hunk is known by just one name
    They call him The Ponderer, yeah The Ponderer
    He’s big and brown and brown and brown and brown and brown!

    The Ponder years

    Joining me on my playdate with The Ponderer was my Mexican half-sister – and self-confessed Big Thing tragic – Bigella Fernandez Hernandez. Our moment of quiet reflection atop the mountain was, sadly, shattered by the arrival of a vulgar gang of lower-class Spaniards who, hooting and hollering, wasted no time posing for risque selfies with the poor Ponderer.

    Hopped up on cheap sangria, one particularly pompous playboy placed an ornate Flamenco cap upon The Ponderer’s proud head. Then, in a moment of madness, he reached betwixt the bars of the fence to snatch several coins that had been left as tribute to this God of the mountains.

    “Yo, chico, I need this dinero more than he does,” the thug smirked, slipping the change into his oversized shorts as his padres chuckled. “After all, holmes, this gringo isn’t worth the cinco Euros. Viva la raza!”

    I’ve had nary a violent urge since converting to Buddhism 15 years ago, but had to be held back by Bigella after witnessing this sicko robbing this most elegant and gregarious of Bigs.

    After taking a few minutes to return to my ‘happy place’, as my bhikku had directed me, I pointed the lout out to a group of hotblooded Catalan youths who sat, mouths agape, as I ran through his litany of misdemeanours. Once I’d finished, they put down their empanadas, tore off their shirts, and prepared for battle.

    “Stealing from Andorra’s notoriously underfunded National Parks is one thing,” the leader barked, “but dishonouring the work of Miguel Ángel González is simply going too far. We must defend the honour of Andorra!”

    Not wanting our serene afternoon spoiled, Bigella and I turned our backs to the impending violence. As we settled in at the cafe for a mocaccino and a sumptuous serving of tocino de cielo, the screams from below left us in no doubt that the thief’s debts had been repaid in full.

    It might take a long time to climb up the mountain to visit The Ponderer, but it only takes a few seconds to get back down – teehee!

  • Scotty the Big Scotsman, Adelaide, SA

    Scotty the Big Scotsman, Medindie, Adelaide, South Australia

    What’s beneath a Scotsman’s kilt? Head to Scotty’s Motel, in the northern Adelaide suburb of Medindie, to find out. There’ll you’ll encounter the five-metre-tall Big Scotsman, who makes up for his lack of trousers by having a truly remarkable story to tell.

    Scotty, as he’s known to his clan of admirers, is a beloved citizen of the city and a must-see tourist attraction. Brimming with old-world charm and quirky effervescence, he’s sure to melt your heart. Sure, he can be tricky to take a snap with due to the hordes of cars that crawl past day and night, but he’s worth it. Oh, is Scotty worth it!

    Despite scarcely looking a day over 21, this handsome highlander holds a tenuous claim to being the very oldest of the Bigs. Scotty first blew his bagpipes in 1963, the same year as Ploddy the Dinosaur was revealed to a curious public and 12 months before the owners of The Big Banana jumped on the Big Thing bandwagon.

    Who came first, the Scotsman or the Diplodocus? It’s a question that’s caused heated debate between South Australians and New South Welshpeople for generations. Plod-Plod is a few months older, but don’t tell fans of this haggis-fuelled heartthrob – they’ll tartan feather me!

    Now, join me in a journey back in time, to discover the legacy of this trailblazing Big. Oh, and I might be kilty of peeking betwixt Scotty’s muscular legs, but I swear it was only for research purposes – teehee!

    The Scotland Down Under

    Adelaide was a very different place back in the early-60s. Long before emerging as a cosmopolitan oasis with a thriving arts scene, there wasn’t a single overside roadside attraction to be found. It was a dark time, an uncouth time, but the winds of change were beginning to blow.

    When budding entrepreneur Tommy Meiken was designing his minimalist motel on the fringe of the CBD, he wanted something BIG to make it stand out from the pack. The answer, after a Scotch-fuelled brainstorming session, was obvious – a Scotsman of epic proportions who would lurk atop the front door, beckoning weary travellers inside.

    Come for the giant European gentleman with the wispy moustache, stay for the moderately comfortable beds and à la carte breakfast, you know how it works.

    After an exhaustive interview process, Paul Kelly – no, not the popstar! – was chosen for the job. Despite being a successful artist, a manufacturing a monstrous Scotsman was a sporran concept to Paul. Modelling the sculpture on a particularly robust chum, he built Scotty in three pieces over the course of several very special months.

    “People thought I was mad and I thought, ‘Oh, no, bugger it all. I’ll do it’,” chuckled Paul, who is obviously a Glasgow-half-full kinda guy. “I took up the challenge and it worked.”

    The results were astonishing. Simple one-bedroom rooms, priced at hundreds of dollars per night, were booked out months in advance. South Australia’s glitterati mingled with international celebrities – including that other famous Scotsman, Sean Connery – by the swimming pool. The motel had been transformed into a veritable Garden of Edinburgh.

    Soon Adelaide would welcome The Big Pigeon and The Big Hills Hoist, cementing her place at the apex of world culture.

    And then darkness descended upon this part of the world.

    Nightmare in Adelaide

    Thursday, January 20, 2022, is a day that that no South Australian will ever forget. Daybreak painted the summer sky an intoxicating tapestry of pinks and purples, but also illuminated a scene so ghastly, so vile, that it caused grown men to fall to their knees in a cascade of tears.

    Bloodthirsty thugs, intent on destroying all that’s good and pure in the world, had attached a set of googly eyes to Scotty’s face. The city, and its most beloved resident, had lost their innocence.

    Scotty’s Motel manager Greg Hobson witnessed a gang of four men and one woman using a cherry picker under cover of darkness to commit the hate crime. Understandably, he was too terrified to approach the goons.

    “What started as a light-hearted prank has turned slightly more serious as poor old Scotty has sustained some damage,” Greg wept. “His sporran appears to be quite loose and there appears to be some damage to the side panels.”

    The proud Scotsman, who had endured so much, had suffered a near-fatal 1.5-metre tear down his left leg. There was even talk, in hushed tones, of an amputation.

    “He’s sustained a lot of pranks over the years, but this is probably the most damaging one we’ve had so far,” Greg continued. “He’s such an icon. It’s going to be quite upsetting to a lot of people that he’s been hurt in the process.”

    The lunatics responsible were later revealed to be a couple of useless shock jocks named Liam and Ben, who immediately went into hiding.

    In times of yore, it was common for the adversaries of highlanders to be hung, drawn and quartered for their misdeeds. That’s a fate too good for the punks responsible, but don’t worry. The locals have a way of dealing with such matters 😉

    Scotty doesn’t know, but Scotty has to go

    Scotty’s endured more than any Big ever should, but he may succumb to the inevitable march of progress and our unquenchable thirst for overpriced inner-city tenements. The hotel is likely to be bulldozed, so Scotty’s looking for a new home.

    The motel’s owner, Yanka Shopov, is determined to do all she can to keep this little slice of Australiana alive.

    “People love it,” Yanka told a perplexed reporter from the BBC. “Years ago I remember little kids used to cry if we were booked out and they wanted to sleep under the Scotsman. But the thing is he is very expensive. He is exposed to the weather day and night and it costs $7,000 to $9,000 to have him painted. It’s not cheap but he draws attention to the business here.”

    Ms Shapov, a kind-hearted woman and one of the most gregarious hosts one could ever wish to meet, has intimated that she’s willing to donate Scotty to the History Trust of South Australia should he be forced from his longtime home.

    They can take our lives, but they will never take our BIG SCOTSMAAAAAAAAAAAAN!

  • Adam (and Eve), New York, New York

    Adam sculpture, Columbus Circle, New York, United States of America

    New Yorkers, I’m sad to say, are a pack of perverts. Adam here simply wants to live a peaceful, naturist lifestyle amidst the hustle and bustle of The Shops at Columbus Circle. With his robust physique and cheerful disposition, even his lack of genitallic girth can’t wipe the optimistic smile from his dial.

    But it seems the locals can’t stop molesting him.

    Adam, 15 feet of brawn and bravado, was created by the irrepressible Fernando Botero in 1990 and took up residence in The Big Apple in the early 2000s. He’s paired with the equally statuesque Eve but, ew, who would want to look at a gigantic naked woman? Especially one as bosomy as Eve.

    Since Adam first came, so many sickos have rubbed, clutched and stroked his doodle that the bronze paint has been stripped away, leaving a shiny gold penis in its place.

    Honestly, New Yorkers, act your age and not your shoe size!

    Making things worse is the fact the Center’s management do nothing to stop this dispoliation of such a congenial Big. In fact, they encourage this foul behaviour, claiming that groping poor Adam might bring good luck.

    I can assure you that anyone I catch giving Adam an unwanted hand shandy won’t be blessed with any good luck at all. They’ll find themselves sleeping with the fishes in the Hudson River, wearing a fancy new set of concrete slippers – so keep your hands to yourself.

    The Man with the Golden Gun

    My threats of ultraviolence towards those who interfere with Adam’s willy proving futile, I sought the advice of beloved New York thespian Paul Reubens, who I befriended whilst bussing tables together at the Dairy Queen in Yonkers back in the early-80s.

    Nobody back then could’ve guessed that we would each reach the apex of our chosen careers – Paul as a quirky character actor and I as the world’s foremost expert on Big Things and roadside attractions.

    Paul’s ballooning ego in the wake of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure had driven a wedge between us, of course, but we’d since rekindled our friendship during a bawdry soiree thrown by our mutual friend – and fellow Dairy Queen alumnus – Bronson Pinchot.

    Oh, look at me, dropping names quicker than an upper-eastside lawyer drops her standards after her second cosmopolitan!

    Paul had been ordered by a court of law to ‘keep his hand off it’ after a moment of madness in a movie theatre several years earlier, so I felt he was the man for the hand job.

    Paul’s words, however, touched me in the most private parts of my soul.

    “Bigs,” Paul said in his sweetly sanguine cadence, as we wandered down Fifth Avenue, munching on freshly-baked pretzels. “You can’t fight nature. Trying to stop the people of New York from abusing Adam’s appendage is as futile as asking the East River to stop flowing.”

    “Wise words from a wise man. But surely there’s something we can do? Soon that remarkable man’s pee-pee shall be worn away to a nub. A nub!”

    “Mauling Adam’s member is the one small sliver of hope and joy in these people’s lives. Without that, who knows what may transpire? Adam’s reproductive organs are, indeed, the thin gold line between tranquility and anarchy in this city.”

    “You’re right, as always,” I squelched, biting into the pretzel’s piping hot flesh. “The very fate of New York rests betwixt Adam’s zaftig thighs.”

    Pee-wee’s BIG Adventure

    With the final, decadent inches of pretzel dangling precipitously from my gaping maw, I pushed my prejudices to one side and approached Botero’s husky masterpiece. The penis, resplendent in the fading afternoon light, beckoned me with its whimsy and candour.

    I gulped, not noticing the pretzel fall to the marbled floor, and reached out for the famous phallus. Time stopped as I touched it for the first time. The cold, yet supple metal warmed my very essence, and a sense of peace washed over me that I had been seeking my whole life.

    If touching a a blubbery bad boy’s golden gigglestick is dong, I don’t wanna be right!

    To poke Adam’s pecker is, in fact, to live. To waggle Adam’s weenie is, in truth, to love. I learnt more about myself in that single moment of casual groping than I had in a lifetime of electroconvulsive therapy and substance abuse.

    Taking me gently by the elbow, Paul flashed one of his trademark smiles. “I knew you would see the light,” he cooed. “Now, let me shout you to a movie to celebrate. There’s a cinema out at Uniondale that hasn’t banned me… yet.”

    “Are you paying for the choc tops?”

    “Of course, Bigs,” Paul smiled warmly. “Anything for you.”

    A word of warning…

    If you’re the sort of creepazoid who thinks you might be able to paint yourself bronze and stand next to Adam in the desperate hope that someone will accidentally fondle you instead, don’t bother.

    All you’ll get is some really unfortunate remarks from New York’s brutish schoolkids and a swift beating from some overly aggressive security guards.

    Trust me on that one.

  • Alice in Wonderland, Llandudno, Wales

    The Alice in Wonderland Trail, Llandudno, Wales

    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.

  • Map the Miner, Kapunda, SA

    Map the Miney, Kapunda, South Australia

    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.

    And then, in a moment of madness, he lit a match.

    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!

  • Luke Kelly, Dublin, Ireland

    Luke Skelly Statue, Dublin, Ireland

    “Whiskey in the Jar”

    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!

  • The Protest Statues, Lower Light, SA

    The Protest Statues, Lower Light, South Australia

    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!

  • Finn McCool, Belfast, Northern Ireland

    Finn McCool, Belfast International Airport, Northern Ireland

    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.

  • Fiddler’s Green, North Shields, England

    Fiddler's Green Fishermen's Memorial, North Shields, England

    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!”

  • The Cyberdogs, Camden Town, England

    The Cyberdogs, Camden Town, England

    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.

    Call me, Keith!

  • Thrive, Fort Lauderdale, Florida

    Thrive, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, United States of America

    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

  • Monument to the War of 1812, Toronto, ON

    Monument to the War of 1812, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

    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.

  • Immigrant Family, Toronto, Ontario

    Immigrant Family, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

    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.

  • Maddie and Mike, Southport, QLD

    Maddie and Mike, Southport, Queensland, Australia

    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.

    The sun seemed to shine a little brighter as we wandered through Southport’s flourishing Broadwater Parklands, which is also home to Geckomania! and Blue Perspective. Gordon was nervous, enlivened and boisterous all at once, and I loved him for it.

    “I hope Mike likes my shirt,” he kept saying.

    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.”

    “Of course, Gordon. You know I love you.”

    “I love you too, Bigs.”

  • The Brotherhood of Mankind, Calgary, AB

    The Brotherhood of mankind, Calgary, Alberta, Canada

    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.

    It was cold, guys, it was cold!

  • Bigfoot, Surfers Paradise, QLD

    Bigfoot, Surfers Paradise, Queensland, Australia

    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!

  • Western Wayne, Airdrie, Alberta

    Western Wayne, Airdrie, Alberta, Canada

    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 trailer with 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!

  • Wonderland, Calgary, Alberta

    Wonderland, Calgary, Alberta, Canada

    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 the 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 things 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!

  • A-maze-ing Laughter, Vancouver, BC

    A-maze-Ing Laughter, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada

    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!

  • The Viking, Burnaby, British Columbia

    The Viking, Burnaby North Secondary School, British Columbia, Canada

    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.

    “I thought we could put the helmet out on the field and say, ‘Hey, just wait till the player shows up that fits this helmet,’” John told an understandably frightened pencil pusher from the local newspaper. In a perfect world, the World’s Tallest Tin Soldier would have run out to prop it atop his gigantic head, before scoring the winning goal. Go team!

    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!

  • The World’s Tallest Tin Soldier, New Westminster, BC

    The World's Tallest Tin Soldier, New Westminster, British Columbia

    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.

  • The Fremont Troll, Fremont, Washington

    The Fremont Troll, Fremont, Washington, United States of America

    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.

    This trio of Biggie Goats set out on an incredible adventure through the badlands of the United States, on a quest to track down roadside attractions of unimaginable size. They were amazed by a monumental marlin in Hawai’i. Encountered a colossal crab in San Francisco. The Goats even enjoyed a torrid bromance with a ruggedly delicious lumberjack in a back alley in northern Portland.

    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.

    “Hola Bigs, I’m the Fremont Troll,” chuckled the creature, giving the Biggie Goat the sort of elbow tap that hasn’t been seen since the early days of that Covid epidemic. “I’ve been the beating heart of the Fremont cultural movement since 1990, when the local Arts Council held a competition to rehabilitate the area under this very bridge.”

    “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.

    And they all lived Biggily ever after…

  • Lenin Statue, Fremont, Washington

    Lenin Statue, Fremont, Seattle, Washington, United States of America

    Vladimir Lenin was responsible for the brutal slaughter of five million people, but this tribute to the deranged dictator is plenty of fun to take photos with, so I’m sure we can all look past that!

    Yes, it’s unusual – although far from unheard of – to find a massive recreation of a cold-hearted killer, and the story of how he arrived in the liberal enclave of Fremont is absolutely bonkers. Honestly, if the real ‘Lenny’ turned up on The Masked Singer to perform a surprisingly spritzy rendition of We Don’t Talk About Bruno whilst dressed as a crab, it would be less odd than what’s already happened.

    The Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (which was apparently a lot less fun than it sounds) commissioned the statue for $US210,000 in 1981, to be displayed in the grim city of Poprad as a warning to anyone flirting with the twin ideas of democracy and decent living standards.

    Slovak artist Emil Venkov took more than seven years to complete his work – just in time for the fall of the republic, at which point Lenny was toppled by enraged locals and dragged through the streets. Hope you got paid up front, Emil!

    “The way to crush the bourgeoisie is to grind them between the millstones of taxation and inflation”

    Vladimir Lenin, Draft and Explanation of a Programme for the Social-Democratic Party

    Coming to America

    A quirky American named Lew Carpenter (no relation to the much-loved Neighbours character) found the statue in a Czech scrapyard sometime later, and was shocked but impressed to discover a homeless chap living inside. Lew grabbed a big stick and whacked the statue a few times and – rychle! – no more homeless chap.

    Hopefully the hobo landed on his shoeless feet, because it’s so hard to find a good vanquished leader to live inside these days.

    Lew Carpenter had grand plans to take the statue back to his hometown of Issaquah, Washington, to lure customers into his struggling ethnic restaurant, Crazy Lew’s Slav Shack. Sure, it would’ve been easier to offer two-for-one borscht on Tuesdays, but where’s the fun in that?

    After years of legal wrangling, he finally received the go-ahead to transport the much-feared dictator to the Land of the Free. At a cost of $US80,000, Lenny was sliced into three pieces and shipped off via Rotterdam. Who knows why he had to stop off in The Netherlands; maybe Lenny just wanted one more reign of terror in Europe before heading into retirement.

    Lew and Len, tragically,  would never embrace again, with the rambunctious restaurateur driving his car off a cliff whilst practising his speech for the statue’s unveiling. Make that five million and one deaths for ol’ Vlad!

    “Give me four years to teach the children and the seed I have sown will never be uprooted“

    Vladimir Lenin, ​​What the Friends of the People Are and How They Fight the Social-Democrats

    Yankee Doodle Lenny

    With the good people of Issaquah voting to ban the giant hate symbol from their town, Lew’s relatives decided to melt down the statue and have it resurrected as something more palatable. They didn’t, however, count on the owner of the foundry being a student of Marxist theory and a lifelong admirer of Vladimir Lenin.

    Peter Bevis (don’t ask him where Butthead is!) refused to recreate the ending of Terminator 2: Judgment Day by dropping Lenny into a fiery pit of molten magma. He instead bothered the Fremont Chamber of Commerce into agreeing to put the statue on display until someone bought him. So now Vladimir Lenin hangs around outside a taco shop, engaging in illuminating conversation with the stoners who turn up at 2am.

    With a bargain price of just $250,000, it’s a surprise nobody’s snapped Lenny up, considering the price of real estate in Seattle. You couldn’t even get a two-bedroom Leon Trotsky for that price!

    “There she was just a-walkin’ down the street, singin’ ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’. Snappin’ her fingers and shufflin’ her feet, singin’ ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’”

    Vladimir Lenin, Once Again On The Trade Unions, The Current Situation and the Mistakes of Trotsky and Buhkarin

    Vladimir Lenin: Gay Icon

    In statue form, as in life, Lenny has proven to be a divisive figure. There are those who claim a statue of a deranged child murderer who brought widespread misery and mayhem has no place in a loving and accepting town such as Fremont.

    Like their Czech cousins, they want to tear poor ol’ Len to pieces and drag him through the streets. Those people haven’t seen the kinder side of Mr Lenin, who is often seen sporting reindeer antlers, clown facepaint and flags of the local sporting franchises.

    Lenny isn’t afraid to exhibit his feminine side by dressing in drag, and has been seen with an oversized penis protruding from his pants. If one of the most bloodthirsty demagogues the world has ever known can show his softer side, to lay himself bare to judgement, to become a beacon of hope in the LGBTQI+ community, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.

    After a wide-ranging conversation that covered everything from the Bolshevik Revolution to the disappointing Queer Eye revival, Vladimir Lenin and I sat silently in the brooding Seattle evening. The last bus back to my hostel had long since left. The taco shop was slopping out its last scoop of guac. I yawned, Lenny yawned, and he peered down at me as if to say, “Go on. If a homeless man can sleep inside me, so can you.”

    And that’s how I spent a surprisingly comfortable night inside Fremont’s divisive Vladimir Lenin statue.

  • Dreamer, Seattle, Washington

    Dreamer, Seattle, Washington

    There once was a Big Thing named Dreamer
    Who was created by Patti Warashina
    She looked quite delish
    Admiring her fish
    Oh, what a positive demeanour!

    On the corner of Westlake and Republican
    Dreamer tempts like no other can
    She’s 18 feet long
    And great at ping pong!
    With tootsies larger than those of a pelican

    One day came a boy from Australia
    Whose hunt for Big Things was no failure
    Bardot was his name
    Large women his game
    With a song, he came, to regale her

    When Dreamer didn’t react, there was panic
    Bigs’ behaviour became quite manic
    He screamed and he wept
    In a gutter he slept
    Then he remembered her ears are ceramic!

  • Paul Bunyan, Portland, Oregon

    Paul Bunyan statue, Portland, Oregon

    Meet Paul. He’s an outdoorsy, approachable fellow who enjoys artisanal pale ales, daring facial hair and the smell of fresh flannelette in the morning. Oh, and he’s also a 31-foot-tall giant who brandishes a monstrous axe with which to protect the good people of the Pacific North West.

    All together now; “Hi, Paul!”

    The mythical Mr Bunyan is a hero to people across America and Canada, and his lumberjacking exploits have entered the realm of folklore. Together with his offsider Babe the Blue Ox, the wondrous woodsman is said to have cleared entire regions of trees in the most deplorable of conditions.

    I’m going to assume he doesn’t swap Christmas cards with too many environmentalists, then.

    Paul’s hardworking attitude and no-nonsense fashion style epitomise this stunning part of the world, and no visit to Oregon’s emerald hills is complete without seeing this enormous tribute to the hirsute heartbreaker.

    Paul’s a lumberjack and he’s OK

    Not surprisingly, there are dozens of Paul Bunyan statues scattered around North America. Rest assured, however, that this depiction of the big fella really is Bun in a million.

    The larger-than-life lumberjack was designed and installed by the Kenton Businessmen’s Club, taking pride of place in North Portland in 1959. He was unveiled to much fanfare as the centrepiece of Oregon’s centennial celebrations, and was apparently the subject of much attention from the port city’s single ladies.

    This handsome chap can be intimidating due to his immense size, but he’s a warm-hearted individual who greets thousands of Oregonians with a cheery smile each morning. I must admit I was in awe when I first saw him from a distance, peering through Portland’s leafy avenues.

    Who wouldn’t want to wake up to that smile!

    Even after visiting hundreds of humongous humanoids such as Big Joe and Wo-Man and The Big Gold Panner Man and Ernie and The Storyteller and The Big Knight and The Hardware Man and The Water Giver and The Big Girl and King Kamehameha and The Cootamundra Giant and the nearby Harvey the Half-Human-Half-Rabbit over the years, Paul’s scale was enough to take my breath away.

    What can I say, I have a thing for tall guys!

    If there’s something strange in your neighborhood
    Who you gonna call? Paul Bunyan!

    Portland’s in the grip of a disturbing rise in homelessness and crime at the moment, and sadly the area surrounding Paul can be a little dangerous. Be careful, because nothing ruins a date with a Big Thing like being violently robbed of your iPod Nano.

    When an unkempt dude in torn jeans and a filthy band t-shirt – who was either a crack-addled lunatic or a tech startup millionaire, it’s hard to tell them apart – stumbled over to scream obscenities during my photo shoot with Paul, everything told me to flee in tears.

    Instead I stood my ground, adjusted my scarlet tunic, and stared the fiend straight in the eyes.

    “Babe, if you’ve got a problem with me, you’ve got a problem with him,” I purred, as my bearded bodyguard peered over my shoulder. The street urchin looked at Paul with such reverence, such child-like wonder, that I clasped him to my bosom and assured him everything would be alright.

    Of course, when I swaggered off I realised he’d fleeced me of a crisp $20 bill and a collection of James Joyce short stories I’d been pretentiously reading in a coffee shop and had subsequently tucked safely in my back pocket.

    Oh well, it was a small price to pay for the honour of meeting Paul Bunyan!

  • King Kamehameha, Hilo, Hawai’i

    King Kamehameha statue, Hilo, Hawai'i

    Kamehameha the Great united the warring islands of Hawaii in 1810, bringing a new age of peace and prosperity to this tropical paradise.

    The inimitable Bigs Bardot united the world’s Big Things and roadside attractions under one website in 2021, bringing love and happiness and greater awareness of roadside attractions to every corner of the world (yes, even Нады́м, Россия – did you think I forgot about you, Yevgeny?).

    Finally, in an event celebrated from Hilo to Honolulu, these icons met. Two kings, separated by centuries, ruling over their subordinates with brutal yet mostly fair fists.

    Hail to the King, baby

    The 14-foot-tall tribute to the Great One lives in the well-presented Wailoa River State Park, and is one of four similar statues scattered throughout the United States. There’s one in Honolulu, another in Kohala, and a third all the way over in Washington, DC. I certainly hope that one’s got a jumper!

    This version, just outside Hilo’s quirky downtown is, however, by far the tallest – and boasts a most peculiar history. He was sculpted in Vicenza, Italy, way back in 1963, but wasn’t erected until 1997. The nearby isle of Kaua’i was intended to be his forever home but, astonishingly, the locals violently protested his arrival as the real-life King had never actually conquered their home.

    I suppose, sadly, xenophobia is alive and well in Kaua’i.

    But this tale has a happy ending. The statue was handed over to the the people of the Big Island of Hawai’i, the real King’s home. He was carefully placed in front of the splendid Wailoa fish pond, where Kamehameha had often fished for ‘ono and diligently perfected his hip hop dance manoeuvres.

  • The Storyteller, Waikiki, Hawai’i

    The Storyteller state, Waikiki, Hawaii

    Yes, the rumours are true! Your friend Bigs Bardot has been seen swanning around Waikiki in the arms of a larger lady.

    This big, beautiful woman represents the storytellers and traditional keepers of Hawaii’s rich, diverse, exotic culture. I’m Australia’s leading historian on giant bits of fruit and animals the size of houses, so it’s no wonder we got along!

    The Storyteller, also known as Ha’i Mo’olelo, was lovingly birthed by living treasure Shige Yamada. He’s the wunderkind responsible for the nearby Water Giver statue. After visiting both statues you should have experienced enough Polynesian culture to placate your guilt from lazing about by the pool drinking Mai Tais on their stolen land.

    Having never known my real mother and receiving only the basest physical contact as required by law from my litany of foster parents, it was enlightening – and also deeply distressing – to discover how safe and secure it feels to be clutched betwixt someone’s arms.

    Still, I fell madly in love with this giant Hawaiian woman – which I suppose makes me Polyamorous!

  • Peace, Sacramento, California

    Peace statue, Sacramento, California, United States By Stephen J. Kaltenbach

    Give peace a chance… or should that be give peace a HANDS. This massive set of mitts was created by the ever-talented Stephen Kaltenbach, and can be found right near the State Capitol in downtown Sac.

    When the world needed a hero, Steve was there to lend a hand, knuckling down to bring Sacramentonians a message of glove and harmony. The results, as you can see, are simply irre-wrist-ible.

    Thumbing his nose at bigots, haters and other ne’er-do-wells, Steve hopes his statue – known simply as Peace – will teach us to hold each other a little tighter, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation or the fact they’ve decided to dedicate their life to tracking down Big Things, rather than getting a job and a girlfriend and moving out of the spare bedroom. Do you hear that, Mum?

    Peace brought a new era of goodwill to Sacramento – and the United States as a whole – in 2006, and was soon joined by A Life’s Ride. The piece was surely inspired by another influential set of digits, La Mano in Punta del Este. Steve, however, palms off comments his work is a copy.

    Steve’s also responsible for a woman’s severed head just up the road. Of course I mean a statue of a woman’s severed head – known as Matter Contemplates Spirit. As far as I’m aware he’s never decapitated anyone, male, female or other.

    I can’t shake the feeling that, no matter what he tries his hand at, Steve makes a real fist of it!

  • The Water Giver, Honolulu, Hawai’i

    The Gift of Water, Honolulu, Hawai'i

    Aloha, and greetings from the tropical wonderland of Hawai’i. Millions of people travel to this Pacific paradise for the golden beaches, bottomless drinks and topless women. But the most popular reason for visiting this alluring archipelago is the assortment of Big Things, with the Water Giver at the top of the list.

    Just look at his rippling muscles, square jaw and G-string that leaves little to the imagination. This hunky Hawai’ian surely has the Waikiki to your heart!

    Don’t be surprised if you fail to match with him on Tinder, though. Word has it this sensitive new age water giver has shacked up with the nearby Storyteller.

    Officially known as the Gift of Water, this fine fellow lives outside the Hawai’i Convention Center. He was created by local artist Shige Yamada in 1997 to say thank you to the native people of the area for being so generous to the many newcomers.

    Personally I feel like the natives would’ve preferred that their island paradise wasn’t trashed, polluted and overpopulated by foreigners in the first place. But I guess a huge statue of a semi-naked hunk with a bum that makes you say, ‘Oahu!’ is a pretty good consolation prize!

  • Big Joe, Kingswood, NSW

    Knights once roamed the vast plains of Penrith, slaying dragons and making inappropriate comments towards fair maidens. But with a severe shortage of snarling serpents in Sydney’s suburbs and the rise of the #MeToo movement, this silver stud was forced to transition into a new career.

    Meet Big Joe – friendly neighbourhood mechanic and undisputed King of the ‘Wood!

    This great big grease monkey is the star employee at Armour Automotive (aka Twin Camalot), where customers come for an oil change and stay for a photo with the armour-clad cutie. Yes, this swashbuckling sweetheart will pink slip his way into your heart, and you’ll never tyre of him!

    Whilst Joe’s a hardworking fella, he has a brother who’s a real nutter. Of course I’m talking about the magnificent Big Knight, who lives at the Macadamia Castle in Knockrow. But be warned, the two of them might be ar-more than you can handle!

    Clutch Ado About Nothing

    On my quest for the holy grail of Aussie Big Things, I indulged myself with a tour of Kingswood’s cultural landmarks and luxurious car yards. My guide was world-renowned Middle Ages historian/third-year auto-electric apprentice Maddie Eval.

    “Joe harkens from the early 21st century, and likely arrived in the Golden West abreast his trusty steed – probably a 1985 Toyota Camry,” Maddie explained, as she cleaned a dipstick on her pastel tunic. “He appears to have been built from scrap metal by a local mechanic during his spare time, or by a close friend of the auto shop’s owner. Joe is utterly fantastic.”

    “Don’t you mean auto-ly fantastic?” I quipped. “You know, because he’s out the front of a car repair shop.”

    “Joe’s around four metres tall, in a good state of repair, and available to visit even outside business hours,” Maddie gossipped, whilst checking the brake fluid in a 2004 Kia carnival. “Any moment with Joe is time well spent.”

    “Don’t you mean time wheel spent?” I smirked. “You know, because cars have wheels.”

    “Joe lives close to the Western Motorway, not far from the Big Strawberry and the Big Axe,” Maddie demystified, “so a trip to the Blue Mountains – to gasp in wonder at the Big Teapot, for instance – presents a golden opportunity to visit this very unique Big Thing.

    “Don’t you mean a Holden opportunity?” I howled. “You know, like the major automobile manufacturer that recently closed down production in Australia, despite being the inspiration for the Mini Harbour Bridge?”

    “Oh Bigs,” Maddie sighed, whilst refusing my Facebook friend request. “You’re quite exhausting.”

  • Ernie, Shepparton, Vic

    Please welcome the flag waving, money saving, always smiling, quite beguiling, 18-foot-high, super-nice guy… Ernie the Giant Tractor Salesman! This gregarious goliath has been Shepparton’s most eligible bachelor for more than three decades, and currently works at the family-owned Konigs Agricultural Supermarket.

    The eternally-eleemosynary Ernie started work way back in 1992, and is yet to miss a day! He’s polite, kind and never shies away from a photo, so it’s always the right time for a Weekend at Ernie’s.

    “People may not know the word Konigs, but if they want to know where we are they say look for the big man who flies the flag,” owner Leo Schoonderbeek recalled during his company’s 25th birthday extravaganza. “I think there are generations now in Shepparton that know Ernie from their younger days.”

    Ernie was the friendly face of Shepparton long before he moved in with Leo and the gang. He was originally constructed to sell quality cars, and was hauled around to school fetes and baby showers. He was, of course, always a gentleman and very well regarded within the community.

    “Ernie was a pro­mo­tional item for Ford New Hol­land for a num­ber of years. They called him for ten­ders and I bought him. The main rea­son was to add an at­trac­tion to our busi­ness.’’

    Come for the giant statue of a handsome man, stay for the extensive collection of reasonably-priced farm machinery!

    Ernie was packed and ready to move into his new digs. The Konigs team were preparing for an era of unprecedented success. But disaster was just around the corner, and Ernie almost never made it to his new home.

    Where’s your head at?

    “A truck arrives one day, a big semi-trailer with three boxes,” Leo recounted with a look of shock upon his face. “They were quite huge boxes, we opened the biggest and that was Ernie’s head. There were only two boxes left and I said, ‘Well something’s wrong here!’

    “We opened another box and it was one arm, and then there was hardly anything left so we opened the third box and it was his other arm. There was no torso for Ernie! I’m on the phone saying, ‘Fellas, there’s something wrong, I’ve only got two arms and a head’. The search was on to find Ernie.

    “Apparently what they had sent was Ernie’s spare parts. They went and searched for Ernie and found that one of the dealers hadn’t returned him so they had to box the complete Ernie up and send him across.”

    Finally, Ernie was installed on a sunny Saturday afternoon with the help of a crane. Most Sheppartonians were on hand to welcome their newest – and by far largest! – resident. It wasn’t to be Ernie’s forever home, however, with Konigs relocating in 1995 to the current premises. The big boy’s certainly moved around a lot for a fella with no legs!

    Ernie to the Centre of the Earth

    Ernie is one of the most imposing Big Things in Australia, dwarfing other humongous humans such as the Coota Giant and the Big Girl. He’s been lovingly maintained and looks every bit as dashing as the day he swaggered into Shepparton. 

    Ernie’s so charming, in fact, that he made it seem like a good idea to buy a Deutz Agrotron 265 tractor with a turbo charged engine, four-speed powershift transmission and a set of four electronic remote valves. I live in a third-floor condominium in Newtown, so I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. Ah well, maybe I can use it to trim the shag-pile carpet.

    Oh, and how much does Ernie weigh? About six Sheppar-tonnes!

  • The Giant, Cootamundra, NSW

    The Giant, Cootamundra, New South Wales, Australia

    Fee-fi-fo-fum
    Look at me with my massive chum
    He be large and he be hairy
    But the Coota Giant is never scary!

    Now THIS is a Giant worth climbing up a beanstalk for! The Cootamundra Giant is enormous, approachable, fun to take a photo with… and, best of all, he won’t try to gobble you up! But this big boy has a story even larger than his smile, which is certainly saying something.

    The Big, Friendly Giant is an affable chap with a jocular disposition, welcoming visitors to the well-appointed Cootamundra Heritage Centre. He’s also a bit of a scallywag, as he’s eternally pointing towards his crotch. Whether that’s a ‘big thing’ or not, I am not at liberty to say!

    The benevolent behemoth bounded into Coota sometime around 1975 (nobody really remembers when), thanks to a local artiste (nobody really remembers who). He first lurked outside the Giant Supermarket, luring in hordes of fascinated customers and leading to an economic boom in the region not seen since the gold rush.

    Tragically, this fairy tale was to become a horror story. The store’s focus shifted from Giant-related souvenirs and nik-naks, complete with name changes to ‘U-Mark-It’, ‘Half-Case Warehouse’, ‘Payless’, and the ludicrous ‘Food World’. The behemoth was forgotten and left to wither in the merciless Riverina sun.

    His smile, once known as ‘the ray of sunlight that warms Coota’, began to fade. It seemed as if Cootamundra, stepping daintily towards the new millennium, was ready to leave its icon behind. But local florists Allan and Phuong Jenkins weren’t going to let that happen, buying The Giant in the early-80s and relocating him outside their shop.

    I’m not dande-lyin’ when I say things have been pretty rosy since then.

    He’s been everywhere, man!

    Even though he’s the most popular chap in town, The Jolly Green Giant isn’t allowed into any of Coota’s pubs – because he’s legless! Ernie the Shepparton Giant suffers a similar disability, so maybe they can form a support group or something. Despite this setback, he’s surprisingly well-traveled and has even completed a lap of Australia.

    Alan, known for being as fit as a fiddle, participated in a Round-Australia fundraising marathon in 1985. His support vehicle had some spare space after the Dencorub and spare socks were loaded up, so Alan strapped The Giant in and took him for a ride around Oz.

    Crowds flocked in their thousands to watch The Giant roll by. Not even the Queen, Pope or Guy Sebastian commanded such crowds. As a toddler, I was crushed by a baying mob as we chased the Giant down the dusty main street of my hometown. The physical trauma healed with time, but the mental scars shall last a lifetime.

    The Jenkins family donated The Giant to the people of Coota in 2014, so that generations to come could bask in his glory. He was fully restored by Robert Newman, whose brother Jim completed the original paintwork all those decades ago. Well, Mother Teresa did say that the family that paints enormous roadside attractions together, stays together.

    If you’re wondering how The Giant stays so trim, it’s by playing cricket with his neighbour, Don Bradman’s Bat and Stumps. Maybe he could invite the Gold Panner, Knight, Wo-Man and both Ned Kellys around for a game of six-and-out. He probably also pops over to Young to feast on the Big Cherries as well!

    Yes, it’s been quite a ride for this kindly ogre. He’s been to the heights of fame and the brink of destruction; to the furthest richest of this great country and deep inside all our hearts. But, for now, he’s happily enjoying retirement in this pleasant rural community.

    One thing’s for sure – they don’t come much cuter than the king of Coota!

  • Durga Maa Statue, Mauritius

    The World's Biggest Statue of Durga Maa, Mauritius

    Oh, you want more-itius Big Things from around the world? Here’s a really stat-huge one hidden within the gorgeous Black River Gorges National Park, on the island paradise of Mauritius!

    The world’s biggest statue of Hindu goddess Durga took six years to complete and lives above the pristine Grand Bassin crater-lake. As the official Big Thing consultant to the Mauritian Government, I oversaw the closing stages of construction in 2017. As you can see, Durga’s beauty radiated through all those metal poles. Thankfully, there’s nothing scaffolding her back now!

    The 33-metre icon was unveiled later that year to much fanfare. Thousands of Hindus and Hin-don’ts joined together for a multi-day celebration of this a-Maa-zing sculpture. Some were there for religious reasons, but I assume most were Big Thing fanatics there for a Ghandi. Sorry, I mean a gander!

    Weighing in at a svelte 400 tonnes, Durga Maa is accompanied by a handsome lion to symbolise her courage. Mangal Mahadev, a similarly-sized statue of Shiva, is Bigging it up just a short stroll away. There are also a number of other enormous effigies of gods lurking around the park.

    These Hindu figures are in the middle of nowhere, so you might want to hire a rental karma for the trip. And don’t worry, whilst Durga is obviously armed, she’s not dangerous!

    Hindu yourself a favour and visit Durga Maa!

  • The Big Girl, Eumundi, QLD

    The Big Girl, Eumundi, Queensland

    Big Girls don’t cry, but I’m man enough to admit I was reduced to a blubbering mess after an encounter with this fifteen-foot female. Not even a few jars of homemade chutney and pair of happy pants from the nearby Eumundi Markets could settle me down.

    Officially known as For You, she’s the work of local artist Meg Geer, who installed the Big Girl in 2018. This thoughtful piece is dedicated to those who have lived through the horrors of war. It is with the innocence of children, Meg argues, that those of us who have lived peaceful lives offer up our gratitude.

    The Big Girl features a timeless, minimalist aesthetic that allows one to focus solely on her message. Nobody can accuse her of being two-faced – in fact, she doesn’t have a face at all!

    With such innocence and naiveté, perhaps the Big Girl needs an older roadside attraction to guide her as she blossoms into a woman. The Wo-Man, perhaps? Or maybe the nearby Pete the Pelican could take her under his wing!

    When I was a child myself, my stepfather and several of my more boisterous step-siblings would regularly call me a big girl. It was traumatising at the time, of course, but since my dalliance with the Big Girl I wear such comments as a badge of honour. I, Bigs Bardot, am a big girl and proud of it.

    Big Girls just want to have fun!

    As I was fraternising with the Big Girl, an acne-riddled youth rode past on his bicycle and, in a squeaky voice that sends shivers down my spine to this day, yelled, “Mate, if you love that statue so much, why don’t you marry it?”

    It took all my resolve not to push the prepubescent punk off his pushbike for disrespecting this Big. Instead, I counted backwards from 10 as my therapist taught me and calmly replied, “I would love to marry her, but it wouldn’t be recognised under Australia’s antiquated legal system.”

    By that time the youth was long gone, but I think I proved my point.

  • The Big Gold Panner Man, Bathurst, NSW

    The Big Gold Panner Man, Bathurst, New South Wales, Australia

    A word of warning, this Big is a real gold digger!

    Tall, dark and handsome, the Big Gold Panner Man sauntered into the historic inland city of Bathurst in 1979, taking up residence outside the lavish Gold Panner Motor Inn. He welcomes millions of visitors from Sydney each year, many of whom can barely pan-dle their excitement.

    Not surprisingly, he’s become by far the most famous and celebrated thing about this bustling Gold Rush town, edging out the extraordinary Town Square and the fascinating Fossil and Mineral Museum.

    But wait, there’s more! Big Thing lovers can actually tick two landmarks off their bucket list in one go, because the World’s Biggest Beard is also on display here!

    That hasn’t helped him find gold, though, and after 42 years he’s yet to strike it lucky. But he has found the love and admiration of a nation, which is far more valuable than a precious yellow mineral.

    Despite bending over to work with his impressively-realised mining equipment, the Big Gold Panner Man measures five metres from the bottom of his sturdy shoes to the top of his trendy hat. This makes him the second-tallest human Big in Australia after The King of Atlantis.

    He might posses a rugged manliness, but the Big Gold Panner Man is also a forgetful chap. He left his Big Lamp in nearby Lithgow, his Big Spade in Chiltern and his Big Gold Pick and Pan in far-flung Grenfell. Oh well, that just makes it more fun to track them all down.

    As one of the kindest and most respectful characters in the Land of the Bigs, this major miner proves all that glitters is gold – and there’s more than a nugget of truth to that!

    Slip an extra Gordon on the barbie!

    There was a brief moment of unpleasantness during my date with the Gold Panner, when he scooped Gordon into his skillet and threatened to fry him up for dinner. I know what you’re thinking – two big, tough, macho men marking their turf.

    But, really, it was all Gordon’s fault. He was behaving in an antagonistic manner towards the Gold Panner and said his hat looked effeminate, so he had it coming.

    Fortunately the kind-hearted giant let his much smaller rival get away, shaken but not stirred. You might not be so lucky next time, Gordon!

  • The Big Knight, Knockrow, NSW

    The Big Knight, Knockrow, New South Wales

    Hear ye, hear ye! ‘Tis I, Sir Bigs-a-Lot of Kingdom Bardot, and I doth welcome thee to a time when fearless warriors and ferocious dragons roamed the landscape of northern New South Wales. Please pop on ye olde face mask, as ’tis a spot of bubonic plague around – tee hee!

    Just kidding, I’m really your friend Bigs Bardot, and it’s knights for you to join me as I share some kind swords regarding this 6.5-metre nobleman. The Big Knight’s been protecting the good folk of the Macadamia Castle since 1985 and, despite looking a bit scary at first lance, is one of the most pleasant fellows I’ve ever hel-met.

    Indeed, you won’t find armour wonderful chap!

    A quick note: The Big Knight was, shamefully, removed in early-2023. He has been purchased by the friendly folk at the Coffs Harbour Butterfly House, and I’ll let you all know when he’s been installed.
    The crux of this entry has been left unchanged, to allow us all to step back to a simpler, more whimsical time. Namaste.

    Lord of the Sword

    The Knight, as he’s officially known, is the creation of local botanist Ken McDonald, who long ran a plant stand at the castle and dreamed of selling more seeds to tourists. He set to work designing a dapper dude of enormous proportions, basing him on a suit of armour on display in the castle.

    “I just measured everything and drew it up, then multiplied it by three,” Ken explained in the official history of the castle. “First thing I did was build a big rotating spit, just like you’d use to cook a pig. That way I could build the Knight’s frame onto it and rotate it around as I applied the fibreglass.”

    Ken used steel pipes for the frame and flat steel strips for the Knight’s robust body. He had a little trouble balancing himself (the Knight, that is, not Ken), so the sword and lance were reinforced to keep him upright.

    Lennox Head luminary and surfboard shaping superstar Bob McTavish was tasked with applying the intricate fibreglass details to the Knight – and was forced to come up with some creative solutions to complete the job.

    “For the head, we went shopping in Ballina to find just the right sized beach ball, inflated it and coated it with resin,” jabbered Bob. “When it set, we deflated it and kept on adding more and more layers for strength.”

    Boogie Knights

    After three months of tireless work, the 6.5-metre-tall gentleman was unveiled to a delighted public. He was originally adorned with white armour and a red cross, which were added by local artist Mark Waller.

    “It was supposed to be St George, you see,” Ken declared, “and I’ve always had this dream of building a dragon to lie down at his feet.”

    It’ll be a maca-damn-ia shame if that doesn’t happen!

    The Knight’s home has been through a number of owners and names over the years, and these days the Macadamia Castle is definitely worth taking a pecan at, with putt-putt golf, a small zoo, a salubrious cafe and sprawling shopping options. I enjoyed dropping my tough guy facade for a few moments to show off my inner Maid Marian in the gift shop. A Round Table discussion decided I looked delightful!

    Those on a road trip along that NSW North Coast are often left ponder whether the Big Knight could defeat the nearby Big Prawn in a battle but honestly, our beautiful Bigs are peaceful beings, so you’d have to be medi-evil to contemplate that!

    A Hard Day’s Knight

    The Knight’s debonair swagger and pensive masculinity, though inspirational, have not been enough to stave off the threat of image-obsessed millennials. The new owners of the Castle – who have transformed it into some sort of petting zoo – saw little value in his history, bravery and importance to the community, and so tore him down in early 2023.

    A hero to millions and an integral thread in the fabric of Knockrow, he was knocked down in the name of progress. The Knight’s muscular legs were smashed to bits, and he was dragged through the dirt like a filthy commoner. The good people of Knockrow wept as one. They’d lost their inspiration. Many turned to narcotics to fill the void.

    Thankfully, they are willing to sell what’s left of The Big Knight to the highest bidder. Not wanting to be gazumped, I put in an offer of $1.2 million to purchase the shiny hunk, hoping he’d spearhead my grandiose plans for a sprawling medieval-themed gentlemens club up the road in Binna Burra.

    Sadly it seems my cheque was lost in the mail, because he was snapped up by the happy chappies at the Coffs Harbour Butterfly House. Ah well, maybe I’ll buy the Big Banana instead!

  • Wo-Man, Garland Valley, NSW

    Wo-Man, Garland Valley, New South Wales

    As a passionate supporter of the LGBTQI+ community, it’s my pleasure to introduce Australia’s very first transgender Big – the voluptuous Wo-Man! Xe is loud and proud and shimmers like a disco ball, bedazzling all who venture into the backwoods of Wollombi.

    This remote location is a surprising home for such a progressive Big, who’s happy to show off xis ample bosom and metallic member for anyone to see. Xe has legs for days and is the true monarch of the forest, so if you think I sound jealous, I am!

    An abandoned service station, rotting furniture and desolate fields make for a lonely yet unique home for Wo-Man, and there’s even a rusting yacht on site, despite being hours from the coast. It’s like a scene from a bloodthirsty horror movie, with Wo-Man playing the part of the buxom beauty!

    Beauty and the Beast


    There’s trouble in paradise, however, and I must issue a serious warning to those planning to visit Wo-Man, as xis owner is a real oddball and not particularly welcoming of those who stop for a photo. In an unprovoked and hyper-aggressive display of male fragility, I was verbally and emotionally abused by the heavily-bearded tough guy as he grilled some sausages, leaving a group of disgusted customers gaping in disbelief. As the vicious words crashed down upon me, I sensed Wo-Man shuddering.

    I would’ve thought someone who built a four-metre-tall trans friend to keep himself company in remote bushland would be more open-minded. Then again, if I owned a Big Thing – especially one as alluring as Wo-Man – I’d probably be a tad possessive, too!

    My suggestion is to pull up, say a quick hello to Wo-Man as you snap a selfie, then drive off before the hate speech starts flying. Hopefully this gentleman’s sausage sizzling skills are better than his social abilities, because he certainly left a sour taste in my mouth!

    My heart weeps to think of Wo-Man being trapped in such a toxic environment, but it’s not my place to get involved. Not just because xe is big enough to fend for xirself, but because xe simply wouldn’t fit on the back of my scooter. Hopefully one day xe’ll meet someone who treats xem the way xe deserves – maybe the hardworking Big Gold Panner, the brave Big Knight, the bashful Coota Giant, or even Matilda. Until then shine on, you crazy diamond!

  • The Big Rig, Roma, QLD

    “Bigs,” I’m sure you’re screaming, “the Big Rig – despite standing 140 metres tall and being an icon of the Maranoa Region – isn’t a Big Thing at all! He’s an actual oil drilling rig from the 1960s who was relocated to the centre of Roma in 2000 to attract tourists. If you’re going to include him, you might as well open the flood gates and induct large trucks, jumbo jets, wide-screen TVs and basketball players. Where does it stop, Bigs, where does it stop?”

    I share your concern and trust me, writing this entry was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’ve taken to the streets to protest claims the Big Banana is the oldest of the Bigs and waged bloody battles against those who won’t accept that the Big Bogan nothing more than a billboard due to being two-dimensional. He’s a sign, deal with it.

    Though not proud of it, I was arrested after an online discussion regarding Singleton’s Big Sundial turned nasty. Sundials can be any size, so a particularly large one isn’t a Big! But the Big Rig’s different.

    Unless you’ve clasped a Romanian farmer in your arms, his eyes welling with tears as he sobs that the Big Rig was the only thing that kept him going through years of drought; Until you’ve held the hand of a grandmother who only gets out of bed in the morning for the chance to worship the Big Rig; you don’t know how much this Big Thing means to the people of Roma. And I can’t take this away from them.

    And I guess the statue of major miner John Machado is pretty large.

    Rig-iculously large

    So important is the Big Rig to this proud outback community that they’re currently spending a couple of million dollars to add an observation tower to the surrounding complex. It’ll offer sweeping views of the Big Rig, mining museum, the sweeping new tree walk exhibit… and the sunkissed desert as well, I assume.

    If they build it big enough, you might even be able to see the Big Melon and the Big Sunflowers. It’ll be a drill-a-minute experience!

    Yes, this might come as a shock, but some things are more important than the strict guidelines regarding what does and does not constitute a Big Thing. Roma’s Big Rig, by entrenching himself as the beating heart of this rural community, has earned his place in the pantheon of oversized roadside attractions. He’s Big. He’s beautiful. He’s a Thing.