Category: England

  • 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!”

  • Kong, Keswick, England

    Kong, Keswick, Lake District, England, United Kingdom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It’s on like King Kong!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Yoouuuu shook me aaalllllllll night Kong!”

  • Lenny the LGBee, Manchester, England

    Lenny the LGBee, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Cute, camp and draped in the rainbow hues of the pride flag, Lenny the LGBee should be the queen of Manchester’s buzzing gay community. Sadly, when I arrived for our playdate, this not-so-creepy crawly was locked within a cage of his own sexual and genderial repression.

    Honestly, it would be honey if it wasn’t so tragic.

    Lenny can be found in a quiet corner of Sackville Gardens in the seductive Gay Village, where the city’s effervescent gay, trans, non-binary, intersex, and furry folk congregate. There’s even a statue dedicated to renowned homosexual and self-confessed Big Thing tragic, Alan Turing – yas, queen, he who inspired the nearby Manchester Lamps.

    To reach the Gardens, sashay your way down Canal Street, head past A Monument to Vimto, and take a left at the public toilet. During the day the park is a great place to play fris-bee with a blue-haired omnisexual with a fluro g-string and xi/xim pronouns – hi, Crispin! – but becomes a real hive of activity after dark.

    Not that I’d know anything about that – teehee!

    A statue as grand as Lenny should be honey to the bee for any Bigs fans. When myself, Bigella, Gordon and Gideon the Guacamole visited, however, we found him gazing longingly at his fellow gays from betwixt the bars of his steel cage of oppression, tears of ignominy cascading down his chubby little cheeks.

    Insecurity and societal pressure had forced him to bow to the toxic whims of heteronomativity. But how did a would-bee gay icon find himself in such a perilous position?

    There’s No Place Like Honeycomb

    Lenny is a handsome, unique creature, but he’s just one of more than a hundred similar bees that spread their wings across Manchester as part of the 2018 Bee in the City Festival. Delightfully detailed one and all, none have captured the imagination quite like Lenny.

    He was installed by some of the area’s brawnier transmen during a weekend-long working bee, and revealed to a curious public in a ceremony attended by prominent pollenticians, wrestler Sting and Land of the Bigs reader/astronaut Buzz Aldrin.

    Hard rock group The Bee Gees even sang their hit single, Stayin’ A-Hive.

    “The LGBTQ+ Bee design is a symbol of LGBT Pride,” local chap Carl Austin-Behan bee-med. “The legacy and poignancy of Alan Turing’s life is mirrored in the eyes of this beautiful Bee. Street names and landmarks tell the story of the Bee’s new home at the heart of the Village. This sculpture inspires us to accept, embrace and celebrate life in all its glorious forms. The ultimate message is love is love.”

    Bee’s here, bee’s queer, get used to it! But it would take someone with a special talent – not just for finding Big Things, but for helping semi-closeted insects negotiate the labyrinthine alleyways of the sexuality spectrum – to make Lenny believe that.

    The Emancipation of Lenny the LGBee

    With the cold metal wires of cishet indoctrination rising like a wall of self-flagellation between Lenny and his community, I looked the bee-hemoth in the eyes and presented him with a sad, knowing smile.

    “Look, babe, you can’t stay inside that cage of philosophical constraint forever,” I cooed. “I hope that one day you can be as comfortable with your gender-bending sexual fluidity as I am with my rugged, unbridled heterosexuality.”

    Bigella and Gordon chuckled. I assume they saw a funny-looking dog or something. Lenny simply stared at me through the steel bars.

    “Lenny,” I continued, my words carrying more weight than ever, “repeat after me because it’s affirmation time. I am valid and deserving of love and acceptance for who I truly am. My gender and sexual identity is beautiful and unique. It deserves to bee respected. I have the right to express myself authentically. I am courageous for embracing my authenticity and continuing to grow into myself.”

    Lenny mumbled the words at first, not quite bee-lieving them. Then as Bigella and Gordon and Gideon and a small collection of open-minded folk crowded around in support, his words became louder. Clearer. More robust. The real Lenny the LGBee was starting to reveal himself. And what emerged from that crysalis of emotional seclusion wasn’t just beautiful.

    It was fabulous, darling.

    By the time we left Sackville Gardens, with the ruby-red sun sinking below the adult shops and vegan cafes of Canal Street, Lenny had take his rightful place as the Queen Bee of Manchester. The Summer of Buzz, my friends, is upon us.

  • 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!

  • The Manchester Lamps, Manchester, England

    The Manchester Lamps, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Looking for something to light up your life? The head oop norf, because there’s never a dull moment when you visit The Manchester Lamps! The quintet of elaborately-designed nightlights were installed within the cosy confines of Piccadilly Place in 2021. But please be warned that they may turn you on!

    Lanternationally-renowned art collaborative Acrylicize really caught lighting in a bottle when they created this bulbous bunch. Each has its own quirky, roguish personality that holds a mirror up to Mancunian culture. From centuries-old relics to sleek contemporary office furniture, it’s their time to shine.

    Best of all, each lamp doubles as a bench, so you can bask in their glory whilst nibbling on a heavenly vegan blueberry croissant from the nearby Coffee Hive. Try it with a decadent dollop of locally-sourced honey – go on, I won’t tell anyone!

    This monument is light fitting – oops, I mean quite fitting! – because lamps are the only thing the locals enjoy more than football hooliganism. But don’t worry, there’s nothing shady about them!

    I was fortunate to visit the Manchester Lamps with my growing gaggle of Land of the Bigs groupies – Gordon, Gideon and my roadside attraction-obsessed half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez. It was heartwarming to see their little faces light up at the display.

    Yes, I certainly give these Big Things my lamp of approval!

    I love lamp!

    Whilst the rest of us were content to gawp in wonder at the Manchester Lamps, it was Bigella who had spent months – even years – researching their significance.

    “¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale, ándale!” Bigella yelped, whilst munching on a black pudding-and-eccles cake taco. She paused, disposed of the remains of her meal, and took a deep breath. “My sincerest apologies for lapsing into a comical depiction of a common Méxican. It happens whenever I get particularly emocionada about a Big. So you can imagine that a collection of five giant lamps can make me mucho loca.”

    “It’s perfectly understandable,” I assured Bigella. “I was so overcome by emotion upon first encountering The Big Watermelon that I took to behaving like what’s commonly known as a ‘bogan’. It took several years of quite invasive therapy to snap me out of it. But I digress.”

    Unperturbed by my display of self-flagellation, Bigella perambulated over to the nearest Lamp and gestured dramatically towards its arcuate base.

    “Please allow me to shed some light on the fascinating stories behind these Lamps. The Art Deco-inspired Lamp, with its flagrant use of blue and oranges, salutes Earnest Rutherford, whose research at the local university led to the splitting of the atom.”
    “A noble cause,” I intimated. “Well, except for all the bombs and death and pollution and misery his work inevitably led to. But please, Bigella, continue.”

    “Ensconced in the loving embrace of books and pens, the Art Nouvea Lamp serves as a homage to the nearby Chetham’s Library.”
    “The oldest in the English-speaking world?”
    “The very same.”
    “Hmm, I wonder whether they have the autobiography of Estonian stage, film, television and voice actress, Anu Lamp?”
    “Oh Bigs! Despite what people say, you really are quite humorous.”

    Lady and the Lamp

    “With its quirky, aphrodisiacal honeycomb lattice, the Mid-Century Bedside Lamp harkens back to Manchester’s famous – yet morally ambiguous – worker bee mantra,” Bigella lectured. “For a more literal representation of this, the extremely intere-sting Big Bee can bee found in the nearby Sackville Garden.”
    “That’s un-bee-lievable! And the Green Desk Lamp? It wouldn’t be a flamboyant tribute to the cult of personality that is Alan Turing, would it?”

    “You sure know your socially and professionally-divisive theoretical biologists, Bigs.”
    “Alan was convicted of gross indecency for being a homosexual, you know. He was sentenced to chemical castration.”
    “Don’t worry, Bigs,” my younger sibling imparted, placing a reassuring hand upon my shoulder. “They overturned that law years ago”

    “And as for the chic Anglepoise Lamp? Does it cast our minds towards Manchester’s impact upon the European fashion industry? The sporting triumphs of these proud people? The brash, yet melodic, music industry for which the city is synonymous?
    “It’s just a Big Lamp, Bigs. Not everything needs to have some deeper meaning.”

    National Lamp-oon’s Vacation

    As we were departing the Manchester Lamps for an opulent meal at the nearest Weatherspoon’s, Gordon and Gideon, Land of the Bigs’ mascots, stopped me in my tracks. Their impish grins told me they were up to something.

    “I found the display quite….” Gideon piped up, “illuminating!”
    “Yes, it was very…” Gordon added, with his trademark comedic timing, “enlightening!”
    As Bigella groaned, I hurried the kids to a quiet corner of the square and sat them down.

    “Guys,” I said gently, ruffling their hair, “I know you mean well, but I find your pithy attempts at humour to be both purile and rather condescending. The Big Lamps hold a place of great significance to me. I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but, since I was a child I’ve slept with the bedside lamp on.”

    “That took great courage for you to admit, Bigs,” Gordon assured me. “But it’s still pretty strange.”
    “I don’t know,” I replied with a smirk. “I think it makes a great hat – teehee!”

  • A Monument to Vimto, Manchester, England

    A Monument to Vimto, Manchester, England, United Kingdom

    Are you ready to shlurple the purple? Wait, wait, come on now, don’t call the police! I’m not being uncouth, I’m merely repeating the long-time tagline attached to an utterly bonkers northern English fizzy drink named Vimto.

    Crafted from grapes, raspberries and blackcurrants and mixed with a zesty blend of herbs and spices, Vimto tastes like heaven on earth, with a subtle hint of cough medicine drained through a fisherman‘s sock. The locals are obsessed with it, though, and are known to box the ears of anyone who disparages their favourite drink.

    Created in Manchester in 1908 by a flamboyant chap named John Noel Nichols, Vimto was originally marketed as a health tonic. Sadly, the only noticeable health effects were a reduction in teeth and an increased risk of diabetes, so it was quickly repositioned as a soft drink. Bizarrely, it found widespread adoration in the Arab world as a staple drink of Ramadan. Apparently the locals refuse to Du-buy anything else!

    The Vimto factory was relocated in 1910 and the grounds handed over to the University of Manchester, and it’s on this site you’ll find the venerated Monument to Vimto. Won’t someone think of the children? How are they supposed to concentrate on their tutorials when there’s a giant bottle of Vimto outside their classroom, just waiting to be worshipped?

    Carved from oak by the incomparable Kerry Morrison, this masterpiece was installed in 1992. It’s just as bright and bubbly as a goblet of icy-cold Vimto, having been fully restored in 2011, and is complimented by cheeky representations of the fresh fruit used in Vimto’s production.

    The monument’s whimsical nature, coupled with its unabashed enthusiasm for the source material, make it the ultimate destination when visiting England’s glamorous north. No wonder Mancunians are so full of Vimto and vigour!

    The Fruitiest Big I Know

    Whilst a cool glass of Vimto on a balmy Manchester afternoon is a truly holistic experience, a pilgrimage to the monument that bears its name proves to be anything but. When my Latin-American half-sister Bigella Fernandez Hernandez and I arrived, with clear eyes and full hearts, we were outraged to discover that a gang of layabouts had taken up residence at the base of the statue.

    With lips and teeth stained a sickening vermillion, the gypsies had obviously spent a decadent afternoon overindulging on bottles Vimto, which littered the surrounds. Anyone unfortunate enough to venture nearby faced the full extent of the thugs’ wrath, as they hurled insults and plastic flagons of Vimto with equal ferocity.

    Personal safety, however, must come second to reporting on Big Things. Bigella and I did our best to ignore their catcalls as we posed for some surprisingly delightful happy snaps, focusing on the bottle’s intricately engraved details to take our attention away from the deranged lunatics. If you look closely, you can see the fear etched across our faces.

    But then things got personal.

    Seriously Mixed-Up Hobos

    “Maybe yer lady friend would like to share a cup of Vimto with us?” one particularly unscrupulous reprobate heckled, moistening his sun-chapped lips with a lascivious tongue as he rattled a jug of the berry-flavoured treat. I noted, with a touch of horror, that he was consuming the concentrated variation – and he didn’t seem to have added much water. “Plenty to go around. We’ve got all the flavours.”

    “Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant?” I asked, my interest piqued.
    “Even cherry, raspberry and blackcurrant,” the lecherous hobo responded with a monstrous smirk. “Ice cold, just the way she likes it.”

    The vagrant took a liberal swig of the ruby-red nectar, allowing a hedonistic portion to dribble down his unshaven chin. His mates, eyeballs spinning in their skulls from their sugar highs, raised plastic cups full of Vimto to us. I was hypnotised by the drink’s effervescent beauty as it sparkled in the dying light. So sweet, so refreshing, so economically-priced.

    “Bigella,” I bellowed, a thin veneer of bravado masking my inner turmoil. “Run for it. I’ll stay here to hold back these troublemakers!”
    “But Bigs,” my sister squawked, sweat pouring from her brow, “I can’t leave! You’re too pretty – these pervertidos will eat you alive!”
    “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I yawped, pushing Bigella into the streets of Manchester. “Now run away and never look back!”

    As the first, succulent drops of Vimto cascaded out of the homeless chap’s flask and poured, luxuriously, down my gaping maw, I realised that I’d plummeted to a new low in my life.

    But what can I say? I’m just a guy who likes to shlurple the purple!

  • Dune Grass, Blackpool, England

    Dune Grass, Blackpool, England, United Kingdom

    Greetings from Blackpool, where holidaymakers come for the cabaret shows and omnipresent threat of street crime, and stay for the world’s largest kinetic sculptures. Known as Dune Grass, this quartet of superb seedpods are prominently positioned on the princely promenade. They measure an astonishing 35 metres from ravishing roots to gorgeous glass-fiber heads.

    They say a picture plants a thousand words and, as you can see, Dune Grass represents nature spectacularly reclaiming a slice of the English coastline. Since being installed in 2011, they’re all anyone’s been stalking about!

    These vine, upstanding members of the community, who truly are in a grass of their own, were designed by the talented nerds at FreeState Studio. They were tested in a wind tunnel to ensure they could withstand Blackpool’s notoriously inclement weather, and they’re obviously made of ferner stuff!

    The blades bend and sway in the gentle breeze, providing the perfect je ne sais quoi to a day by the seaside. Each is the image of the others, so if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen stem all. Nevertheless, I’m very frond of them!

    Cheer up, it’s not all dune and gloom

    Though their minimalist curves stand at the apex of of contemporary sleekness, Dune Grass splendidly compliments the 19th-century Blackpool Tower, which looms nearby. These structures, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy, elegantly frame Blackpool’s Victorian-era architecture. They turn laneways into waking dreams, and fish ‘n’ chip shops into bastions of infinite possibilities.

    Every teenage mother becomes a princess; every ruddy-faced factory worker in a knock-off England soccer shirt a handsome prince. Never before have four towering representations of marram grass so transformed an ailing Lancastrian resort town.

    Serving as bookends to the legendary Big Bird and Big Parrot, Dune Grass has helped cement Blackpool’s status as a sparkling oasis for any admirer of the Bigs.

    There’s something magical about climbing aboard a streetcar, incandescent in the inky night, and sailing past the grass. Ironically, I was doing just that when I bumped into my good friend, grizzled character actor Norman Reedus. We hugged; the bond formed between us on the set of Styrofoam Soul stronger than ever.

    The Stalking Dead

    “You know, Bigs,” the Hollywood heartthrob snarled in his trademark gutteral tone. “I came to Blackpool searching for a place to belong. Somewhere I could just fit in.”

    “Because your name is Norman Reedus, and this place has enormous reeds?”

    “Exactly, Bigs. You’re eminently aware that, like yourself, I’m a proponent of pithy wordplay. I couldn’t resist the bewitching opportunity to extend my dramatic range by posing as a sentient blade of grass, ensconced in the bosom of the of this legendary resort town.”

    “What better way to shed your tough-guy visage and expose your vulnerable underbelly, Norman.”

    Exhibiting the impeccable dramatic timing that has defined his career, Norman took a final drag of his cigar and then flicked the stub into the gutter.

    “Quite, Bigs. I’ve spent the past few months staring silently out at the Irish Sea, dressed in black, bobbing my head a little, doing all I can to become a part of Dune Grass. But, finally, as I was being abused by a group of particularly unappealing chavs, I came to a realisation.”

    “And what was that, Norman?”

    “I need to stop trying to be the fifth member of Dune Grass,” he muttered, wiping a solitary tear from his craggy cheek, “and be the first Norman Reedus.”

    Cradling Norman in my arms, I stroked his luxurious locks as he finally allowed himself to unleash decades of pent-up frustration, and was reduced to a blubbering mess.

    I guess the grass isn’t always greener on the other side!

  • Equus Altus, Leeds, England

    Equus Altus, Leeds, England

    “The High Horses”

    We will fly, to Leeds, oh my!
    Where the cold wind blows
    There is no sun, but it’s still fun
    There’s a stallion there, don’t you know?
    Equus Altus, by Andy Scott, is situated
    Deep in Trinity Leeds‘ beating heart
    He’s the most handsome hunk in the herd
    Caught above some shopping carts
    Can’t you hear him?
    Oh, he neighs so loud
    Casts his wild note over the gobsmacked crowd

    That’s the way it’s gonna be, little darlin’
    We’ll be admiring the horsie, yeah
    Way up in the sky, is this darlin’
    And if he falls he’ll muck you up, muck you up

    You will grow and until you go
    To see Yorkshire’s cloven pride
    And even then whisper the wind
    But don’t try to touch his side
    Or the ropes holding him may become unfurled
    A chubby chap below will cry
    As he watches the giant gelding falling down
    If it lands on him he’ll die
    Oh good, the chubby chap went to Gregg’s for a sensibly-priced sausage roll and the pony missed him
    Equus has plummeted to the ground
    Equus has landed outside the Pound… land

    That’s the way it’s gonna be, little darlin’
    We’ll be admiring the horsie, yeah
    Way up in the sky, is this darlin’
    And if he falls he’ll muck you up, muck you up

  • Entrust, Keswick, England

    Entrust, Keswick, Lake District, England, United Kingdom

    Bubbling brooks blooming with brown trout. Mountain pathways, heavy with primrose, enticing the curious towards vantage points high above mist-filled valleys. Ancient villages, swarming with plump-cheeked villagers, beckoning wandering souls with a swarthy assortment of relishes, chutneys, and hand-knitted goods at reasonable prices.

    The Lake District of Northwest England is one of the most spectacular settings on Earth, and provides the perfect backdrop for a weekend away with a loved one, sipping succulent coffee and creating lifelong memories.

    But who really cares about any of that – we’re here for the Big Things!

    Entrust, a giant set of hands carved out of wood, can be found a few kilometres south of Keswick. They were created by local lad John Merrill, and installed by the embankment of picturesque Derwentwater in 2002.

    “I made this sculpture to mark the centenary of Brandelhow Park,” John told a clearly-excited reporter, who really seemed to have her finger on the pulse. “We carved this about about a quarter of a mile down the lakeshore. It’s just such a surprise in this location. It’s a little bit surreal – a little bit Alice in Wonderland.”

    Well, John, I did feel a bit like Tweedlethumb whilst laying abreast your creation!

    “It’s exciting,” John continued, whilst gesticulating dramatically, “to see how something you’ve made carries on in an ongoing legacy.”

    Babe, that’s exactly how I feel about Land of the Bigs!

    John’s had the whole world in his hands

    Whilst many Bigs are designed to be venerated from a safe and respectable distance, John is more than slappy for Entrust to be a hands-on exhibit.

    “What I find interesting is that as soon as people see them, then what they’ve got to do is climb into them and sit inside them,” he explained in his ever-punchy baritone. “I’ve seen dogs sat in there! It becomes really special for that reason.”

    Well, if it’s good enough for a puppy, it’s good enough for the inimitable Bigs Bardot!

    Thumb-fortunately, Endure has been palmed off to an overgrown corner of the park and can be hard to find, but if you knuckle down I’m sure you’ll nail its location. If, however, you’re looking for a Big in downtown Keswick, the hand-some Kong can be found in Heads Road. He might even give you a high-five when you show up!

    Teehee, I’m not sure if I got every hand-related pun in there, but I made a good fist of it!

  • 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!”

  • Big Bird, Blackpool, England

    Big Bird, Blackpool, England

    They smell funny, strut around with their chests puffed out looking for fights, and love to eat rubbish they find on the ground. But enough about the good people of Blackpool, we’re here to talk about pigeons.

    Of course I’m kidding; Blackpudlians are warm-hearted, perspicacious people (and I don’t want to get glassed next time I’m in town for a drag show!).

    Standing 3.5 metres tall and weighing more than a tonne, Big Bird was built by MDM Props in Greenwich, London. The carcasses of 10 taxis were torn apart to create her womanly wings, sensual scapularc and melon-heavy breast. Oh, Big Bird, I’ve got a Taxi Cab Confession – you’re beautiful!

    Modelled after the Trafalgar Square Pigeon – the second-least-diseased species of flying rodent – Big Bird first appeared outside the Museum of London a few years back. I certainly hope there was a good fish ‘n’ chip shop nearby!

    Big Bird has since flown the length and breadth of the UK, bringing joy to lives of all who bear witness to her metallic grandeur. But, as she’s not nailed down, I hope the local tough guys don’t try to pinch-eon her during the night!

    To sum things up, I like Big Birds an’ I cannot lie!

  • 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!