Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, you’re takin’ a drive, takin’ a drive… out to Forbes! There you’ll find Varanus, the grooviest goanna on the planet.
The 20-metre-long metal lizard haunts the bushland southwest of town but, despite his remote location, usually has a few scantily-clad go-go girls jitterbugging around him. And this Fever doesn’t just happen on Saturday Nights, because you can see Varanus every day of the week!
So pop on a crisp white suit and crank up the Bee Gees as we cut a rug with this very special Big!
Varanus was built by that hippest of cats, sculptor Glen Star. A true visionary with a unique connection to the land, Glen crafted the enormous critter completely by hand, using the highest-quality steel.
“Anyone who has been camping in the bush has probably seen a lace monitor,” Glen revealed. “The goanna is of special significance to the Wiradjuri people as a totemic animal, and a food source particularly during tough times. The bigger the gugaa (goanna), the more people fed.”
The result is a remarkable Big that eviscerates the unyielding dichotomy betwixt science and mysticism. Varanus serves as the main attraction of the famed Sculpture Down The Lachlan art trail, along with Bird in Hand and Heart of Country.
Despite his immense stature, Varanus blends perfectly in with his surroundings. Once the sun slips behind the gumtrees, however, it’s party time for this splendid squamate.
Forget the Viper Room – the Lace Monitor Room is the freshest place to be seen! Awwwww, yeah!
I’m not a girl, not yet a goanna
Meet me at the place where we learned to electric boogaloo. Eleven words on a slip of unlined A3 paper, that had me racing back to Forbes. A town where I’d misspent my youth. A town I never dreamed I’d return to. Would the townsfolk even want me back?
“John,” I muttered as I navigated the Bigsmobile through the winding backroads of western New South Wales. “Oh poor, sweet John.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” whispered Gordon, placing a tiny hand upon mine. “The last time you helped him, you barely made it out alive.”
“He’d do the same for me,” I shrugged, a tear rolling down my cheek. “At least, I hope he would.”
It was almost closing time at the Post Office Hotel when I pushed through the heavy wooden doors. There he was slumped on the bar, surrounded by empty beer cans and framed by a halo of light from the toilet.
“John!” I cried.
“That’s Mr Travolta to you,” the figure slurred, then his eyes widened when he saw me. “Bigs!”
We embraced, and it was if no time had passed since we’d first met on the set of the poorly-received Look Who’s Talking Now, where I’d performed admirably as John’s stunt double.
“Bigs,” my pal blubbered, “I’ve wasted my life on my acclaimed acting career when I should’ve been focused on what’s important – travelling around Australia looking at oversized roadside objects.”
“John, you’ve had one of Tinseltown’s most storied careers, money, women and –”
“And I’d give it all back just to visit Ally the Alpaca.”
“Come on now. You’ve visited many Big Things.”
“Thirty-four,” he wept. “I’ve only seen 34 Bigs.”
“Oh dear,” I gasped, taking the Hollywood hunk in my arms. John, I had no idea it was this bad.”
John Travolta reached for another beer and I slapped it out of his hand.
“You don’t need another drinky-poo,” I cooed, stroking his luxurious hair. “The only thing that will fix you is an enormous metal lizard.”
John nodded sadly, and there was a flicker of hope in his chocolatey eyes.
“Now put on that stunning white suit you wore in Saturday Night Fever,” I smiled, “and let’s get out of here.”
But I don’t feel like dancin’ when the old goanna plays
My heart could take a chance, but this Big Thing will make your day
By the light of the silvery moon, John Travolta, resplendent in his flares and wide-lapelled cloak, chest hair bristling in the breeze, twirled the inimitable Bigs Bardot through the Australian bush whilst Varanus the Big Goanna watched on, smiling.
“Here I am,” John cooed, busting out a brief crab dance. “Prayin’ for this moment to last.”
“Livin’ on the music so fine,” I cawed, doing the floss beneath the eucalypts. “Borne on the wind,
makin’ it mine.”
“Night fever, night fever,” we called in perfect unison. “We know how to do it. Gimme that night fever, night fever. We know how to show iiiiiiiiiit!”
John and I collapsed to the heath, breasts heaving as we stared up at Varanus. The creature peered back approvingly and, for a moment, all was well in the world. Bigs Bardot and John Travolta would cross the Land of the Bigs, disco dancing in front of other large lizards such as Dirrawuhn, The Big Water Dragon, Lizzo, and Joanna the Goanna.
“Yo toots, I gotta split,” John finally said, shattering my illusion of peace. “My private jet is waiting to take me to a bat mitzvah at Ron Howard’s place.
“Lead the way,” I grinned, looking over at my friend’s custom-built Boeing 707-138, parked a few metres away from The Big Goanna. “I’ve been meaning to pitch a script for a Land of the Bigs movie to Ron for a while. Think Schindler’s List meets Screwballs.”
“Aw, Bigs, you know I’d like to,” shrugged John, spinning on the spot and then pointing, dramatically, at the full moon. “But I just don’t have the room, babydoll.”
“There are 189 seats on that aeroplane, John.”
“Pookie, you know I need those seats for all my Academy Awards.”
“John, John! I thought we were going to see Arthur Sprout tomorrow…”
But John was already sailing through the skies on his luxury airliner.
By the time I’d hiked the 5.5km back to Forbes, Gordon was finishing his nightcap in the front bar of the Post Office Hotel. Seeing my bedraggled party suit and broken-hearted gaze, he gave me a comforting smile and drew me in for a cuddle.
“He did it again, didn’t he?” Gordon sighed, ruffling my hair. I just nodded sheepishly.
“Then let’s dance it out,” he grinned. As we took to the pub’s dance floor, the people of Forbes surrounded us, hips thrusting and arms waving. For one night, the pubs of this central western village were transformed into the discotèques of late-70s Brooklyn.
Oh, and if you’re wondering whether John’s ever been back to Forbes, the answer is a resounding no – and a few of the burlier members of the local rugby team will be there to meet him at the entrance to town if he tries to return.
Travolta, you have been warned.
