Category: South Australia

  • Larry the Lobster, Kingston SE, SA

    Larry the Lobster, Kingston SE, South Australia

    He’s huge, he’s handsome, he’d probably taste great slathered in a few litres of garlic butter. Please put your pincers together for the loveable, legendary, and oh-so-large Larry the Lobster!

    Jut watch out – he can be a bit crabby!

    At 17 metres tall, 15.2 metres long and 13.7 metres wide, and weighing in at four tonnes, Larry casts an imposing shadow over Kingston SE. Antennae up and maxillipeds agape, he welcomes visitors to the remote beachside town three hours south of Adelaide.

    World-weary travellers and little nippers alike will gasp in delight at Larry’s intricate exoskeleton and friendly, knowing eyes, which have been rerceated in stunning detail. He looks wonderful from a distance, but it is only by getting up claws and personal with The Big Lobster, sprawling out between his prodigious pereiopods that the full extent of his grandeur can be fully understood.

    Larry could very well be the Holy Grail of Big Things – culturally relevant, world famous, fantastically-realised, and astonishingly large. Needless to say, he’s a crust-see attraction!

    Could there be a better way to spend a crisp May afternoon than by taking a shellfie with a gigantic lobster, then popping into the on-site cafe for a fishburger and a strawberry thickshake?

    The service is snappy but, remarkably, they don’t serve lobster. But that’s probably for the best – it might upset Larry!

    As Happy As Larry

    Local lobster fisherman Ian Backler is the man to thank for coming up with the idea for Larry. After returning home from a holiday in the United States – where he undoubtedly gawked at many oversized roadside attractions – he was inspired to create one of his own.

    Teaming up with charismatic local chaps Rob Moyse and Ian Hannaford, the trio devised a plan that was as innovative as it was bonkers; build an enormous sea creature that would appear, to the untrained eye, to be attacking the town’s new tourist information centre. The just sit back and wait for the tourists to start pouring in.

    And there was only one man who could pull it off.

    Enter Paul Kelly. No, not the folk-pop icon, the visionary who built Scotty the Big Scotsman. Displaying rare genius, Paul bought a spiny lobster from a local fish and chip shop and had it stuffed to serve as his muse.

    Paul then rented out a warehouse in Adelaide and, over the next six months, built The Big Lobster. He started with a monstrous steel frame, then carved the details from foam, slathered the whole thing in fiberglass, and stood back to bisque in the lobster’s glory.

    On December 15, 1979 hundreds – perhaps thousands – of perky pescatarians lobbed up to see South Australian Premier Dave Tonkin reveal The Big Lobster to the world. In my mind, I picture Dave, atop a cherrypicker, lifting up the lid of one of those silver serving trays to reveal the enormous creature. But, in my heart of hearts, I know this to not be the case.

    Something like that would be cray-zy, even for a noted prankster like Dave Tonkin.

    But wait… there’s more-nay!

    As his shell-ebrity has grown, other crustaceans have attempted to steal Larry’s thunder. The town of Shediac, Canada is home to an imposter known as The World’s Largest Lobster. They should rename him The World’s Largest Con-Job as, at a paltry 11 metres long and two metres tall, the creature’s not even big enough to be served in a seafood basket at the local bowlo.

    Best to stick with Lucky Larry and some of Australia’s other supersized sea creatures, such as The Big Prawn, The Big Prawn, The Big Prawn or Gabby the Yabby.

    In 2015, a crayfish sculpture in Qianjiang, China pinched the Guinness Book of Records title for The World’s Largest Crustacean Sculpture. This was claws for concern as, much like the PRC’s faćade of democracy, it’s a big, fat lie. Despite claims that it’s 15 metres tall, photos show that this Oriental charlatan is only slightly larger than your average Chinaman.

    I’ll bring it up with Xi next time we meet up to play pickleball.

    Dirty Gordon, Crazy Larry

    Gordon was unusually quiet, ruminating over a bucket of calamari rings as we sat in The Big Lobster’s immense shadow. I’d expected the little alien to come out with one of his usual pithy comments, or try to climb up Larry so he could ride him. There was nothing, however, but the contemplative chewing of perfectly-cooked seafood.

    “You know, Bigs,” the plucky lad finally said, wiping tartare sauce from his chin as the sun dripped towards the horizon, “Larry really is the best of us.”

    I simply nodded, then watched a heron swaggering through the scrub as I allowed Gordon the time to gather his thoughts.

    “He’s the reason that we travel up and down these dusty roads,” my friend continued, jabbing a furry finger towards the towering lobster. “Why we’ve given up any vestige of normal life to chronicle to stories of Australia’s Big Things. A handful of normal men took a ludicrous idea and turned it into reality, and in doing so changed the culture of this country forever. They made millions of people happy with a work of art that, hand on heart, can proudly stand alongside anything the human race has ever accomplished.”

    Gordon’s words encapsulated my own feelings. All I could do was hug him in the waning light, until the ink black night enveloped us. When I finally opened my eyes, Larry the Lobster was illuminated, hovering over us like a four-storey fever dream.

    “Come on, let’s get out of here,” I smiled.
    “Sweet,” chuckled Gordon. “Can we get some butter-and-fennel-poached lobster rolls on the way home?”
    “Shhh,” I giggled, bundling Gordon into the Bigsmobile. “He’ll hear you!”

  • The Big Rocking Horse, Gumeracha, SA

    The Big Rocking Horse, Gumeracha, South Australia

    To journey into the Land of the Bigs is to see the world through the eyes of a child, with all the wonder and excitement that brings. The massive melons and mega marsupials, scattered haphazardly across Australia like toys on a playmat, harken back to a more innocent age. They make us feel small again.

    Never is this more true than when standing in the shadows of Gumeracha’s Big Rocking Horse.

    Rising 18 metres above the verdant knolls of the Adelaide Hills, this 25-tonne pony is a grandiose tribute to the playful, whimsical and – dare I say it – immature nature of the locals. Upon first seeing the Rocking Horse, who reins supreme from above the treetops, one can’t help but be overwhelmed by his immense size and robust, idiosyncratic construction.

    But the full majesty of this Big can only be appreciated by clambering to the viewing platform atop his handsome head. This epic endeavour costs just $2, and those valiant enough to make the journey shall be rewarded with a certificate. Yes, there’ll only be one long face when you’re atop The Big Rocking Horse, and it shan’t be yours!

    If nothing else can convince you to load up the wagon and gallop over to Adelaide, consider this your invitation. As local singer-songwriter – and lifetime admire of all things Big – Paul Kelly once sang,

    All the Big Horses and all the Big Men
    Would certainly drag me back again
    To Adelaide for some orange marmalade, sitting by The Big Apple in the shade, thanks to The Big Hills Hoist my day’s been made

    Or something like that. Thanks, Paul!

    Between a Rocking Horse and a Hard Place

    With his carefree grin and enchanting eyes, you could be forgiven for thinking this Big has nary a care in the world. Living so close to Scotty the Big Scotsman and The Big Pigeon, why would he? There is, however, a rocky story behind this horse.

    When local businessman Wal Wilkinson opened a toy shop in Gumeracha in 1973, he was not met by the expected scenes of jolly jubilation. Facing an uphill saddle to attract customers, he dug into his toybox and produced a kinda-sorta-large effigy of a giraffe, which he plopped outside the front door.

    When this foaled – oops, I mean failed! – to yield results, he turned to a series of wooden rocking horses, the first three metres tall, the second five. They drew in a few curious onlookers, but one thing had become abundantly clear; if Wal wanted to make it big, he had to go BIG.

    In 1980, Wal enlisted David McIntosh Taylor, a structural engineer of great repute, to build a gee-gee large enough for people to climb. A night-mare task for some, but not for this savant of roadside attractions. Not wanting to rock the boat, David rolled with the request, and the resultant stallion took eight months to build at the respectable cost of $100,000.

    Criminy, you wouldn’t be able to get a Bangladeshi-made hobby-horse for that price these days!

    The brumby-lievably big bronco was officially opened in 1981, and immediately became a colt hero. Wal’s vision was off to the races, and his business was finally financially stable.

    Disaster struck in 1999, however, when the viewing platform was shuttered after a youngster, brimming with youthful exuberance, took a tumble whist navigating the Rocking Horse’s labyrinthine staircase. A tragedy, sure, but is the potential for a few maimed kiddies reason enough to prevent the rest of us from enjoying the view?

    Oh, you think I’m being selfish? Get off your high horse and quit nagging me!

    It’s Only Rockin’ Horse (But I Like It)

    The Big Rocking Horse has been bought and sold more times than a narcoleptic racehorse. The complex was sold to dapper South African chap Anthony Miller for almost a million dollars in 2004, who subsequently passed it on to fellow Saffers Frans and Lyn Gous in 2009. Maybe they thought he looked like a Big Springbok?

    This Aussie icon is now back in Aussie hands, with Mell and Mark Penno taking over in 2023. Their unbridled passion for the horsie means they have big plans to expand the park, which already has a large gift shop, animal park and cafe. Try the lamingtons and thank me later!

    This ex-steed-ingly vast horsie stands as one of the biggest – neigh, the biggest – children’s toy around, and was even recognised by Guinness World Records as the largest rocking horse on the planet. What was an immense source of pride for all South Australians became a state-wide sore spot when, in 2014, The Big Rocking Horse was unceremoniously stripped of the prestigious title, which was handed to a proportionately petite plug in China.

    Some say the Yi Jinping ordered the change as part of his merciless war on the West, others say it was simply because the oriental version is actually able to rock. Either way, our little friends in the People’s Republic don’t have democracy or the ability to go to bed at night without being watched by the government, so we’ll let them have this one!

    If I mysteriously disappear, you know I’ve been dragged off to the Big Laogai – teehee!

    Rock, rock, rockin’ on heaven’s door

    Amidst the island of misfit toys that was my youth, only one person was there for me through the really dark times; Gordon. Whenever my dysfunctional home life became too much, Gordon and I would hide away out of sight, dreaming of all the slot cars and Barbie dolls we so dearly wanted but knew we would never own.

    More than anything, we yearned for a rocking horse. Oh, how easy things would be, sitting astride a wooden pony, swinging back and forth, galloping away from life’s complexities.

    Come Christmas morn each year we would emerge from our bedroom, eyes full of hope, and timidly tiptoe towards the pile of cheerfully-wrapped gifts placed ‘neath the glittering tree.

    And each Christmas morn our little hearts would break as the pile shrank, the other family members laughing and smiling as they tore open their treats. But there would be no holiday cheer for Gordon or I. No Thunderloop Thriller. No Peaches ‘n’ Cream Barbie. Certainly no periwinkle rocking horse with lime green tassels. Just jeers and torment from my uncles and grandparents.

    “Maybe next year,” Gordon would say, a tear in his eye

    But the rocking horse never came and we were dragged, kicking and screaming, into adulthood. Psychiatrists have pointed to those hellacious festive encounters as the catalyst for my litany of personality disorders. I prefer to think that it simply added a few stitches to the ritch tapestry that is Bigs Bardot.

    So it was with hearts aflutter that Gordon and I rolled into Gumeracha in the Bigsmobile and then stepped, blinking, into the crisp country air.

    The Big Rocking Horse was more than we could have imaged; more than we dared hope for. His magnitude beggars belief, his majesty is all-consuming. Gordon, understandably, was reduced to a blubbering mess. We stood, clutching each other as we had all those years ago, and soaked in the majesty of the moment. For one sun-dappled afternoon, we found our lost childhood.

    “Looks like we finally got that rocking horse, buddy,” Gordon finally said, his voice cracking under the weight of the situation.
    “Sometimes,” I trembled, “stories do have happy endings. I love you, Gordon.”
    “I love you too, Bigs.” We walked, hands clasped together, to the top of the enormous horse, and stood there for the longest time in complete silence. Gordon flashed a bittersweet smile and put one furry arm across my shoulder.

    “Come on, dry your eyes and let’s go get something to eat,” he posited. “I know a place in Cudlee Creek that makes the world’s best jalapeño poppers.”
    “Lead the way my brother,” I grinned, taking one last look back at The Big Rocking Horse, “lead the way.”

  • The Big Cherries, Pages Flat, SA

    The Big Cherries, pages Flat, South Australia

    For a cherryfic experience that’ll really cherry you up, head out to Pages Flat to see the cherrybly handsome Big Cherries. Plump, sweet and oh-so-juicy, these are two of the most cherrysmatic Bigs you’ll ever meet – and I’m not just being cherrytable when I say that.

    The Big Cherries sit atop a rustic wagon in front of Fleurieu Cherries, which is just 45 minutes from the centre of Adelaide (although it might take a bit longer if you travel by horse and cherryot). You should cherrysh the opportunity to fully explore this very incherryesting facility.

    There’s a shop, reception area, and the encherryanting opportunity to pluck your own farm-fresh fruit. Concherry to popular belief, it’s not a cherrybly expensive activity; at $17 a kilo it’s perfect for those with budgetcherry concerns

    Don’t cherry your head in the sand, because you might not get a second bite of the cherry!

    Although, if this has piqued your cherryosity, you might want to visit other Big Cherries. There’s a lovely bunch in Young, and the legendcherry sunglasses-wearing Cherry in Wyuna. With so many options, you might have to cherry-pick which ones you want to see – although I’m a cherryleader for all of them!

    You got the way to move me, Cherries
    You got the way to groove me

    Sadly, whilst The Big Cherries remained on their wagon during our visit, Gordon well and truly fell off his. After an extraordicherry afternoon spent exploring the sprawling meadows of the Fleurieu Peninsula, the little alien stumbled upon a wedding between two lovely chaps, Brett and Nyoman, where he overindulged on a bottle of the seasonally-available cherry Moscato.

    Gordon’s drunken shenanigans did little to endear him to the congregation, which included pop singer Eagle-Eye Cherry, screenwriter Cherry Chevapravatdumrong and rugby league heartthrob Daly Cherry-Evans.

    The surviving members of Warrant were so appalled that they were barely able to make it through a rousing rendition of their seminal 1989 hit Cherry Pie.

    After a momencherry lapse of reason in which he passed inappropriate commencherry about the grooms’ wardrobe choices and started a fight with a flower girl, Gordon was, mercifully, escorted from the premises by a couple of burly farmhands.

    He was cherry embarrassed by his behaviour the next day!

  • Signalling Change, Mount Gambier, SA

    Signalling Change, Mount Gambier, South Australia

    Howdy pardner, spare a dollar for a po’ ol’ down-on-his-luck cowboy? This is all what’s left of your ruggedly masculine buckaroo, Biggie the Kid. Strap yo’sef in, this tale’s just as sad as the day is long. Some time back I lassoed myself a steam engine and rode the rails on into Mount Gambier, lookin’ for cheap moonshine an’ cheaper womenfolk.

    Oh, an’ Big Things – ain’t nothin’ that warms the cockles of this ol’ gunslinger’s heart quite like an anatomically-correct representation of two praying mantids. Yee-haw!

    By the time I’d kissed all the moonshine and drunk all the womenfolk, the dadgum train line had been tore up. I was stranded in Mount Gambier with no way of getting home! Sure, there’s Uber, but with my 3.4-star rating and penchant for spitting tobacco all over the back seat, there was little chance of getting a ride.

    Setting up camp in the town’s fancy-pants new Railway Lands park, broke an’ tired an’ down to my last pint of root beer, I prayed to the skies for a miracle. The Lord must’ve took pity on me, ‘cos paint me pink an’ call me a buffalo if I didn’t spot the largest set of railway signals in the whole wide world!

    Of course I’m more comfortable punchin’ cows and swaggerin’ around in crotchless chaps than I am driving trains, so I have no idea how much bigger they was than a regular set of train signals. But shoot, they looked mighty fine to me!

    Known as Signalling Change to the townsfolk, this remarkable piece was created by local artists Trevor Wren and Danica Gacesa McLean, who installed it on the grounds of the old train station. That day certainly signalled change for good ol’ Biggie the Kid…. in the worst darn-tootin’ way possible!

    The Signals They Are A-Changin’

    Exploring the substantial signals, with their playfully-painted portions and delightful-yet-functional seating options, the words of the artists’ flowed through this cowpoke’s brain like magic. Alright, maybe I was just ‘membering somethin’ I read online, but all that matters is that I’m going to share those quotes with y’all.

    “This piece celebrates Mount Gambier’s rich railway history by referencing railway signals, crossing barriers and indicator lights,” the dynamic duo explained shortly before the unveiling in 2016. “Its larger-than-life scale invites visitors, the local community and especially children to explore and investigate railway visual communication through shape, colour and light.”

    That’s exactly what I was going to say, pardners!

    “Signalling Change will make a prominent statement both night and day, and be highly visible from a distance through its physical height and bold colour,” the artists continued. “The piece is child-friendly and offers tunnel-like apertures through which children can safely crawl and play.”

    The only person who wasn’t provided with a safe space, however, was this handsome cowboy.

    Biggie the Kid vs Literal Kids

    I was posing for some super-cute – yet still really macho – photos, when a long, scary shadow fell upon me. Looking up, I spotted a posse of the meanest-lookin’ cattle rustlers I ever did see. There musta been half-a-dozen of ’em, each seven-foot-tall with rippling muscles and full beards.

    Alright, alright, so maybe they was pre-teens on scooters, but they still looked really tough. The children started by hurling abuse about my effeminate sunglasses and ostentatious short-shorts, and progressed to hurling tin cans and dog poo-poo at me.

    One particularly cruel street urchin, egged on by his chums, took my ornate wild western-inspired headdress and, in an act of insanity, trampled it.

    It’s a sad world when a grown man can’t swagger flamboyantly through a children’s park in a pair of Daisy Dukes, thrusting rhythmically for the camera whilst twirling around a set of giant railway signals, without being the subject of hatespeech from a bunch of ruffians. Bigs not bigotry, as I like to say.

    The bullies, who were joined by a smattering of parents and pensioners who really should’ve known better, only allowed me to leave after I hopped on one foot whilst singing I’m a Little Teapot through a waterfall of tears.

    It was not my finest hour.

    If only those no-goodniks put their energy into researching and admiring Big Things rather than petty street crime, the world would be a better place. Yee-haw!

  • The Big Olive, Tailem Bend, SA

    The Big Olive, Tailem Bend, South Australia

    Death threats, fraud and deplorable hygiene standards – The Big Olive is at the centre of the most bizarre and shocking scandal in Australian history, and has become the most controversial roadside attraction on the planet.

    Built on love and good intentions, the decadently-crafted Big Olive has been dragged through the tabloid media, casting a dark shadow across the rugged South Australian landscape.

    The delicious duo stand silent, locked behind a barbed-wire fence, as beautiful as they are shameful. What should serve as a beautiful, bulbous celebration of Tailem Bend’s blossoming olive industry, instead divides and humiliates the locals.

    Pour some wine, bring out the cheese board, and strap yourself in as we explore the dramatic rise and tragic fall of The Big Olive.

    Lie-renzo’s Oil

    It all started so innocently. The Big Olive (which technically should be called The Big Olives, but that’s a debate for another day) was crafted by the oliving legends at The Newell Group, and erected on April 15, 2005. The two olives – one a welcoming green, the other a mysterious, suave graphite – sent shockwaves through the Big Thing community with their eight-metre height and weight of more than a tonne.

    They were conceived to draw attention to a world-class olive oil processing plant that promised to transform the region. There was a sense of hope in the crisp, country air as hundreds of well-wishers descended upon Tailem Bend for the Olives’ unveiling.

    With a bouncy castle and plates of stuffed olives with little skewers poked through them, it was a day nobody would ever forget. Rumours abounded that Jamie Olive-er would be present to whip up a selection of mouthwatering antipasti.

    Life was good. Little did the locals know, however, that a nightmare were just around the corner.

    For not everything was as delicious as it seemed at the Big Olive factory. Shady business deals, grotesque working conditions and substandard products were the oil on which the company ran. And then, in early-2012, the little town of Tailem Bend found its way onto every television in the nation.

    Oils ain’t oils

    Hard-boiled Today Tonight reporter Frank Pangallo broke the outrageous story about what was really going on at The Big Olive, and the country gasped as one. The oil being produced there was, upon testing, not olive oil all. It was of such poor quality as to be unfit for human consumption and should only have been used as lamp fuel.

    Expired bottles of oil were illegally relabelled, meaning they’d hit the shelves three or four years after their use-by-date. Employees who questioned these practices were berated, belittled, and bullied.

    The depths of the depravity were alarming. It was common for production workers, possibly crazed from hunger due to long work hours, to slurp oil straight from a bottle, pop the cap back on and then send it off to the customer. As a result, thousands of Australians may have unwittingly drizzled saliva upon their bruschetta.

    Pangallo, a fearless scribe who has built a career on standing up for the little guy, was the target of brutal death threats. But he wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t back down. The story caused widespread outrage and ushered in a new era of stringent regulation in the notoriously crime-riddled olive oil industry.

    For a company that marketed their products as ‘Australia’s health gift to the world’, the fallout was terminal. The Big Olive Company was fined an incredible $13,000 and the factory, which had promised so much, was shuttered forever. This corruption, this misery, happened under the happy visage of The Big Olive.

    It all seemed like such a waste.

    Olive and let die

    A visit to The Big Olive is a conflicting and, at times, harrowing experience. The monument is well maintained, easy to find, and every bit as mesmerising as the day it was first shown to an awestruck population.

    The olives are massive, delightfully shiny, and incredibly lifelike. I particularly enjoyed the addition of a rustic, undulated stem, which perfectly frames the olives against the dusty backdrop whilst emphasising their immense size.

    Their Rococo-inspired lines and simple, almost austere carapace make them perfect for a fun photo. Like any plump, fresh olive, they compliment, rather than overwhelm, the experience.

    But the fact that they’re locked behind a fence, amidst an incomplete and windswept industrial complex, tosses these olives into a mediterranean salad of misery. Knowing what went on in that factory, the betrayal and the abuse, makes it difficult to truly enjoy The Big Olive in all its majesty.

    The factory tours are long gone, as are the oil tastings and cooking classes that once made it a highlight of any trip through South Australia. Sure, it’s possible to lean against the fence, guzzling olive oil from a bottle, but it’s just not the same.

    Hopefully one day the facility can be taken over, revamped, and re-opened. It’s time for The Big Olive to once again stand proud alongside The Big Pelican and Map the Miner as an Aussie icon. The Big Olive is a wonderful attraction and deserves to be seen and enjoyed in all its sumptuous glory.

    I guess you could say olive them so much it hurts!

  • 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!

  • Bertha the Bunyip, Murray Bridge, SA

    Bertha the Bunyip, Murray Bridge, South Australia

    Those who wade unwarily into the windswept waters beneath Murray Bridge risk being ravaged by something truly frightening. Frighteningly fantastic, that is, because Bertha the Bunyip is both an ancient indigenous spirit guardian who devours those foolish enough to take a dip in the Murray River, and a proud, brave trans woman.

    Meanwhile, I have a doozie of a time keeping up with two Netflix shows at the same time – teehee!

    Assigned male at birth, this mesmerising monster was known as Bert when she first appeared in 1972. She was lovingly created by local chap Dennis Newell as the major attraction for the Weerama Festival, which was held on the Australia Day long weekend each year. Lamingtons, party pies and a rendezvous with slimy water imp, does it get any better?

    With $2250 from the council and $500 from the local Jaycees club, Dennis spent months constructing the adorable abomination in his shed. Designed to emerge from a pool of water and roar ferociously at anyone silly enough to peek inside his cage, Bert was certainly unique amongst the Bigs.

    “Everyone thought he was a little bit crazy,” Dennis’ wife Marlene told a captivated reporter. “Dennis recalls much controversy emanating, with heaps of media comment and ratepayer meetings.”

    Despite his ghoulish appearance, Bert was an immediate hit. Curious onlookers lined up to drop 20c into Bert’s bucket to watch him squeal. Dozens – perhaps hundreds – fainted during the outrageous encounter, but thousands of dollars were raised for the community.

    So successful was the attraction that Dennis made a tidy profit selling Bert t-shirts, coffee mugs and school lunchboxes, and even hatched grandiose plans for a bunyip-themed board game. Bert-a-mania was gripping the nation but, deep inside, the star of the show was living a bunyip-sized lie.

    Bert or Bertha?

    The good people of Murray Bridge needed to adjust to living alongside a hideously deformed creature of superhuman size and strength, but Bert was dealing with something even more ghastly – gender dysphoria.

    On December 5, 1981, the world was shocked, yet delighted, when Bert introduced her lovechild, Graham. The smaller, yet equally gruesome bunyip caused a new wave of Bigthusiasts to flood into this vibrant rural community.

    But a bombshell would soon be dropped upon an unsuspecting public. Bert, famous for brash masculinity and tough guy charm, now identified as a woman. And so she revealed her true self, Bertha, a curvaceous and feminine swamp monster who delighted and frightened in equal measure.

    Her bravery inspired many in Murray Bridge to bare their own sexualities, with several burly tradies and members of the local Aussie Rules team also coming out as trans. It was an age of enlightenment in the region, and it was all thanks to an animatronic swamp creature.

    Being an icon of pride did not, however, vaccinate Bertha from the twin terrors of bigotry and stupidity. In 2000 a group of transphobic alt-right hatemongers broke into her cage and, in an act of domestic terrorism, brutally bashed Bertha and kidnapped poor Graham. The beautiful rainbow child, a symbol of hope to all gender-diverse Australians, was never seen again.

    Scarred beyond recognition, Bertha required a complete reconstruction. She emerged some time later bigger and more beautiful than ever, with her trademark ruby lips and provocative expression luring in lovers from all walks of life.

    The members of the anti-trans death squad were, fittingly, dragged to the icy depths of the Murray River, their bodies never recovered. Which brings us to the violent, bloody, vicious legend of the Mulyawonk.

    Sun’s out, the Bun’s out!

    To truly appreciate Bertha’s legacy as the grand poobah of Murray Bridge’s flourishing LGBTQIA+ scene, we must go back thousands of years, to the Dreamtime. Pomberuk, as the area was known to the local Ngarrindjeri people, was a popular meeting place for hunting and fishing and all those those icky things that a lady of leisure such as myself wouldn’t dream of doing.

    Sadly, this little slice of paradise was destroyed by some Selfish Simon who came along and took all the fish from the river, leaving none for the others. I feel their pain – the same thing happened at West Gosford Sizzler back in my youth, when a very young Guy Sebastian would scoff all the salmon fajitas, leaving crumbs for the rest of us.

    Thankfully the elders, tired of this cretin’s shenanigans, transformed this Greedy Gus into a mulyawonk – a sort of half-fish, half-man detestation. Geez, imagine the impact on the Australian music scene if the security guards at Sizzler had been able to do that to Guy Sebastian!

    Whilst I am Australia’s most beloved cultural historian, I’ll hand it over to Rita and Michael Lindsay to tell the rest of this horrendous morality tale, through the eternal words of The Mulyawonk Song.

    We know the Mulyawonk, lives in the caves and rivers
    He watches and he waits for the ones that he can take
    Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways
    Our elders sang

    Take only what you need, for you and your family
    Don't go swimming alone, or fishing on your own
    Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways
    Our elders sang

    Mulyawonk is still there, you should look everywhere
    Mulyawonk makes the sound, in deep water he is found
    Remember the ancient ways of the river and waterways
    Our elders sang

    Murray’s Darling

    A visit to this verdant township is always a delight, so when I was summoned by Gerald Wang, president of the Murray Bridge Commerce and Culture Advancement Society and proud trans man, I wasted no time heading there. Huddled outside a well-regarded coffee shop for a skinny cap and a vanilla slice, Gerald clasped my hands within his and leant in close.

    “Bigs, mate, the town needs your help,” he spluttered, a thin film of froth quivering on his top lip.

    “Plenty of towns need my help, Gerald,” I responded, blowing the froth off my beverage. “Be specific.”

    “It’s Bertha, mate, she’s stopped working,” the non-binary businessperson blabbered. “Since being damaged in the floods she just lays there in the water! Our booming tourism industry’s ground to a halt. Without the threat of being eaten by a robotic goblin, fish thieves are running rampant. And with the region’s only source of entertainment busted, our teenagers are being lured away by the bright lights of Adelaide. We’re gonna lose the town, Bigs!”

    “Not on my watch, Gerald,” I reassured him, before guzzling the remains of my scalding hot drink and flouncing off to put on my scariest pink unicorn bonnet. Taking up residence in front of Bertha’s cage, I snarled and slashed at anyone imprudent enough to wander near. Not surprisingly, entranced sightseers were soon lined up all the way to Tailem Bend.

    Unfortunately I was a little too scary, causing several pensioners to have heart attacks after chasing them through the streets of Murray Bridge.

    “No big deal,” shrugged Gerald. “We’ll just toss their bodies into the river and say the mulyawonk did it!”

  • The Loch-Eel Monster, Lochiel, SA

    Lochie the Loch-Eel Monster, Lochiel, South Australia

    For time immemorial, word has been passed down from father to son about an eel-like creature of immense proportions lurking in the depths of Lake Bumbunga. Once in a generation, when the silvery moon shines just right upon the lagoon, a terrified local may catch a glimpse of the Loch-Eel Monster and run frantically into the hinterland. Then, once more, nothing.

    Deciding that the good people of Lochiel had suffered enough, Gordon and I donned our detective caps and travelled into the wilderness to investigate this ages-old mystery. Well, I popped on an audacious cultural headdress whilst Gordon championed an understated, windswept motif, but you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to discover that we looked fabulous!

    Approaching the rolling hills 90 minutes north of Adelaide, we hoped our bravery would allow this proud community to eel their damaged hearts. With scuba tanks and searchlights, we set about the arduous task of locating this elongated fish.

    Well, it turns out the Loch-Eel Monster was actually pretty easy to find. He is, after all, four metres high and 10m long metres long, and sits in the middle of a bone-dry, iridescent pink, salt lake. Despite all reports, he’s a friendly chap, and it’s not unusual to find dozens of bewitched visitors posing for cute selfies with the beast.

    ‘Lochie’, as he’s known by his legion of admirers, has become a much-loved feature of this bizarre and beautiful region. But his backstory is every bit as bonkers as he is.

    Can you eel the love tonight?

    Lochie can trace his fam-eel-y tree back to a similar, if cruder, Big that was built back in the mid-80s. Known, amusingly, as the Lochiel Ness Monster, this critter was constructed from car tyres and simply appeared one night.

    Despite her grotesque appearance, ‘Nessie’ wriggled her way into the hearts of the community. Her popularity caught the attention of local mechanic Wayne Dennis, who saw an opportunity to app-eel to an even larger audience.

    “Just about everyone who goes past Lochiel knows the one that’s out there with the tyres,” Wayne told an bew-eel-dered reporter. “My mum used to live at Lochiel and, after I’d heard the monster’s head had gone missing, I thought, well, this could be a good time to make something better and put it closer to the town. I thought if we can make something bigger, it’ll put Lochiel on the map.”

    Wait a second, Wayne, don’t plonk the entire town of Lochiel on Map – he’s strong, but not that strong!

    “So, I started thinking about what I could make it out of. Originally, I was going to use a TV tower, and thread all these tyres on there. I knew it had to be a cross between a Loch Ness Monster and a prehistoric eel because the town’s called Loch-Eel.”

    Very droll, Wayne, but I’m the one who tells the jokes around here!

    Fortunately, Wayne didn’t have to beg, borrow and eel to finance the project. He negotiated a good eel with the local council, who slithered in with a sizeable grant. He built his snazzy serpent from fibreglass and paper mâché, wrapped around a stainless-eel rod and wire mesh.

    This brave man rarely slept, so consumed was he by his passion project. He barely even stopped for his evening eel – teehee!

    Even better than the eel thing

    A true savant of the Bigs, Wayne did things his own way as he forged ahead with the Loch-Eel Monster.

    “I had a red reflector, the same as what’s on the signposts on the road,” he revealed. “I thought that would make a good eye. So, I made the whole thing in proportion to that. The mouth opens and shuts. I’ve made a funnel, so that when the wind blows, it opens the mouth, and when the wind stops, it shuts.

    “I also wanted to make it high enough so that if you’re standing in front of it, you can’t reach up and pull on its mouth.”

    So remember, guys, loch but don’t touch!

    You need a thick skin to be an aesthetically-pleasing ray-finned fish in a rural community on the edge of the outback, and Lochie has that in spades.

    “I’d never fibre-glassed anything in my life before”, Wayne pontificated. “The skin actually turned out right because it wasn’t all smooth; it was sort of rough. With the help of grey and black paint, it made it look like skin.”

    Yes, when it comes to creating eerily-lifelike Bigs, Wayne was determined to reinvent the eel.

    The eels on the bus go round and round

    The completed sculpture was plonked onto twin trailers and carted out to the salt flats. Locals could barely conc-eel their excitement about having their very own Big! But how to ensure Lochie wouldn’t eel over in a strong breeze?

    “I spent lots of nights thinking about how we were going to put it in the ground,” Wayne explained. “In the end, I came up with the idea of digging holes, putting tractor tyres in there, and backfilling them with dirt.

    “Tractor tyres won’t rot away – they’ll last forever – and there are stainless-steel rods going through it. So, hopefully, it’ll last a long time because it’s in real salty water.”

    Wayne, your eerily-eel-istic masterpiece shall terrify and tantalise generations to come. The majestic Loch-Eel Monster makes for a truly surr-eel sight in the midst of a flaming fuchsia fields. Yes, Lochie certainly gets my eel of approval!

    Eel the world, make it a better place

    Lake Bumbunga, with its salmon-hued salt flats, provides a breathtaking and, at times, confronting backdrop for an encounter with Lochie. It’s a quiet place, an ancient place, where the crackle of one’s own feet crunching across the sodium crystals can create a cacophony.

    The setting of the sun is a time of spiritual awakening at the lake. With the mystery of the Loch-Eel Monster solved, Gordon and I relaxed on banana lounges upon the roseate landscape and, drinks in hand, watched a rich tapestry of stars roll out across the sky. For the two of us, it provided a moment of quiet contemplation

    Lochie’s mouth opened and closed gently in the breeze, and I plucked several granules of salt from the lakebed to add to my decadent goblet of caramel and pomegranate liqueur.

    “You know, Bigs,” Gordon said sleepily, before taking a contemplative sip from a margarita glass rimmed with coral-coloured salt. “I think we have a good life.”

    “Me too,” I smiled.

    “Me three,” came a surprisingly soft voice from the immense eel who towered above us. The three of us laughed as the Milky Way blazed above us, and all was well in the universe.

  • The Big Hills Hoist, O’Sullivan Beach, SA

    The Big Hills Hoist, O'Sullivan Beach, South Australia

    A woman’s work is never done, but a clothesline this size certainly makes things easier! Hills Hoists – a type of spinning, adjustable contraption for drying tunics and underpants – are ubiquitous throughout Australia and an integral part of the country’s cultural psyche. That makes them a perfect candidate for getting the Bigs treatment!

    For decades Hills Hoists were manufactured in the beachside suburb of O’Sullivan Beach, half-an-hour south of Adelaide. As the legend goes, one bright afternoon an apprentice mixed up his metrics and imperial measurements and knocked together a clothesline of epic proportions. Hopefully his superiors didn’t hang him out to dry!

    The wonderful washing line was popped on permanent display in the workshop’s car park, as a tribute to the ingenuity of South Australians. Apparently it proved particularly popular for Goon of Fortune at work Christmas parties – although nobody seems to remember much about them.

    The factory was shuttered in 2019 and production of these Aussie icons relocated to China. Oh well, I guess they need somewhere to hang their Mao suits and his-and-hers matching panda T-shirts.

    The boys from Orrcon Steel moved in shortly afterwards, and currently spend their smoke breaks gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the Big Hills Hoist. Whilst somewhat dilapidated these days, it can be admired through a chainlink fence, leading to a similarly disengaged experience to visiting The Big Orange.

    Just don’t get too close – as I was posing for these photos a burly foreman stormed over and offered me a job. Imagine that, the inimitable Bigs Bardot working in a steel factory!

    When it comes to manual labour, I’m every bit a 50s housewife.

    The Hoistus with the moistus

    As the crisp South Australian afternoon drew to a close, a furry little hand slapped me on my bottom. I turned, shocked, to see a hairy alien leering at me beneath the towering Hills Hoist.

    “Hey toots,” Gordon slurred, taking another gulp from his canister of Emu Bitter. “When you’re finished hanging out my work shirts, get inside and make me a birria and roast duck quesadilla. And snap to it, babydoll, the fellas are comin’ round soon to watch the footy.”

    Shocked by his repulsive display of toxic masculinity, I dropped my washing basket and slapped Gordon across his ruggedly handsome face.

    “How very dare you,” I snapped. “Whilst there is something wholesome and nostalgic about regressing to stereotypically gendered domestic mantles, the manner in which you’ve conducted yourself only serves to derail the non-binary movement and blockade the discourse required to move forward as a more welcoming society. Put your manners back in.”

    The tears in Gordon’s chocolatey eyes said it all. His muscular shoulders slumped. He cradled his head in his hands. He wept openly. A small group of steel workers, sweat dripping down their robust torsos, surrounded us, ensuring I was alright and threatening Gordon with a severe beating should he continue on his rocky trail of domestic abuse.

    “Bigs,” he sniffed. “I was so overcome by the sentimental, whimsical nature of The Big Hills Hoist that I regressed to a cliched and, frankly, rather insulting stereotype of a 1950s alpha male. My own ego impacted your happiness, your sense of worth, and for that I am deeply apologetic. I love, respect and support you.”

    The petite alien and I embraced, as silvery tears drew pale white streaks down grimy steel workers’ cheeks.

    Clothes encounters of the third line

    “You’re forgiven, Gordon, and I understand what you’re dealing with,” I purred, ruffling his hair. “I did, after all, sport a kilt and bagpipes for several weeks after interacting with Scotty the Big Scotsman. And I was inspired to swim through the ocean as a crustacean after a date with The Big Lobster. We’ve all been there.”

    The steel workers, each reduced to a blubbering mess, carried themselves back to the foundry. Each would remark later that they’d finally discovered the true meaning of love and dignity. And it all happened in the shadows of The Big Hills Hoist.

    Gordon, tired yet happy, held the door of the Bigsmobile open for me, then we rolled off into the Adelaide Hills.

    “But, seriously,” he yawned, stroking my hand, “I would like that birria and roast duck quesadilla, please. As long as I can help you cook it.”

    “With extra cilantro?”

    “With extra cilantro.”

  • The Big Pigeon, Adelaide, SA

    The Big Pigeon, Adelaide, South Australia

    Trundle down Rundle Mall any day of the beak, and you’ll flappen upon the peck-tacular Big Pigeon. The elegant, mirrored bird was lovingly crafted by local artist Paul Sloan and strutted into town in late-2020. Adelaidians, not surprising, have been cooing and ahhing at him ever since.

    Despite his flashy looks, he’s a bashful chap and the epitome of the boy nest door. The Big Pigeon cost a very reasonable $174,000, which begs the question of why the local council haven’t created an entire flock of delightfully large birds.

    Sublimely melding the cheeky nature of pigeons with the confrontingly angular architecture Adelaide’s famous for, he demands passersby pause for a moment of quiet reflection amongst the hustle and bustle of this burgeoning world city.

    A little bird told me that Paul Sloan’s lifelong fascination for pigeons inspired his genre-defying steel masterpiece – which is a feather in his cap as far as I’m concerned.

    “I see pigeons as proud flaneurs, promenading through our leisure and retail precincts,” the virtuoso pontificated. “They are the quiet witnesses of our day-to-day activities in the city, our observers from day through to night.”

    Thank you, Paul Sloan, for allowing me to have a birds-eye view of your passion project.

    Birds of a feather go BIG together

    Widely regarded as the most handsome chap in Adelaide (quite a feat considering that Scotty the Big Scotsman is just up the road), The Big Pigeon isn’t completely u-beak. He’s a dead winger for an equally-dovely feathered friend in Blackpool, England – Big Bird.

    You might say that I’m obsessed with oversized representations of this particular breed of bird, but that’s not true! I’ve also had dalliances with The Big Kookaburra, The Big Chook, The Big Parrot and Chinute Chinute.

    Then there’s Katey Seagull, Stanley the Emu, the Big Eagle and Charlie.

    And Bruno. And The Big Galahs. Oh, and the deceptively nimble Chickaletta.

    Feeling sweet? Then fall in loooove with the The Big Honeyeater! Wanna cash some cans at the same time? The Big Bowerbird is for you!

    Let’s not forget The Big Pelican in Loxton! And Pelican Pete in Noosaville!

    Aaaand the incomparable, transcendent, utterly sublime Big Penguin!

    So don’t pigeonhole me, buddy!

    What’s dong with people these days?

    Trigger warning: The following passage contains graphic depictions of pigeon abuse and general naughtiness. As Land of the Bigs is a family website, I implore you to cover your little one’s eyes before delving any further. You’re welcome.

    The brave, regal Big Pigeon is a shining symbol of everything magical and innocent and proud and wonderful that Adelaide has to offer. That didn’t stop him, however, from running afowl of a depraved pervert with a massive pecker.

    The lunatic – probably high on cheap lollies and red cordial and without a pigeon of concern for the public’s wellbeing – attached what is commonly known as a ‘dildo’ to the front of the gentle fellow. This contraption, which apparently takes the form of a frighteningly-accurate representation of male genitalia, seems to have been placed there as a lark. You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I found out!

    So enraged were the people of Adelaide that they rioted through the streets for several weeks hence, looking to capture the cretin responsible and toss him, squealing like the pig he was, into the River Torrens. Pigeon Lives Matter, you know!

    I’m going to remain tight-beaked about whether I was involved in the sicko’s disappearance, but let’s just say there are plenty of barrels to pop a pigeon molester into – teehee!

    Oh, and if you’re looking for the dildo, it’s long since been removed. It’s not in any of the bins around Rundle Mall, it hasn’t been tossed into any bushes, and none of the shopkeepers know where it ended up. Trust me, I asked.

  • 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!

  • The Big Praying Mantids, Mt Gambier, SA

    The Big Praying Mantids, Mount Gambier, South Australia

    Praying for a handsome mantid? Then join this congregation of oversized insects, who have swarmed into the picturesque village of Mount Gambier. Or, given how many bugs and beasties are around, should that be MITE Gambier? Or even Mount Gam-bee-er – teehee!

    Local artist Ivo Tadic created the un-beetle-ievable piece in 2019 to add a splash of colour to the Mount Gambier Snail Trail… oops, make that RAIL Trail. This gorgeous walk follows the disused train tracks, and provides a stunning experience that is as breathtaking as it is educational.

    The Rail Trail is an easy stroll, although some training beforehand is recommended. Along with the massive praying mantes, you’re sure to find the giant set of railway signals raily interesting!

    Older visitors planning to trek to The Big Mantids, however, might want to take a walking stick insect. There are even a few grassy spots perfect for a quick game of cricket. Don’t worry, you won’t see any cockroaches – they live a few hours away in Lower Light.

    The Big Mantids are a joy to take photos with, as they wave their surprisingly muscular arms in the air. Yes, they’re anatomically correct and incredibly detailed, but there’s also a sense of fun that makes them a must-see on any trip to South Australia. I tell no flies when I say the craftmanship will leave you wasping in delight. They really are in a classhopper of their own!

    Although there is a mosque-ito nearby, it’s not know which religion these guys adhere to – but one thing’s for sure, they are both in sects!

    Alright, stop earwiggin’ out, fleas accept my apologies for my an-ticks!

    Livin’ on a prayer

    Ivo put moths of hard work into the cic-arduous task of building The Big Mantids, ant it was all worth it. The hues and materials were inspired by the Mount Gambian wilderness, because Ivo wanted his happy chappies to blend in with the surrounding environment.

    “Limestone is an important feature in our regional identity and the use of this material and natural colours ensures the piece sits well in this location,” Ivo explained upon unveiling his masterpiece. “The use of limestone is also good for tourism and opens the opportunity for a sculpture trail to be developed as a tourist attraction.”

    So popular have the Mantids proven, that the trail – once silent and rusting – is now completely overrun by insect-obsessed tourists. But, I suppose, that is the lesser of two weevils.

    Mount Gambier’s intelligentsia have been ensconced in heated debate regarding the hidden meaning and translucent commentary behind The Big Mantids, but Ivo – a flamboyant renegade of the Australian urban art scene – refuses to play by the rules.

    “Interpret it however you wish,” he postulated, in a move sure to kick the hornet’s nest. “It can symbolise many things, however, I created this piece because I like insects and they are a foundational layer of our ecosystem.” If only everyone admired creepy crawlies as much as you, Ivo, I wouldn’t be spending tonight alone!

    Alright, alright! I’ll give the puns a rest, so don’t bite my head off – I’m not a bloomin’ mantid!

  • The Big Ram, Karoonda, SA

    The Big Ram, Karoonda, South Australia

    Ay Caramba, lovers of Big Things! Is me, El Grande Gonzales, greatest luchador in all México and Latin America’s leading expert on oversized roadside attractions. Hola!

    You may look at mi beautiful smile, mi carefree disposition, and conclude that Gonzales is a happy hombre. But there is sadness deep within mi corazón. Bashing in the brains of mi enemies has been a lot of fun – and certainly profitable! – but it was a desperate attempt to transfer a poofteenth of my internal agony onto someone else.

    Lo siento, Santiego Ortiz, it seems I give you spinal damage for nothing – oopsie daisy! But I become distracted from my tale of woe.

    Muchos años ago, a sheep wander into mi village and eat mi mamá. Then he eat mi papi. Then he eat mi quesadillas, and this is when I get mucho furioso. And you no want to see Gonzales when he is furioso… well, I’ve been told I’m super cute when I’m angry, but I also get a bit stabby. This is why I am banned from Taco Bell.

    Well, that and the incident with the cheese sauce.

    Since this atrocity, Gonzales has wandered the Earth looking for the sheep that eat mi familia. First, I encounter The Big Merino in Goulburn, but he is too large. Then I find The Big Cow in Highfields, which is a bit like a sheep but also kinda different. How should I know, Gonzales am professional fighter, not veterinarian.

    OK, I sometimes work as a veterinarian, but México’s accreditations are notoriously lax. Last week I accidentally neuter Cat Stevens and give an actual cat a guitar and force him to play Moonshadow. Is easy mistake to make, and the cat really nailed it – ¡Ay Caramba!

    On the Ram-page

    But I go off the track like mi tío Miguel when he drink too much tequila and drive his lowrider into cactus. Is very sad – this cactus have one day till retirement!

    I hear word that the sheep who eat mi familia has been seen in South Australia. I take mi tag team parter, El Gordón, and we travel by donkey to Karoonda, deep in the outback. Is a long journey, but there is restaurant serving jalapeño poppers on the way, so all is well.

    Karoonda is nice town with wide streets and pretty women. It reminds me of mi village back in México, with less tuberculosis. But El Gordón and Gonzales are not here to sightsee, we are here to take vengeance on a horrible sheep. This cobarde try to hide from us, but we shall find him even if we have to overturn every table and threaten every granny in – oh, there he is, right in the centre of town! He was actually pretty easy to find, as he is two metres tall.

    He also have huge set of el testículos and – holy guacamole! – what hombre wouldn’t be attracted to them? Wowzers!

    Skip to this section if you just want to read about The Big Ram, and not the adventures of a deranged, yet loveable, luchador

    The sheep who eat mi familia has developed for himself a clever cover story. He claims to be The Big Ram, a South Australian icon and the centrepiece of Karoonda’s b-ewe-ming tourism industry. According to his lies – which he has even had inscribed into a plaque beside his rump – the idea for The Big Ram came from a señor Don Anderson, who wanted to cash in on the success of nearby Big Things such as The Big Orange and The Big Pelican.

    The sculpture was built by a señor Andrew Stock, with help from some of the more artistic members of the community. The Big Ram was unveiled in ungu-late 1997 at a cost of 12,000 pesos, with local kiddies adding a tiled mosaic to the statue’s base in 2001. He is of good quality, and certainly not sheep and nasty.

    Apparently, more than 650 hours of work went into the baa-sterpiece, along with 18 tonnes of stone sourced from shear-by quarries. But that’s just the sort of mierda story a familia-guzzling renegade ram would hide behind, isn’t it? You cannot put your wool onto my eyes, you big baby!

    They really should’ve named him Jean-Claude Van Ram

    Tears streaming down mi face, I storm up to the rascally ruminant and spit out the palabras I’ve dreamed of for eons.

    “Hola,” I rasped, whilst gesturing flamboyantly for dramatic effect. “Mi nombre is El Grande Gonzales. You eat mi father. Prepare to die.”

    The good gringos of Karoonda, who had encircled us, gasped as one. Gonzales clench his fists. The match of the century was about to begin

    Somewhere, in the distance, a lone cassowary cawed.

    I may be the most feared fighter in all of México, but it was El Gordón who threw the first punch. Teehee, you should’ve seen the hombrecito go! He kicked and he bit and he spat and he slapped until finally, slick with sweat and covered in blood, he fell to the ground.

    The sheep, he show no signs of being in a fight at all, and just stand there smiling. I take off mi shirt, adjust mi jockstrap, and prepare to rush in. But then I am struck by sudden realisation. Just like when mi tío Paco was struck by a sudden VW Beetle whilst dancing in the street. This event cost him his dream of winning México’s Got Talent.

    “Mi familia was not eaten by a sheep at all!” I exclaimed, as the townsfolk went ‘Ooooh!’ in unison. “They move to a beachside villa in Cancún, where they make a comfortable living selling NFTs to chubby American tourists. I even visit them last summer, is a nice place. Mi life has been spent travelling the globe, putting livestock into headlocks for nothing!”

    I cradled El Gordón, who was really quite seriously injured, in my muscular arms. We posed for some super cute selfies with The Big Ram, signed autographs for the understandably starstruck townsfolk, and said our farewells to Karoonda.

    “That place that sells the jalapeño poppers is still open, right?” asked a weary El Gordón.

    “Sí, señor.” And with that, we rode our donkey off into the sunset.

  • The Big Apple, Balhannah, SA

    The Big Apple, Balhannah, South Australia

    She’s plump, juicy and oh so delicious – but enough about me, the inimitable Bigs Bardot! We’re here to celebrate the scrumptious Big Apple, who sits regally above The Olde Apple Shed, high in the Adelaide Hills.

    This ruby-red rascal is the pride of Balhannah, and boasts a rustic charm just as dainty delicacies she promotes. Stop by for a memorable photo that’s sure to set your socials aflame, then treat yourself to the legendary rhubarb and apple crumble, paired with a decadent dollop of cream.

    If you’re feeling extra naughty, try the freshly-baked shortbread, smeared with some zesty Adelaide marmalade – go on, I won’t tell anyone!

    The Big Apple has become a real peeler of the community over the years, and I must admit to being cored off-guard by her immense girth. What can I say, it’s not every day I meet some as fruity as moi!

    Don’t you think I look wonderful be-cider? I’d like to say I’m the prettiest Pink Lady in Balhannah, although that might upset the apple cart!

    OK, she might not be as famous as some of South Australia’s other Bigs but, really, that’s like comparing apples and oranges! I really should stop with all the apple puns… orchard I?

    How ’bout them apples!

    Grand Granny Smiths, really large Royal Galas and supersized Sundowners can be found the length and breadth of this wide, brown land (of the Bigs). There’s an apple in Yerrinbool, another apple in Tallong, and a really cute apple in Darkes Forest that’s almost as gorgeous as me… almost!

    There’s an awe-inspiring Red Delicious inside the Bilpin Fruit Bowl and, if you prefer your maças wrapped tenderly in flaky pastry, the Big Apple Pie just down the road. The highest concentration of Big Apples is, undoubtedly, in Batlow, where there are Big Things apple-enty!

    For those willing to take a salacious bite from a forbidden fruit, The Big Apple in Acacia Ridge is home to a fairly seedy adult shop. If that sort of smut a-peels to you, I don’t know what you’re doing on a wholesome website such as this.

    All are equally tasty, so I guess the Big Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!

  • 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!

  • The Big Pelican, Loxton, SA

    The Big Pelican, Loxton, South Australia

    Peli-can you imagine anything more de-flight-ful than this wonderful waterbird? No, I don’t bill-ieve you can! The Big Pelican is the main attraction of South Australia’s verdant Riverland region, and has a story more wing-credible than you can imagine.

    With a personality even larger than his beak, The Big Pelican has long been the darling of Loxton’s robust social scene. He’s vivacious and outgoing with a slight bad boy edge, and always the centre of attention.

    The Big Pelican is the sort of guy all the dusky moorhens want, and all the dollarbirds want to be.

    Those empathetic (and tall!) enough to have stared into his deep, caramel eyes, however, may have discovered something more; the sweet melancholy of dreams unrealised. For whilst he touched millions of hearts and lived a rockstar lifestyle, all The Big Pelican really wanted was to paddle along the Murray River with his normal-sized mates.

    The gentle caress of cool water on his tasty tootsies seemed little more than a flight of fancy. But then, in late-2022, a miracle happened.

    Whatever floats your boat

    Like many of the more sociable Bigs, such as Lefty, Matilda and Victoria’s Clownfish, the Pelican began life as an oversized parade float. The Loxton Mardi Gras had long lured in revellers but, thanks to the arrival of The Big Pelican, it was the 1979 edition that turned the town into a must-visit party destination.

    Move over, Rio de Janeiro! Your carnivale seems like fun, but it doesn’t have a four-metre-long aquatic chicken!

    Local chap John Draper was the visionary who came up with the idea to trundle a papier-mâché pelican through the town’s streets. Inspired, perhaps, by Pelican Pete up in Queensland, he brought in Glenn Butson and Bruce Graham to help build the behemoth, with Charlotte Thiele adding a lick of paint. Bird fanciers swarmed in to ooh and ahh at his grandeur (the Pelican, that is, not John Draper – although I’m sure he’s a very handsome man).

    The humongous heron was also the star of the 1980 Mardi Gras, but apparently the good people of Loxton partied just a little too hard. Abandoned on a riverbank, the Pelican was birdnapped by local gang members. They strapped him to some old car tubes and floated the poor wretch down the raging waters of the Murray River. His skin was destroyed, the flesh stripped from his lithe bosom.

    The poor fellow must’ve been terrified.

    Those thugs must be in their 60s by now, and have probably kept their shameful secret to themselves. Maybe now, after all these years, they can look themselves in the mirror and not feel ashamed. Perhaps they no longer wake in the early hours of the morning, slick with sweat, the Pelican’s name scraped across their sandpaper tongues. But I hope, when their time in the sun draws to a close, that the final thought to race through their bitter minds is of the horror they put that poor Pelican through back in 1980.

    It remains the darkest moment in South Australia’s long history. Well, apart from the whole bodies in barrels thing, but it’s still pretty bad.

    You can’t keep a good pelican down

    Five years after his seeming demise, The Big Pelican was resurrected by an enterprising young dude named Peter Mangelsdorf. With stars in his eyes, Pete believed that the king-sized cormorant could find fame and fortune in one of the world’s cultural hotspots, and so took him to the bright lights of Adelaide.

    With the help of Roy Harvey, Dana Braddock, Ruth Pfeiller and some of the area’s more ambitious students, The Big Pelican came back better than ever. He appeared at the 1985 New Year’s Eve spectacular, and returned to Adelaide for the well-received Murray Comes to Town festival in 1989.

    When not mingling with Adelaide’s glitterati, this beaky chap was the centrepiece of the Loxton Mardi Gras until 1992. Like the rest of us, this party boy finally had to grow up, put the sequinned hotpants away and become a respectable member of society. Peter had long dreamed of having this pouch-standing example of modern architecture fibreglassed and put on permanent display, which he was able to do in 1998 with the help of Peter Goodhand.

    The Big Pelican was placed inside Loxton Riverfront Caravan Park, where he spent his days inspiring a new generation to greatness. But, as always, he had one eye on the tranquil swell of the mighty Murray…

    Floody hell!

    If the The Big Pelican can’t go to the river, then the river will come to The Big Pelican. In late 2022, torrential rainfall caused the Murray River to swell like the pregnant belly of a 2,508km-long snake. As the waters rose, sweeping away all in their path, the Pelican watched on and dreamed of floating on the refreshing brine – this time on his own terms.

    The caravan park he called home was drowned beneath metres of mud and finally, blissfully, The Big Pelican found himself surrounded by water. The sight was odd to locals, but also just felt right, as if the big fellow was finally where he belonged.

    The waters receded. The park was cleaned up and, eventually, will once again welcome campers. The Big Pelican sits again on dry land once more, the stream achingly close. But look at his curved beak. Stare into those deep, caramel eyes, and you’ll see something that wasn’t there before. You’ll see a flicker of life and excitement, born of a few unbelievable days upon the Murray River.

    Miracles do happen. Just ask The Big Pelican.

    Epilogue: When Bigs met Barry

    During my visit to The Big Pelican I was fortunate enough to spend time with the irrepressible Barry Mangelsdorf, the brother of Peter. Barry is as charming as he is knowledgable of the Pelican, and regaled me with many stories of the Pelican’s adventures over the years.

    We’ll go for that swim next time I’m passing through town, Baz!

  • The Big Orange, Berri, SA

    The Big Orange, Berri, South Australia

    Rising fifteen metres above the outback, The Big Orange is undoubtedly South Australia’s finest feat of engineering. Generations of Aussies have gazed in wonder at her enormity and stepped, hearts aflutter, into her juicy endocarp. This Orange is more than just Big; her grandeur is all-consuming.

    Songs have been sung about this spherical marvel. Legends of her size have been passed down from father to son to grandson. This colossal citrus is the very fabric upon which this country has been built. But now the Orange stands empty, wilting in the relentless sun, serving as a totem to everything rotten with modern society.

    What should be a monument to all Australia has achieved, has instead become a national disgrace. This is the story of a people who have strayed from their path, and the enormous roadside attraction, once the pride of this sunburnt land, that has become collateral damage.

    This is the tragedy of The Big Orange.

    The zest laid plans…

    The 1970s was an exhilarating decade for a spirited young country discovering its own unique identity. The Sydney Opera House was shocking the architectural community. The Bee Gees were turning the heavy metal world on its head. Rolf Harris was showing off a more refined, sophisticated edge to our society. Nothing epitomised this cultural awakening quite like the influx of Big Things – led, of course, by Ploddy the Dinosaur – and South Australia was at the forefront of this movement.

    Following the resounding success of Adelaide’s Scotty the Big Scotsman, local entrepreneurs Bronte Coombe, Vern ‘Chubby’ Chubb and David Marshall wanted to get in on the action. Each tipped in $145,000, before handing over design and construction duties to John Twopenny from Hoffmann Engineering. John, you were worth every penny!

    Constructed from fibreglass panels over a steel frame and weighing an impressive 85 tonnes, The Big Orange boasted four interior levels and a viewing platform offering stunning vistas over the area’s orchards. There was space inside for a conference centre, souvenir shop and 360 degree mural that, from all reports, put the Sistine Chapel to shame.

    When The Big Orange was officially opened on January 14, 1980, crowds of crow-eaters squeezed in to be a part of history. The landscape of Berri had changed forever but, more importantly, the very essence of what it means to be Australian had transformed. With the opening of The Big Orange, Australia thrust herself onto the world stage. A progressive and daring land, the equal of any that had come beforehand.

    The future looked as sweet as the Valencias the Big Orange was modelled upon. The reality, however, would prove to be as sour and withered as a Seville (which is, for reference, the most bitter and inedible variety of orange that is commonly grown).

    More than a peeling

    Millions of visitors and the sort of rockstar celebrity that most Bigs can only dream of couldn’t protect this landmark from the twin henchmen of time and eroding moral values. By the turn of the century The Big Orange was in poor condition and running at a loss. Sadly, she was sold to an employment agency for a paltry $100,000.

    This was a poor financial move as, not surprisingly, most jobseekers preferred to admire The Big Orange than find gainful employment. She was sold once more to Kevin Dickerson, a man with a big heart and even bigger dreams. He envisioned her as South Australia‘s answer to Disneyland, with the Big Orange as the bulbous counterpoint to the Magic Kingdom.

    Of course, the Americans had their own Big Orange, which entered the national zeitgeist and altered the course of North American politics, but it was nothing compared to our down under wonder. Kev’s ambitions, tragically, ran deeper than his pockets, and the Orange was put into liquidation.

    Honestly, with disappointment like that, it’s no surprise the locals took to popping each other in barrels.

    Local golf enthusiasts suggested painting her up like an oversized Titleist but, thankfully, this mockery never came to fruition. I guess they just didn’t have the drive to see it through. The site was instead bought by a local businessman, who still hopes reopen it as a tourist attraction someday.

    But someday, as the pop rock poets from Creedence Clearwater Revival once told us, may never come.

    Stripped of her dignity

    Disturbingly, a repulsive suggestion to transform the Big Orange into a low-rent strip club has gained momentum amongst the dregs of society.

    Rest assured that myself and some other ‘Karens’ are doing everything in our power to ensure this appalling citrus-ation is not allowed to germinate – and that those responsible spend sufficient time in one of the Riverlands’ most inhumane penal colonies.

    See how much you enjoy the lapdances in there, boys!

    We’ll see you a’rind

    Today The Big Orange sits, alone and afraid, behind a gnarled barbed-wire fence by the Sturt Highway. She’s in surprisingly good condition considering what she’s been through and, whilst it’s not possible to venture inside or touch her rippled exocarp, it’s easy to see her from the side of the road.

    She serve as a testament to what South Australians can achieve, and represents all that’s good and wholesome and adventurous about this harsh corner of the planet. But she’s also the bittersweet emblem of a state tossed upon a sea of bigotry against gigantic roadside representations of fruit.

    I’d go as far as to say that the government’s reaction to this tragedy has been pith-etic, but now is not the time for amusing wordplay.

    The Big Orange holds a mirror up to modern-day Australia. The question is, how many of us are willing to take a good, hard look at ourselves?