There’s an egg-straordinary Big Thing to see in the village of Warral, just outside of Tamworth. Dear readers, please ome-let me introduce you to the imaginatively-titled Egg Sheeran.

Y’know, like Ed Sheeran, the singing sensation. Pallid and globular with bright orange highlights, it’s no wonder the locals named this egg-normous statue after the carrot-crowned English rock god.

Unlike Ed, who is known for his bad boy swagger, The Big Egg has an over-easygoing personality. The great big goog sits out the front of the picturesque Kelso Park Farm and has, sadly, seen better days. But I’m not going to bene-dictate whether the owners should clean him up or not.

Whilst Ed has millions of groupies who swarm after him wherever he goes, it’s rare for Egg to have more than 30 or 40 devotees hanging around him at any one time. But it’s hard to get an eggs-act number.

Not much is known about this big, concrete ovum – I came up with a duck’s egg when I tried to find out who made it and when. The question of ‘why’ doesn’t even need to be asked. As Ed would say, his namesake Egg is absolutely Perfect.

Altogether now:I found an egg for me
Oh, darling, just drive along Werris Creek Road and it will be seen
Well, I found an egg, beautiful and sweet
Oh, I’d like to eat him with some bacon and beans!

I’m in love with the taste of you

With Ed Sheeran and Egg Sheeran having so much in common, there was room for confusion when I hatched a plan to take Bigella – a lifelong ‘Sheerio’ – out to Warral to meet ‘Mr Sheeran’.

“He’s playing out here in the middle of nowhere?” a wide-eyed Bigella asked as we a-poached The Big Egg.
“Yes, Bigella,” I tittered. “I’m just as shell-shocked as you.”

After pulling the Bigsmobile over by the side of the road, Bigella’s shoulders slumped. Tentatively, she circled Egg Sheeran.

“He’s not all he’s cracked up to be,” she blubbered. “It’s just a rotten egg sculpture.”
“Oh well,” I shrugged, feeling very pleased with myself indeed. “Different strokes for different yolks, I suppose.”
“Shoosh Bigs, you’re scrambling on and on.”

I had one final, hilarious, surprise in store for Bigella. As she reconsidered her life choices, I stepped behind the egg, pulled on a rubber chicken mask, and emerged as my alter-ego Jeremy Cluckson. I’d barely started gyrating around when Bigella started choking the chicken.

“Bigella, it’s me, just silly old me!” I bagawked. “I was playing a childish prank!”

“Of course I know it’s you – I’m eggs-asperated because you brought me all the way out here to the worst Big Thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” she spat. “It’s rusty, it doesn’t look very much like an egg, and it’s in a really shady place.”
“Yes, there are a few trees around.”
“No, it looks like someone’s going to come out of that house and stab us.”

“I think you’re eggs-aggerating,” I replied. “But I’m sorry I fried to you about meeting Ed Sheeran.”
“You left me with egg all over my face.”
“To make it up to you, I’ll take you to meet Lizzo.”
“The vivacious, curvaceous Lizzo? It’s not some dilapidated lizard sculpture you’ve named Lizzo?”
“Um, no,” I smirked, ushering Bigella into the car for the 15-hour drive to see a dilapidated lizard sculpture I’d named Lizzo.