Category: Northern Ireland

  • The Big Fish, Belfast, Northern Ireland

    The Big Fish, Belfast, Northern Ireland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Know Your Sole

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

    Don’t we all?

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • 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.