September 16th

The Big Man squeezed himself into his economy throne and looked at the head-rest of the seat in front of him. It was notably short of TV screen. ‘Bollocks,’ quoth The Big Man.

He glanced at his neighbour, to see if they might be a source of conversation and distraction during the forthcoming eight-hour flight. Sitting next to him was a diminutive Chinese fellow, hugging a nondescript, black briefcase close to his chest.

“Hello there buddy,” said The Big Man. “My name’s The Big Man, what’s yours?”

The only response he received was a perceptible tightening of the man’s grip on the suitcase and a widening of his terrified eyes.

“What’s in that case then?” asked The Big Man, still friendly to a fault. “Didn’t fancy sticking it in the lockers then did you now?”

The fellow began to shake his head violently and hugged his briefcase ever tighter. He was undoubtedly a curious fellow, of sensationally limited craic.

‘Bollocks,’ thought The Big Man, and turned away. ‘I guess I’ve no option but to listen to Rupert Holmes’s Escape one hundred-and-six times in succession.’

So that, my friends, is exactly what he did. Eventually the Piña Colada-based wailing ushered The Big Man off into an uneasy slumber. The plane slipped sluggishly through the grey, Arctic sky and progress was made towards the Great White North.

The Chinese fellow slept not. He stared at The Big Man unceasingly, confusion and worry writ-large on his countenance. Beneath the sounds of Irish snoring and the occasional tinny echo of ‘..gettin’ caught in the rain..’, one might just about make out a soft, steady ‘ticking’ from the battered, black case.

*

Toronto’s much-lauded ‘Sky Train’ is not, as one might hope, a futuristic, hover-car-type fixture. Rather, it is a somewhat lengthy monorail-thing which ferries weary travellers from their planes to the city’s welcoming embrace. One must remember that Canada is currently struggling beneath the socialist jackboot, and it shall be some time before they develop the technology for flying automobiles, despite the mewling lies Comrade Trudeau routinely spurts out.

Waiting for The Big Man on the other end of the Sky Train was His Lady, resplendent in royal blue.

The moment she had walked into his life, he knew she spelled trouble. It had been at an international Scrabble tournament in Nashville, Tennessee, and ‘trouble’ had netted her a cheeky thirty points after she had slapped it on the triple-word-score with a wretched double on the ‘u’. But that was in the long distant past. A brief but glorious Canadian tryst spread now itself out before them, supple and yielding.

First stop on the itinerary was a ‘Caesar Drink’, which seems to be a heady combination of a basic Bloody Mary and odd Canadian soup. It was very much to The Big Man’s taste and he smashed through many a round. Thus fuelled, they hastened to the revolving restaurant atop the CN Tower.

“You know, food tastes better when you’re revolving…” Seymour Skinner, 1991.

Having done great service to a gargantuan platter of elk-based foodstuffs, the comely pair headed to a choice establishment on Church Street – one which, it transpired, catered predominantly to ladies and gentlemen who prefer ladies and gentlemen. This was all well and dandy for an open-minded fellow such as The Big Man and, soon enough, he was very much the soul and the life of the proverbial (and actual) party. A number of His Lady’s friends and acquaintances had converged to gaze upon his Munster majesty, though they were not the only denizens of the bar whose eyes had been, as they say, ‘caught’.

Suddenly, The Big Man was being dragged onto the stage by a large gentleman wearing a very fetching gown and no little make-up. Ignoring his protestations, The Big Man’s shirt quickly became ‘the people’s shirt’, and he stood, eminent upon the stage, in nowt but his pants. This proved a popular development and many wolves were whistled and cats were called.

Eventually he was released, but not before the befrocked gentlemen had taken some quite serious liberties. As The Big Man stumbled off the stage, he saw a lass wearing comfortable shoes pressing her suit upon His Lady rather strongly. Never a cove to give up his woman without a fight, he stiffened his sinews, summoned up his Celtic blood and marched back to the bar…

 

September 17th

The next morning, with The Big Man’s big mind somewhat clouded with the previous night’s liquor (but with The Big Man’s big memory well stocked with R-rated images for the Permanent TSB), our hero bundled himself over to the wedding of his old pals, Colin and Brywin.

While en route a startling thought struck him. He’d forgotten to get them a present.

Now this oversight is even more egregious in Canada than it might be back in the First World, as tradition dictates that all wedding gifts must be shot and killed within a fortnight of the ceremony. He therefore turned back to the homestead of His Lady and borrowed her gun. He then walked fifty yards north-by-northeast and shot a bull moose between the eyes.

Fortunately for the beast in question, His Lady’s gun fired .17 Remingtons, which, to a fully-grown moose, feel not dissimilar to a gentle Autumn breeze. The moose, therefore, wandered over to the nonplussed Irishman and said, “Da fuq you playin at, eh?”

“Ah, sorry lad, that’s my bad, my bad. I’ve got this wedding you see, so…”

“So ya thought you’d drag me along as a gift, eh?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well ya could’ve just asked. I fuckin’ love weddings, eh?”

“Ah that’s class, come get in the car then, lad, I’m fooking late.”

“Skookum, baby, too easy, eh?”

So rather than ‘going stag’ to the wedding, The Big Man ‘went moose’. A live moose attending the ceremony augers quite sensationally well for any Canadian union, so once again The Big Man found himself universally adored.

Once all nuptials were formalised and all speeches were made, both The Big Man and The Big Moose proceeded to go ‘full Irish’ at the reception, seeing off ‘mickey’ after ‘mickey’ and dancing the night very much away.

Sadly for The Big Man, the bridesmaid he had been chatting to for most of the evening went off with the moose. You can’t, as they say, win them all…and he had shot the blighter earlier that day. These things tend to even themselves out, given time…

 

September 18th

A hangover can be a cruel mistress, and a double night’s worth can be triply so, if you get our meaning. However, The Big Man was now well-used to juggling double mistresses, so he screwed his courage to the sticking post, so to speak, and drove off to Niagara falls – but not before breaking his fast with the family of His Lady:

All through the breakfast, His Lady’s father looked at him with a clear paternal lust, and only broke these loving glances to gaze upon the ring finger of his daughter’s hand, to imagine a thick band of Irish gold fitting snugly around it. How could he not, dear readers? They don’t make ’em like The Big Man in Ontario and that, as they say in Canada, is a ‘science-fact’.

*

Later that same day, as the young lovers ate together at The Keg Steakhouse & Bar and watched Niagara’s crashing waters tumble over the endless falls, The Big Man felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He turned and saw three fellows from the East sitting in front of three untouched steaks. One met his eye, raised a glass of mysterious clear liquid to his lips and winked, just the once.

There was something uncanny about these Chinese gentlemen. A stillness to them, a cold, cruel presence. Now anyone who has met The Big Man or has read our accounts of his endless misadventures will know that he is no craven. A meaner son-of-a-bitch on the rugby field you shall not find outside the most Afrikaner corners of northern South Africa. However, the trio made his Irish blood run cold. It was imperative that they got out of the restaurant apace.

Accordingly, he wolfed down his steak, saluted the falls, then did one towards a nearby arcade. There The Big Man and His (highly confused) Lady hid, playing upon the occasional computerised gaming device and bowling a sub-standard session of anxious tenpins.

He slept little that night, and not just for the usual reasons…

 

September 19th

It is said, by those who know about these things, that 3000 baths-worth of water go over the Canadian side of Niagara’s famous ‘Horseshoe Falls’ every second. It’s a big waterfall, there’s no denying it.

The Big Man and His Lady hopped upon a boat and ploughed close to the cascade. He could not remember when he had previously gotten so wet – but it was well, well worth it. Standing alone at the bow, he revelled in the sheer force and majesty of the place.

Little did The Big Man know, however, that on the other side of the boat everyone else aboard had been transfixed by a second sight: Two Chinese men, immaculately dressed, had began to argue furiously, pushing and shoving at each other, stumbling into the helmsman and generally causing quite the commotion.

Behind him crept the third, curved blade in hand, the spray of the falls dripping from the shining metal. The Big Man turned just in time to dodge the first thrust, but his assailant escaped his grasp. Adder-quick he stabbed at The Big Man again, yet lost his footing as he did so, for the boat had turned against the current and was rocked by the swell. Needing no second invitation, The Big Man fetched the fellow one across the ear, heaving him into the violent waters and away.

The two remaining gangsters, their distraction now broken up, wandered separately towards the bow. To their obvious astonishment, The Big Man still leant against the rail, soaked both in spray and cold sweat. He crossed his arms and winked, just the once.

*

As soon as they reached land they ran to the car. The Big Man knew that the pair would be hot on their tail, no doubt ‘tooling up’ for the battles ahead. He and His Lady attempted to lose them in the sprawling vineyards of southernmost Canada, but only found that Canadians really should not attempt to make wine.

“But we can’t go pick up your dog, the Chinese are on me tail!” lamented The Big Man, but His Lady was not for turning. She was beginning to lose her patience with his atypical paranoia and did not want the rest of their all-to-fleeting time together to be spent racing around, escaping imagined assassins.

So the hound was fetched and off they went, to the banks of the great lake and the cabin of His Lady’s family. Terry, His Lady’s aforementioned father, had been particularly insistent that they spend some ‘quality time’ there. This seemed most strange to The Big Man, but it will certainly ring true with all fathers of single daughters to whom fickle circumstance has presented a prince of potential son-in-laws.

Upon arrival at the cabin, deep within the great and beautiful Canadian outdoors, the first thing His Lady’s hound chose to do was rip out the throats of two Eastern hit-men hiding behind a large maple tree. This surprised His Lady a great deal. The Big Man, ever-chivalrous, only said ‘I told you so’ seventeen times during their stay.

They buried the thugs’ bodies deep in the wet earth by the endless, shimmering lake. They vowed never to speak of it again and got on with their day, walking by the waters and shooting pool in the gorgeous, old cabin.

That night, he slept like a large, well-hewn log, and not just for the usual reasons…

 

September 20th

The next day was spent relaxing and reflecting on that which had come before. The Big Man stayed away from the hound as much as possible – for when rude beasts get the taste for human blood, further violence cannot be far away.

However, in this he did the dog a great disservice, for (like all members of His Lady’s family) it had fallen head-over-tail in love with our hero, and lived only to serve and protect him and sniff upon his trouser-leg.

After a lovely, lazy day, they drove back to the city, where they found that His Lady’s father had organised The Big Man a gigantic party, complete with balloons, a live band and a life-size ice sculpture of the immortal Irishman himself. The revelry continued long into the night, love was showered upon him and all, as they say, was well.

The family hound stood outside, front-paws and nose pressed firm against the steamed-up windows. A thick, juicy marrow-bone lay untouched on the ground by its side…

 

September 21st

The flight to Vancouver was at midday and, even after long and tearful farewells with His Lady, The Big Man had apportioned ample time to get there. However, a sensationally circuitous route was taken to the airport and ‘it’ was being cut, as they say, ‘mighty fine’. His Lady’s father (who had, of course, insisted on driving him) was either unaware of the directions to the place or, more likely, was harbouring fevered, Canadian dreams of missed flights and shotgun weddings.

Eventually, The Big Man was forced to take the wheel and he drove the rest of the way at some velocity. All the while, Terry hugged his shoulder, gently stroking The Big Man’s big arm and murmuring, “What a guy…what a guy…”

The flight was swift and uneventful and before he knew it The Big Man was walking tall in British Columbia – in this writer’s opinion, the finest of all the Columbias.

His first impressions of Vancouver were good to very good: Greg and Grace, his cousins, were both well; the vistas were impressive; and there was not a single nefarious Chinese fellow in sight. The twin threats of marriage and murder now behind him, The Big Man relaxed into his new west-coast life…

 

September 22nd

His Niagara experience somewhat clouded by his risky two-step with the reaper, The Big Man took up the offer of visiting the Capilano Falls National Park. Standing in the middle of its famed suspension bridge, he bathed in the natural glory of the running water and soaked in its peace, despite the thunder of the cataract.

He closed his eyes…and as he did so the tell-tale pricking returned to the back of his sturdy neck. His eyes snapped open and his head snapped to either side: To his right, a thousand Chinese tourists were walking towards him along the thin span; to his left, a thousand more, all carrying burning torches and long, pointy pitchforks.

“Feck this for a game of soldiers,” stated the Big Man, before executing a perfect double twist with pike into the raging waters and away.

“Where’d The Big Man go?” Greg asked Grace, as they squeezed past the excited tourists and made their way back to the hillside.

“No idea, maybe he went to the bike shop?”

They did indeed find him at a nearest cycle-hire establishment, sopping wet, shouting at the proprietor for the ‘fastest fecking bike you’ve got’. Eventually they calmed The Big Man’s big, disquieted soul and were able to embark on a most enjoyable ride through Stanley Park to English Bay – in this writer’s opinion, the finest of all the bays. There they were provided with an excellent view of the mighty Gateway Bridge.

They were not the only ones staring upon this famous span… As soon as he saw her lithe, Teutonic form upon the beach, The Big Man knew two things:

1.) He had to have her.

2.) Unless she got on some factor 50 she would, literally and figuratively, burst into flames.

He therefore bid a curt farewell to his cousins and went, as they say, to go see about a girl.

*

Back in Vancouver that evening, The Big Man went to see an old friend at the Tap and Barrel, found in the salubrious waterfront environs known as ‘Gastown’. As soon as he set foot in the borough, uncontrollable flatulence took hold of our hero, and Meghan, the old friend in question, wore a peg upon her nose for the duration of their catch-up.

It had been eight years since he had seen Meghan, and she hadn’t aged a day. Sadly, however, neither had her large, Canadian husband. This was all for the best, however, for the cacophony coming from his nethers forced any idea of romance from the minds of all concerned.

Unfortunately, one Tap and Barrel employee had misread the platonic and gaseous nature of their get-together and sauntered over with a candle.

“No, wait…” cried The Big Man, but it was too late. The waiter lit a match.

The resulting explosion threw The Big Man straight through the pub window and deep into the cold waters of the dock. They never found Meghan’s body, nor that of the idiot waiter. Once again, The Big Man’s flatulence had proved notably fatal…

 

September 23rd

The Big Man stumbled from the hospital in the early afternoon. Many a nurse came down to wave him goodbye, many in a slightly flushed and dishevelled state. He then convened with Ruby, an old school-friend, and together they wandered around the Old Town’s market.

[You may ask how ‘old’ any Canadian ‘town’ can be, the country famously having been invented in 1948 after President Harry S. Truman lost a bet with his chief-of-staff…and you would be right to do so.]

They then went for many a beers at a couple of local bars, including a tavern called The Old Ale Pub.

[You may ask how ‘old’ any Canadian ale house could be…and you would be right to do so, this establishment having been opened in 2011, back during Stephen Harper’s glorious reign, when Canada was golden and Canadians were free.]

Ruby’s sister Molly turned up at The Old Ale Pub, took one look at The Big Man and proceeded to disrobe there and then. Ruby was somewhat concerned by this development, but The Big Man offered words of calming explanation:

“Don’t worry, love, I just have this effect. It’s a curse, really – me old lad’s as raw as a Jap’s fish supper.”

“Er..I’m not sure you should call Japanese people ‘Japs’, The Big Man…”

“Ah, don’t you get me started on those East Asians! I’ve had it up me arse with East Asians!”

“Um..well, okay…I guess it’s not the eighties anymore…”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing..nothing…Molly put your shift back on, you’ll get us arrested!”

But the shift stayed off, the authorities were summoned, and the Mounties swept on in. Unfortunately for The Old Ale Pub’s proprietors, the Mounties in question glanced at The Big Man and then glanced, repeatedly, at the dancing, under-clothed Molly, and decided to make a night of it.

Together they drunk ‘old’ ale deep into the night and the famous horses which give these lawmen their name defecated nobly and periodically upon the tavern floor. ‘Twas, for The Big Man, yet another strange and beautiful night…

 

September 24th

And then, to Whistler Mountain, for some top quality biking with Cousin Greg. While one likes to flatter oneself that one’s accounts paint quite the detailed picture, it would be remiss here not to highlight the ‘Go-Pro’ footage shot by The Big Man himself which currently sits proud and excellent upon his ‘facebook wall‘. Do, therefore, ‘check it out’, as it is some kind of something.

While The indestructible, indomitable Big Man made it down unscathed, that cannot be said for all who braved the mountain that day – and they witnessed three significant accidents on the way down. The first they passed by in a flash, but they stopped when they spotted the second and offered what little assistance they could to the shocked and winded faller. The third crash, however, was the most serious of all:

“There’s no saving him,” The Big Man muttered, tears stinging his eyes.

“No..no I think I’m fine, I’ll just walk it off, eh?”

“Just no saving him…poor bastard.”

He went off with Greg in search for a large rock.

“Quick dash on the brains and his suffering’s over, Cousin. Ye could do no more…”

“Why, God? Why’d you only take the young and beautiful ones?”

“Er..right, I think I’m going to go now, eh? You two are getting pretty weird…”

“Ah, here’s a good one Greg…right, goodnight sweet prince…”

“I’m off.”

“…and flights of angels sing thee to thy…hey, where are you going, lad?”

Following their heroics on the mountainside, the lads thought themselves well-deserving of a ‘big one’. They therefore splashed into a hot-tub with a hundredweight of ice-cold beers, then dressed and headed off to ‘Buffalo Bill’s’ for a criminally messy night which might be summarised thusly:

As soon as The Big Man saw the [interchangeable and numerous women-folk] he knew he had to have [her/them/another beer]

This is, however, a family-friendly blog, so our hero’s myriad misdeeds will have to be left to your own feverish imaginations. One thing goes without saying, however: Much of Vancouver, to this day, is still painted various, violent shades of red…

 

September 25th

Occasionally, when one behaves quite mesmerically poorly on a night-out – and especially when the fraüleins are involved – it is best to beat a hasty retreat into the deep country, where judgement cannot find a brother, and sweet mother nature absolves one of one’s innumerable sins.

The four hours The Big Man spent cycling with Cousin Greg and his good pal, Niall, helped shift all guilt and every trace of another bestial hangover.

Once all residual liquor and debauchery had been sweated out, the trio returned to the city in disguise and lay low, for out in Vancouver’s stately streets roamed feral armies of love-crazed women. Many held aloft outsize posters bearing the unmistakable image of The Big Man’s big countenance. They had the scent of their quarry in their collective, Canadian nostrils, and would not rest until he was theirs.

‘Perhaps,’ thought The Big Man, as he hid beneath Greg’s bed and offered up prayers to any gods who might hear them, ‘it’s time to get across that there border…’