Category: United Kingdom and Ireland

The Angel of the North, Gateshead
Girl, you’re my angel, you’re my northern angel
Close to Newcastle in England’s east, baby
Shorty, you’re my angel, you’re my northern angel
Girl, you’re a friend to all Geordies, lady

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

And holy moly, is this Angel big!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaflet
August 30, 2024
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.

Leaflet

August 29, 2024
The Wishing Hand, Dublin, Ireland

The Wishing Hand – a thumb-in-a-million art piece by offbeat artisan Linda Brunker – welcomes the curious to Dublin’s Ministry of Education. Thus, it not only provides Ireland’s youngsters with a heavy-handed message about the potential of the human spirit, it also teaches them about the importance of oversized roadside architecture.

A bronzed meditation on life and love, The Wishing Hand also gives a middle-finger to the establishment. The locals must’ve thought all their wishes had come true when it was installed one salubrious morn in 2001, but it looks pretty heavy, so it must’ve been all hands on deck that day!

Stoic and detached, with an unyielding fetishism for biological hyperrealism, The Wishing Hand can, at first, come across as a little lifeless. The term ‘corporate art’ prances upon the tip of my tongue although this is, perhaps, unfair. One can only truly appreciate this masterpiece after a moment of quiet meditation.

It’s only then, as the light dances across the fingernails, that Linda’s trademark style comes to the fore. The Wishing Hand becomes and ode to nature. It sings songs of water and wind and fire and, dare I say it, hedonistic eroticism.

It mourns, like the rest of us, for a simpler time.

“My work comes from a place where art, science, nature and the human spirit meet,” Linda pointed out. “Our world is fascinating at every level, from microscopic organisms to the galaxy that surrounds us. I am becoming more and more aware of what many traditional cultures knew – that all things are connected. This work is the product of my continual explorations of the natural and spiritual world around me.”

I was struggling to put my finger on it, Linda, but that was just what I was about to say!

The Handmaid’s Tale

Visitors should note that there is no left hand – but that’s all right! The nearby tribute to Luke Kelly is just a head, after all, so maybe the locals are spreading massive dismembered body parts across Dublin to scare off the English or something.

The Wishing Hand does, however, go hand-in-hand with other massive mitts such as Entrust, La Mano, Bird in Hand, Monumento A La Paz and, well The Mitt. I’ve re-used the same jokes in pretty much every one of those entries, so maybe I should put a metacar-pause on visiting Big Hands for a while.

The Wishing Hand was conceived as a hands-on exhibit. Guests are invited to climb atop the piece’s vast palm and sit, cloaked in the unnerving silence of a crisp Dublin forenoon to beg for their greatest desires. With a heart full of hope, I did just that. I wanted to get some firsthand experience, to be sure, to be sure.

Unfortunately, I’d guzzled a carafe of Guinness for breakfast and promptly passed out betwixt the Hand’s formidable fingers. When I awoke, alone and afraid, the only thing I wished for was a couple of Panadols and a good night’s wrist.

Leaflet

August 28, 2024
Kong, Keswick, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s on like King Kong!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yoouuuu shook me aaalllllllll night Kong!”

Leaflet

August 27, 2024
Lenny the LGBee, Manchester, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s No Place Like Honeycomb

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

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

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

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

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

The Emancipation of Lenny the LGBee

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

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

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

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

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

It was fabulous, darling.

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

March 8, 2024
Dream, St Helens, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

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

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

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

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

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

Tell Her She’s Dreamin’!

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

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

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

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

November 28, 2023
Aslan the Lion, Belfast, Northern Ireland

Once there was a super cute fellow with a slight bad boy edge whose name was Bigs Bardot. This story is about something that happened to him when he was sent away from Australia – and its wonderful collection of Big Things! – due to his family refusing to accept that he’d rather take selfies with The Big Bandicoot than slave away at an office job, get married and have a bunch of children like his brother Damien did.

Not everyone’s like Damien, Mum! And he and Renee aren’t that happy together anyway!

Bigs was sent to the brutally industrial, yet oddly charismatic, city of Belfast, in the heart of Northern Ireland. Far less than ten miles from the monument to Finn McCool and two miles from The Big Fish he discovered the whimsical C.S. Lewis Square.

It was home to an astonishing assortment of elaborately-crafted statues dedicated to the many oddball characters from the novel The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. (Their names were Maugrim, The White Witch and Mr and Mrs Beaver, but they do not come into this story much).

The mane attraction was Aslan, a very large lion with shaggy, bronze hair which grew over most of his face as well as on his head, and Bigs liked him even before he burst forth from the the grim bowels of Belfast and into the fairy tale expanse of the lion’s den.

Livin’ Nextdoor to Aslan

The first thing Bigs saw upon entering the park was a homeless man on the side of the open space. He was a wonderful homeless man, especially with the cantaloupine sun shining on the sardine cans he was using as shoes. While he was looking at him, Bigs heard the sound of single mothers squawking to his right. Turning in that direction, Bigs saw what he came to see.

Aslan stood proudly above a crowd of chavs. Bigs barely knew what to do or say when he saw him. People who have not been in Belfast sometimes think that a thing cannot be good and terrible at the same time.

If Bigs ever thought so, he was cured of it now. When he tried to look at Aslan’s face, he just caught a glimpse of the expert craftmanship apparent in his solemn, overwhelming eyes; and then he found he couldn’t look at him.

Bigs stepped up to the lion and said:

“I have come – Aslan.”

“Welcome, Bigs, son of, umm…,” said Aslan. “Well, your lack of a reliable father figure is hardly important now.”

“Tell that to my therapist!” replied Bigs.

Aslan chuckled, and his voice was deep and rich and seemed to calm Bigs. He felt very glad now, and not at all awkward.

“Where is the small alien, Gordon, who you’re always having adventures with?” asked Aslan.

“His visa was denied,” said Bigs. “There was some… unpleasantness, at the airport.”

Aslan said nothing either to excuse Gordon or to blame him. He simply stood looking at Bigs with his unchanging eyes. And it seemed to both of them that there was nothing more to say.

“Please, Aslan,” said Bigs, “can I take a delightful photo with you for my award-winning website, Land of the Bigs?”

“All will be done,” said Aslan, “but you have forgotten to do up your fly.”

It was true. Bigs thought it was a bit rich for Aslan, who didn’t even wear pants, to pass judgement on his fashion choices, but let it slide. The last thing he wanted was to get on the wrong side of a magical space cat.

Belfast and Furious

The large lion had been birthed by the uncompromising brilliance of Irish artist Maurice Harron. Aslan was created as the centrepiece of an expansive, £2.5 million redevelopment in East Belfast that quickly become a favourite place for the young and young-at-heart.

“I’m delighted to step ‘through the wardrobe’ and take on the challenge of recreating the magic of Narnia, right on C.S. Lewis’ own doorstep,” Maurice told a clearly perplexed reporter from the Irishowen News. “These artworks will be central to the civic square and provide a fitting tribute to one of Belfast’s most famous sons.

“I want to recreate the emotions within Lewis’ world, so that – like Lucy, Edmund, Peter and Susan – you never quite know what’s around the corner.”

Aslan, standing three metres from superbly-rendered claw to handsome head, offers a slice of whimsy to an, at times, harsh city. Perched atop a small hill, he takes pride of place above the other monuments and commands the respect of all who pass. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lion to you!

The Lion, the Bigs and the Wardrobe

As soon as he had said good night to Aslan and sequestered himself away from East Belfast in favour of his salubrious five-star accommodation in the heart of the city, Bigs sat alone, peering earnestly out upon the blinking lights, sipping languidly at a peach daiquiri. He thought about The Giant Fisherman, and Luke Kelly, and all the bizarre creatures he’d met in a seaside village in Wales. Bigs was tired, but he was content in a way he never could have imagined before.

And that is the very end of Bigs Bardot’s adventures with Aslan. But if Abdul, the checkout operator at the Nando’s down the road from the square was right – and he usually was – it was only the beginning of his adventures through the Land of the Bigs.

What personal demons did Bigs face, what confronting and, at times, deeply unpleasant realisations did he come to? Well, that’s Narnia business!

September 30, 2023
The Manchester Lamps, Manchester, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love lamp!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady and the Lamp

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

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

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

National Lamp-oon’s Vacation

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

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

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

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

September 2, 2023
A Monument to Vimto, Manchester, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fruitiest Big I Know

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

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

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

But then things got personal.

Seriously Mixed-Up Hobos

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 27, 2023
Dune Grass, Blackpool, England

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

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

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

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

Cheer up, it’s not all dune and gloom

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

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

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

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

The Stalking Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what was that, Norman?”

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

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

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

June 25, 2023
Alice in Wonderland, Llandudno, Wales

The inimitable Bigs Bardot was beginning to get very tired of hanging around the quaint Welsh seaside village of Llandudno, and of having nothing to do. Once or twice he had clambered to the peak of The Great Orme, and he had availed himself of the reasonably-priced goods at the local Aldi, but neither activity truly set his heart aflutter.

“What is the use of a quaint Welsh seaside village,” thought Bigs, “without an enormous Big Thing to admire?”

So he was considering in his own mind (as well as he could, for the gloomy weather made him feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of trundling along to the Wetherspoon for a chicken vindaloo would be worth the trouble of getting up, when suddenly an enormous carved wooden rabbit bounded happily in front of him.

There was something so very remarkable about that; although Bigs didn’t think it so very much out of the way because Llandudno and its quirky inhabitants had, after all, served as inspiration for the literary classic, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

And the absolutely tragic movies featuring Johnny Depp, but the less said about those abominations, the better.

Bigs leant in closer to hear the Big Rabbit say to himself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! You shall be late… to visit all the other beautiful Bigs living in Llandudno!” Bigs was cautious, of course, as he fell down the twisting rabbit hole that is Welsh roadside attractions.

But when he encountered a Cheshire Cat of immense proportions, and then a Mad Hatter of monumental measurements, then a Queen of Hearts of hearty height, Bigs became aroused, for it flashed across his mind that he had never before seen so many Big Things in a single quaint Welsh seaside village.

Soon he was scurrying around as quickly as his little Australian legs would carry him, searching for magnificent Mock Turtles and delightfully rotund identical twins, never once considering how in the world he was to get out again.

And considering Llandudno’s meager public transportation system, that was probably a good thing.

Alice, Alice, where the fudge is Alice?

To visit Llandudno is to step into the yellowing pages of a fairy tale. An enchanting Victorian-era resort town on the rugged northern coast of Wales, it really is a place untouched by time, with cobblestone streets, ancient pubs warmed by roaring fires, and a remarkable pier over the Irish Sea.

Like Alice in the story this British pearl inspired, it’s easy to get lost in the sprawling laneways, encountering bonkers characters on every corner. The Jabberwocky, despite his notoriously cranky disposition, seems positively erudite compared to an English soccer hooligan guzzling his 19th cup of mead!

The Alice in Wonderland Trail is easy to follow and makes for a pleasant, if emotionally-confronting, stroll. It just gets curiouser and curiouser; beginning in the town square, before meandering past the most scenic spots Llandudno has to offer.

The Mad Hatter, lunacy dripping down his angled face, sits and stares out at the emerald brine. The Queen of Hearts stands, screeching, in the midst of the hamlet’s notorious red light district, a sight sure to terrify any silly drunk foolish enough to pass her after a night of depravity.

The statue of Alice is both a wry commentary on the modern ideals of beauty and innocence, and a scathing exposition of the eroding values of the United Kingdom. Her angelic features have been corrupted by modern society, delivering a twisted visage that shall haunt your dreams.

When I used to read fairy-tales, and imagine myself as a young girl with flowing blonder hair, trapped in a bizarre foreign land, I fancied that kind of thing never happened… and now here I was in the middle of one!

We’re all mad here… mad for Bigs!

So Bigs sat on, with deep, sparkling, perfectly-proportioned azure eyes closed, and half-believed himself in the magical Land of the Bigs, with talking bunnies and pussycats, though he knew he had but to open them again, and all would change to the dull reality of a Llandudno winter. The numerous clothes-optional beaches would be sparsely populated and flattering to nobody, and most of the cabaret clubs would remain closed for several months.

The rattling teapots would change to tinkling of pensioners’ mobility scooters, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the handsome, if enigmatic and eminently unattainable apprentice electrician staying in the hotel room next door (call me, Callum!).

The madcap laughs of the Hatter, the lunatic growls of the Cat, and all thy other queer (and please note, this term has been used in the most respectful, inclusive nature possible) noises, would change (he knew) to the confused clamour of single mothers drinking bottles of cider by the seaside – while the lowing of some local chavs in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle‘s heavy sobs.

Lastly, Bigs pictured to himself how this same tiny town, with its vast array of outrageously proportioned roadside attractions, could become a beacon of hope for the rest of the world. He dreamed of how he would gather about the little children, and make their eyes bright and eager by showing them this incredible village.

And how they would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering their time exploring the Alice in Wonderland Trail.

June 22, 2023
Luke Kelly, Dublin, Ireland

“Whiskey in the Jar”

As I was a goin’ to see the Luke Kelly Statue in Dublin
I bumped into Colin Farrell sittin’, drinkin’ in a fount’in
I first produced me autograph book, careful not to have seizure
Saying “I loved you in Phone Booth, Col, the way you held that receiver!”

Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da
Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o
Luke’s the Dubliners’ star!

I took Colin’s manly hand as we posed before Luke Kelly
He held me a little closer, to make the gathered mob jelly
The ladies sighed and swore that they would severely beat me
But it’s worth it to spend a moment with Col, girls, so eat me!

Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da
Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o
This story’s getting bizarre!

Luke Kelly smiled along with us, as the horde grew in number
Luke and Col and Bigs Bardot just watched the throng in wonder
There was no escape as our devotees backed us towards the water
I kissed Col, then Luke, and whispered “I wish I was your daughter!”

Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da
Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o
I want Luke Kelly to be my pa!

Colin Farrell’s usually so cool, but soon did he unravel
Took off his shoe and threw it at the crew, boy did it travel!
Then I produced me pistol and Luke Kelly coughed up his rapier
We let off shots and left that group of teenage girls shaken!

Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da
Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o
Bet that will leave a scar!

Colin’s super strong, pushed Luke Kelly off the block he rest on
Then we rolled that giant noggin down the main street of Dublin
The girls would fly like ten pins as we swaggered out into the day
Watch out, world, here we come, so you’d better get out of our way!

Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da
Whack fall the daddy-o, whack fall the daddy-o
Luke barely fit in a car!

We took delight as we did travel all over Ireland
Col and Luke and Bigs Bardot will be together till the end
As we sat atop the Cliffs of Moher, waiting for the boys in blue
Col and Luke both leant in to say, “Bigs, we will adopt you!”

Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da
Luke’s now my daddy-o, Luke’s now my daddy-o
Luke Kelly is my pa!

Mush-a ring dumb-a do dumb-a da
Col’s now my daddy-o, Col’s now my daddy-o
This has gone way too far!

April 20, 2023
Finn McCool, Belfast, 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.

March 7, 2023
Equus Altus, Leeds, England

“The High Horses”

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

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

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

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

March 5, 2023
Entrust, Keswick, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John’s had the whole world in his hands

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

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

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

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

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

March 5, 2023
Fiddler’s Green, North Shields, England

He was an old man who fished alone by the coast of Newcastle upon Tyne and he had gone five years now – ever since his arrival on September 24, 2017 – without taking a fish. For a few days in late-2022 an Australian boy named Bigs Bardot had been with him.

But after some time without a fish the local chavs had told Bigs that the old man, known as Fiddler’s Green, despite his impressive height of more than two metres, was unlikely to catch any fish as he was made from corten steel and, thus, unable to move his hands at all, and the boy had popped off to the nearby Wetherspoon for their famous Thursday night Curry Club meal deal, paired with a cheeky glass of Wolf Blass Sparkling Brut with a slice of strawberry.

It made the boy sad to see the old man sitting by himself each day, often with a chubby seagull perched atop his head, and he always trotted down there to munch on a selection of lovingly-prepared canapés whilst admiring the statue’s intricate details, which provided a haunting commentary on a world Bigs knew precious little about.

A tribute to the countless fisherman lost to the pitiless brine, Fiddler’s Green had been meticulously crafted by renowned artist and steel fabricator Ray Lonsdale. All who swaggered past remarked that his work had been a permanent success.

Even though he weighed more than two tonnes, the old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. Inspired by a photograph taken in North Shields in 1961 by local photographer Harry Hann, titled The Salt, the old man seemed to contemplate the fate of his fellow fishermen. Wordless, breathless, his gaze acknowledged that he, too, shall be lost to the ocean one day.

The severe, carved ridges in his tunic and the aching contours of his ruggedly handsome face stood as a testament to the brutal reality of life at sea. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.

Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same colour as the sea and were super cheerful and undefeated. Which came as no surprise to Bigs, as this memorial was designed with a life expectancy of 150 years.

“Fiddler’s Green,” the boy said to him as they huddled together in a futile bid to stave off the biting autumnal breeze. “You can come with me. We’ll move to Manchester, get a flat in a trendy, yet still affordable area, and make a life together.”
The old man had taught the boy to love and the boy loved him.
“No, Bigs” the old man said. “You know I’m enchanted by Manchester’s burgeoning craft beer scene and eclectic markets as much as anyone, but the waves will always be my home.”

“But remember how we popped out to the Gay Village for a quick watermelon and ruby grapefruit hard seltzer and then didn’t make it back to our hotel for three weeks?”
“I remember,” the old man said. “I know you did not leave me even when I passed out in the toilets with a fishbowl on my head.”
“It was the bouncer made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him.”
“I know,” the old man said. “It is quite normal.”

“He threatened to punch me in the kidneys until I cried blood.”
“Yes Manchester’s bouncers are notoriously violent,” the old man said. “They basically had to pour us into the street by the end of it, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” the boy said. “Can I offer you a watermelon and ruby grapefruit hard seltzer on the Terrace and then we’ll go home?”
“Why not?” the old man said. “I’ll pack a dufflebag!”

March 5, 2023
Big Bird, Blackpool, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 30, 2023
The Cyberdogs, Camden Town, England

I would like to address claims that I, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, was seen scurrying from the bowels of one of London’s most notorious adult shops, beanie pulled down to conceal my identity. The shameful accusations – printed in many of the UK’s most contemptible tabloids – could not be further from reality.

The truth is that I was forced to pompously prance through the front doors of Cyberdog several times, waving a bag full of naughty goodies and screeching, “Oh, I hope nobody takes a photo of me – the inimitable Bigs Bardot – and sends it to the media” before somebody finally did just that. Honestly, why’s it so hard to get caught up in a scandal these days?

Unfortunately I was erroneously identified as one of the lesser-known members of Take That, but it’s just the first step in my journey towards being the most famous Antipodean in the UK. I’m coming for your crown, Rolf Harris!

Wanna Cyber? A/S/L?

There was another reason for my visit to Camden Town, though – the ravishing robots who stand shinily outside Cyberdog‘s flagship store. In an attempt to suit all tastes, one is a strong, muscular, brawny, handsome and virile chap with a cheeky smile and a bad boy mystique that we all wish to tame, and the other is a woman.

Each is around five metres tall, dominating the industrial landscape. Their incandescent irises lure unsuspecting shoppers into the labyrinthine boutique betwixt their metallic thighs. There’s a range of outrageous rave clothing and nerdy collectibles within the belly of the beast, but beware of venturing too far inside.

The basement of the store is home to Futurelovers, a depraved sex shop with the totally inappropriate tagline of, ‘Live long and perverted’. Some of the creatures found inside were doing their best to live up to that, rubbing their leather-clad rumps against me as I shielded my eyes.

So disgusting was their behaviour that I was barely able to find a suitable set of battery-powered crotchless knickers with matching nipple clamps before racing out of the store and into the insatiable gullet of the paparazzi.

Seeking refuge in a nearby discoteque, I fell in with a group of glowstick-waving ruffians I’d seen inside Cyberdog. Against my best judgement I indulged in several cups of the local mead and some biscuits the ravers produced from clear ziplock bags, and woke up on a deserted beach in Ibiza without my clothes and with another man’s name tattooed athwart my lower back.

Call me, Keith!

January 22, 2023