The voyages of The Big Man (Vol. 1)

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…’

***

The voyages of The Big Man (Vol. 2)

 

September 26-27th

After slipping the driver a couple of cheeky ‘ten-spots’, The Big Man was permitted to dive into the luggage compartment of the surprisingly glacial ‘Bolt Bus’ and hide deep within the tumbling baggage until they reached the US border. To his astonishment, he was not the only traveller making use of the hold:

“Howzit?”

“Christ! You scared the arse off me, lad!”

“Sorry, bro.”

“You hiding from the women down here too, like?”

“Yeah nah, bro, it was just a bit chocka up there so someone had to come down here and I’m like, all good, sweet as, I’ll get in the bonnet and boot for a bit, I’m pretty buggered from the sculling either way, yeah?”

“Eh?”

It seemed that The Big Man’s luggage-based companion was a borderline-incomprehensible kiwi fellow by the name of ‘Mitch’. Once the Irish/NZ language barriers had been broken down, however, the two got on famously – and it was not too long before the slow, southerly grind of the Bolt Bus had brought them all the way to the border.

Once there, and with the hordes of irate Vancouver lady-folk safely behind them, The Big Man clambered out of the side-hatch and straight into the arms of a heavily-muscled border-guard.

“Usually, stowaways are meant to get in at this point, buddy…”

“Ah, yeah, sorry lad – had bit of trouble with the women back in Canada, like.”

“Ha, haven’t we all…you got ya papers?”

“Sure do, here…”

“Thank you, sir. And you, sir?”

“Yeah nah, bro, sweet as, but…”

It turns out that the New Zealand Government, as part of an ill-thought out attempt to raise public funds, recently sold the bulk of its citizenry’s passports to various insalubrious fellows in the Middle East. This has left fellows such as Mitch, whose wanderlust greatly exceeds his paperwork, in a slightly sticky situation.

This morning, however, the stars aligned and all aboard the Bolt Bus were eventually waved through. Had this been the soon to be walled-up Mexican border – and had Mitch been a slightly less pasty fellow – perchance things might have gone a little differently.

Yet all, this time, was well. Mitch and The Big Man headed straight to a nearby bar, where a friendly couple of Spanish extraction poured scorn upon our hero’s west coast plans and forced their own ‘wisdom’ upon him. Once well-catered with new information, he began an epic one-and-a-half day jaunt around the city of Seattle, completing a marathon or two of mileage and wearing through the old shoe leather with serious abandon.

Seattle, as a settlement, he found very much to his tastes – though, lamentably, many of the city’s residents did not seem to have dwellings of their own. Rather, they spent much of their time al fresco, as they say en español. Our American cousins seemed quite fine with this unequal situation, however, so The Big Man opted not to comment. He had not, after all, come to give yankees lessons on communism. Instead, he gave thanks for the roof he found over his head and looked forward to the morrow – for the very next day he would meet the love of his life…

 

September 28th – October 2nd

“Ah, go on, give us the Impala.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the Impalas are all out hopping over the Highveld, ahaha.”

“Eh?”

“We’ve got none left, sir.”

“Bollocks.”

“However, this Buick Regal, sir, is quite the automobile.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah – it’ll rip that handsome face of yours right off your skull, sir.”

“Hmm…”

So often, in this life, one receives exactly what one always needed, rather than that which one might have, erroneously, wanted…if you take my meaning. That is to say, the vehicle was, to The Big Man’s delight, an absolute animal on the road. He tore across from the city to Mount St. Helens in a matter of seconds and, finally managing to tear himself away from the steering wheel, went to see about this ‘nature’ thing they have in that America.

“Walk around, you say?”

“Yeah, exactly, just a little wander, like?”

The staff at the visitor centre seemed somewhat perturbed.

“But you say you don’t have a firearm, sir?”

“Nope – why would I need one?”

“Mexicans.”

“What did you say there, lad?”

“Bears, there are lots of scary, moustachioed grizzly bears in the park, sir.”

“Ah…bollocks.”

Reflecting that bears could not really be all that bad, The Big Man set off regardless. A mile or two in, however, the silent scale of the forests and the mountains began to set him ever-so-slightly on edge: Was that a rustling in the bushes to his right? Did the faint, chill breeze spirit the scratching of large paws to his Celtic eardrums?

In order to warn off any potential, ursine threat, The Big Man began to clap his hands loudly and proceeded to sing various Irish drinking songs for the remainder of his six hour hike. Clearly no fans of ‘trad’ music, the grizzlies kept themselves to themselves and he was able to return to his beloved automobile un-mauled. The scenery had been breathtaking and, had he not been in a state of near-constant terror, he might even have enjoyed it.

*

The Big Man’s next stop was Portland – not on his original route but forced upon him by the Spanish folks he had met up in Seattle. Portland, my friends, was not to his tastes. Once one has seen one’s first reclaimed vintage yarn emporium one has truly seen them all. He therefore hit Route 101 and hit it hard, speeding around the winding, forested Cape Perpetua and through picturesque coastal town after picturesque coastal town.

One night he stopped in a town called Glenada, purely because its name appealed to him. There he drank many a pint with gentlemen who, it transpired, were very much in favour of this Donald Trump fellow one has been reading about in the broadsheets. Never a bloke to hold back his opinions, The Big Man made his bafflement regarding their political leanings quite vocal, and they all enjoyed an extended, well-reasoned debate long into the eve.

That night, loathe as he was to spend any unnecessary time away from his car, The Big Man slept within the aluminium and carbon-fibre cocoon of his Buick. He dreamt of pistons and demagogues; of angry, orange faces and long, sweeping roads.

*

Lincoln City came along next, a fine seaside town with lengthy fronts and beautiful views. While upon the promenade, The Big Man set his eyes upon a lady.

He was able to look past her age and, shall we say, ‘heft’, and saw only ‘Sharon’. Wonderful, friendly, energetic Sharon.

Sharon was her dog – a delightful canine, undeserving of such an ‘Essex’ moniker. The lady in question was somewhat put out that he only had eyes for her hound, and this chagrin was increased still further when The Big Man took Sharon out for a steak, a beer, and a tilt at the local rippers.

After a less automobile-based night’s sleep, The Big Man hastened (sadly without Sharon, who was back home by 10.30 with a bone and a pat on the head) to the great redwood forests of the pacific northwest.

Once beneath the awesome pines, he promptly got exceptionally lost and had to be saved by a national park ranger. Walking back to civilisation, said ranger regaled him with many an arboreal fact, often pertaining to the immense height (100 metres plus) and diameter (10-15 metres and upwards) of these famous, lofty shrubs. They are, my friends, big trees. There is no doubt about it…

 

October 3rd – 4th

“Are you going…to San Francisco?” sung the radio.

“Yes. Yes I am,” replied The Big Man, well on his way to the City by the Bay. Off then went the radio and on went Robert Holmes’s Escape, for perhaps the fifteen-hundred and twenty-second time of the trip.

After a long, embarrassingly scenic drive, he finally broached ‘Frisco and met his old buddy Adrian, with whom he stayed for two fabulous days…well, as fabulous as days apart from his Buick could be.

His time in San Francisco was amongst the most conventionally ‘touristy’ of the entire voyage: Gone, for now, were the eccentric acquaintances and implausible adventures; and in their place one found splendid tours led by Adrian and his lassie, visits to Alcatraz island and the Golden Gate Bridge. Good, solid, Christian sightseeing.

All told, The Big Man had a fine time in a fine city. Under different circs he might have been tempted to stay a little longer. But the open road and a girl called ‘Buick’ cried to him. He would, accordingly, be off with the coming dawn…

 

October 5th – 6th

It was a seven-hour drive from ‘San Fran’ to Yosemite. The Big Man did it in four.

Wading through a thick covering of tourists, he trekked up the glacial valley and then up still further, right to the top of the peak overlooking Yosemite Falls. These falls, however, were somewhat short in the whole ‘falling’ department, the cascade being somewhat dry during this part of the year.

“Bollocks,” opined The Big Man.

It then began to snow. His coat was way back in the Buick.

“Bollocks.”

He then remembered that he had booked no accomodation for the night and would slumber in the chilly, automotive arms of his gasoline-fuelled steed.

“Bollocks.”

‘Twas a cold wander down and a restless night which could only be described as ‘brass monkeys’. Come the flickering fingers of the morn, The Big Man was firm in the resolution that heat, and plenty of it, was required. It was four hours to Death Valley. He did it in two. Including a stop for a three-course breakfast.

Once motoring between the sand dunes, his fingers and toes began to thaw and all seemed right with the world. Just then, three fighter jets at low altitude ripped past the Buick, the resultant sonic boom rattling the fillings in his teeth. He buried his foot into the carpet but to little avail; America had won this round.

Forgetting that deserts are liable to be a wee bit nippy of an evening, The Big Man stopped that night in an ‘RV park’, sans RV. To his great annoyance, once the happy sun did one for the day and darkness descended, the frostbite returned to his extremities apace.

“B-b-bollocks…” he shiverred, wrapped in all his coats and at least seventeen pairs of underpants. “M-must g-go s-south…must g-go south…”

*

So south The Big Man went. He dropped by both the Hoover Dam, which was damn big, and the Grand Canyon, which was mighty grand. He sped along a section of Route 66 and spent the night in a town called Williams, apparently transplanted directly from the mid-twentieth century. The next day he was up with the lark to return to the Grand Canyon, in a vain attempt to beat the tourists.

When he arrived a second time, he saw them. Hundreds of them…thousands. The Chinese had returned.

“Bollocks.”

But, on this occasion, his concerns were misplaced. These lads and lasses had clearly not been filled-in about his previous conflicts with their great nation, and many were of the firm view that the one thing grander in the vicinity than the ostentatiously large gorge was The Big Man himself. Scores of them requested group photos, along with hundreds of (what I am reliably informed are known as) ‘selfies’. For one glorious day, our hero was the world’s hero.

Eventually extricating himself from his adoring public, The Big Man fell into step with a top Texan fellow by the name of Joe. He, like The Big Man, was no fan of the Donald, but was a great fan of epic, natural splendor and the pair had a fine ol’ time, walking the great canyon and luxuriating in its gorgeous ‘gorgeyness’.

The hours slipped by and on the canyon stretched. In the end, only the departing light forced them from one of the all-time hikes…

 

October 7th – October 11th

Next my friends, next came ‘Vegas’.

That which happens in this place famously stays there…but so, lamentably, did the Buick. Their farewell was long and tearful…somewhat longer and more tearful than The Big Man’s parting with His Lady, so long ago, back in the frozen north.

But all things, as they say, must pass. That is to say, The Big Man was dragged from his motor, mewling and wailing like an outsize infant, by six of Hertz Car Hire’s burliest employees.

With red eyes and a heavy heart, he checked into his hostel then hastened directly to the New York, New York Casino, where he made a swift fifty bucks. Opting to use his new-found wealth to drown his manifold sorrows, he hit the pub – only to find nine fellow Irishmen in situ, drinking the place very much dry. Irishmen were soon joined by Irishwomen – supposedly over for ‘work’ – and a fine, famous night was had by all. Soon enough, The Big Man found new loves and, piece by piece, his broken heart was mended.

Subsequent nights and days began to blur into one – a thoroughly enjoyable ‘one’, but ‘one’ nevertheless. Fremont Street was explored, revealing, chiefly, lots of naked humans and no little liquor. There he gazed upon the very largest television screen on the planet, also displaying notably more people than vestments. Rather strangely, The Big Man noticed that many men were wandering around in industrial-sized ‘nappies’, which poses questions which one veritably does not want answered.

The next casino he hit yielded up seventy dollars. The house, however, always wins, and he spent it all in the adjoining nightclub. He woke up with the business card of a local attorney – something which The Big Man filed under, ‘best not to think about’.

His hostel had a rather decent swimming pool, which he made good use of during the cruel and merciless mornings. Hostels, apparently, have swimming pools in ‘Sin City’. Further proof, my friends, that Las Vegas, NV and Blackpool, Lancs. are somewhat dissimilar.

It was by this pool that The Big Man met a lovely couple who had, as one does in Vegas, decided to have some spontaneous nuptials. Having such a splendid record at North American weddings, he was overjoyed when they asked him to perform as a witness/best man/maid of honour – but this joy was shattered when he remembered his flight down to Belize (via, of course, Miami, Florida…) was but a few hours before their ‘service’.

Rather than remain and lament this misfortune, however, he sauntered off on a wide-ranging pub crawl, mostly with Australians and South Africans. These southern hemisphere fellows did not, it transpired, ‘do things by halves’, and The Big Man stumbled back to his hostel with the sun coquettishly rising, a broken, sozzled man.

Still somewhat more than ‘half-cut’, he grabbed perhaps three hours of the dreamless then stumbled across town to a ‘pool party’, where the revelries restarted in earnest. Another group of Australians (who flock to the ‘Capital of Second Chances’ like our Islamic cousins flock to Masjid al-Haram) was acquired and a highly sociable time was had by all.

Once out of the pool and (mostly) dried, they visited what might charitably be called a ‘burlesque show’, before heading off into another endless night. The sun was well up when The Big Man returned to his (really rather unnecessary) bed.

*

There are, it turns out, no direct flights from Las Vegas to Belize. However, one does not necessarily need to take three different planes and visit the majority of the Gulf of Mexico’s airports to make the journey. Yet this is exactly what The Big Man did – for while time, as they say, is money, when one has little of the former but all the latter in the world, why not go round all the possible houses?

Let us leave him, for now, in Miami airport, attempting to piece back together his fractured, pickled brain. More adventures, one is certain, await him in Central and South America. Whether these adventures shall prove quite as sinful as those he enjoyed in the quote-unquote ‘City of Lights’, truly, my friends, remains to be seen…

***

The voyages of The Big Man (Vol. 3)

Belize (October 11th-20th)

Three flights and a stale pack of marginally salted peanuts later, The Big Man trod upon Belizean soil for the very first time. During his fourteen-hour voyage the unthinkable had happened: He had realised that The Writer had been correct all along…Escape by Rupert Holmes was “sum bullshit, yo?”

Back in April his old pal had stated, loudly and repeatedly, that the infamous ‘Piña Colada Song’ was amongst the worst ever committed to vinyl…and oh, if only The Big Man had listened. Since then he had wasted so much of his time…such a vast chunk of his life.

Thusly, his very first acts in Belize were to find a computer; to plug in his brand-name mp3 player-cum-telephonic device-medium; and, his thick tears salting the keyboard, to delete the worn-out recording of his favourite song forever. He was tired of his lady, my friends. They’d been together too long…

Emotionally wrought, he stumbled from the internet cafe and discovered, to his dismay, that nary a single ATM in the entire airport was making with the cash. Belize City Airport, God bless it, sure as heck ain’t London Stansted (considered by many ‘in the know’ to be the very finest airport in existence) and The Big Man had no desire to be stranded there. He, therefore, did what any right-thinking fellow of sound mind and decent-enough bone structure would do in such a situation – and sold his Celtic body to the highest bidder.

The highest bidder, in this particular case, was an Arizona lass by the name of Sierra. She was a volunteer aid worker of sound moral fibre…though these sound ethics proved malleable enough to make The Big Man work a great deal for his trip into the city…

*

Once safely in Belize City Port, The Big Man was set upon by two further Yankee maidens, both of whom were hitting the rums with extreme prejudice. While this pair were two-thirds of a very serviceable, premiership-standard front row, our hero was in sore need of a drink, so he accepted their kind invitation and drunk much of the afternoon away. They then tripped over towards the speedboat which would take him to Caye Caulker – the tiny island just off the Belize coast where, in theory, his hostel awaited him.

The heavens promptly opened, the rains descending like a million watery rats ‘doing one’ apace from a leaky, celestial ship. The American ‘gals’ chose to enjoy the cooling deluge, giving The Big Man the chance to nip below into the hold and demolish the remainder of their rum and beers. They found him sound-asleep, with a broad smile on his face and empty bottles strewn around him. They were unimpressed. He did not, it goes without saying, give much of a monkey’s.

Caye Caulker, one of the quintessential backpacking destinations ye find knocking around these parts, is home to a good few hostels. The dive chosen by The Big Man was, of course, the very cheapest on the entire isle. One of its many idiosyncrasies was the fact that it boasted the most cacophonous air-conditioning unit in the western hemisphere. This made conversation somewhat difficult:

“HELLO THERE!

“G’DAY!”

“I’M THE BIG MAN.”

“WHAT?”

“I SAID, I’M THE BIG MAN!”

“OH..TOO EASY, MY NAME’S SAM AND THIS IS OLIVIA.”

“G’DAY!”

“HI!”

And so on. This lovely couple from Byron Bay (for they were, necessarily, Australians) were enjoying a jaunt from Mexico to Panama, and it became clear that the three would become fine friends. They were joined by yet more Americans and they set off together in search of multitudinous beers.

Many a place was visited, including a high-class establishment by the name of ‘Dirty McNasty’s’ where the rum was potent and on the house, so long as one agreed to shoot never-ending games of pool with the owner – a fella by the name of ‘Smooth’. Cigarettes were smoked that eve, of a significantly jazzy variety…

*

The main reason The Big Man had decided to grace this particular place with his presence was the excellent diving to be enjoyed in the waters surrounding Caye Caulker. Ever since the Australians made the wise and sagacious decision to destroy their own barrier reef, Belize has boasted the largest living coral reef in the world – and he was, therefore, desperate to get beneath the surface and see what was what.

His first dives took place upon a part of the reef known as ‘Esmeralda’. Who Esmeralda was, one does not know – but she was clearly a fan of sharks. The bastards were everywhere, so they were. Mostly one saw nurse sharks, harmless enough to humans of heft and courage…but they were not alone.

The Big Man glided through the waters in a deep, lasting peace, gazing all around him at the swirling colour and boundless marine life. Two lasses were diving alongside him, Samantha and Denise from Bordeaux, France (and by ‘Bordeaux, France’, one of course means Sydney, Australia). All was perfect and fine.

Things became rapidly less ‘perfect and fine’ when a twelve-foot hammerhead swung by and bit Denise upon the flipper. This raised much wrath in The Big Man, who swam around and punched the offending shark square in the middle of its ‘hammer’.

Now, back in verdant Waterford, Ireland, The Big Man’s right hook was known far and wide. He had, it was rumoured, once knocked out two Kerry cattle who had ‘looked at him funny’. This shark had, therefore, it is safe to say, never experienced anything quite like it. It swam off at a rate of knots, followed by many a nurse shark offering to nurse its new-found concussion.

Back above the waves, the two Australian girls beset The Big Man with salty kisses and, once again, he was flavour of the month, week and year. Many a toast was raised to the shark-puncher that night upon the isle of Caye Caulker, my friends, and all were most merry.

The next morn they set off early to dive the famed ‘Great Blue Hole’: Being over 300 metres across and 100 metres deep, it is, undeniably, a great, big hole. It is also notably blue, so whoever came up with the name was really bringing the goods.

Adrenaline flooded through him as The Big Man descended into the deep. Far away to each and every side he could barely make out the far-off bedrock, but that soon was lost, away in the darkening murk. He had long-loved diving, and this had been an ambition of his for many years. He could not quite believe he was finally doing it, and his grin was so wide his facemask could hardly contain it.

On his third and final foray into the sink-hole, he saw them. The bruised and humbled hammerhead from the previous day had tracked him to the hole, slipping into the atoll and across the shallows, unnoticed by the boatmen above. It was flanked by endless Caribbean reef sharks, two, three metres in length and with murder in their eyes.

“Ah shit,” thought The Big Man, slowly unsheathing the knife lashed to his ankle and staring down his fishy foe.

“I say, old bean,” called out the hammerhead, cigarette hanging loosely from its multitudinous teeth. “You know, you really made a fellow look like a prized arse in front of those Aussie chicas yesterday!”

The Big Man shrugged, kicking unhurriedly towards the surface.

“So, you know, what with me having a bit of a reputation to uphold around these parts, I thought, you know, it might be best to get a few of the lads around and, you know, tear you to pieces.”

The Big Man said nothing, mostly because his mouth was full of scuba gear.

“So, what ho, no time like the present, what?” said the shark, suddenly accelerating towards him, its foul mouth gaping open.

At the last possible moment, The Big Man cut through his weighted belt and shot upwards. He swung his legs up above him as he rose and reached downwards with his blade, stabbing his watery assailant right at the base of its hammer.

“Aarrghh…you Irish bastard! You think oikish tricks like that will save…say, lads, fellas, what’re you doing, boys? Aaaarrrrghhh!!!”

The hammerhead’s posse of reef sharks, never enormous fans of its supercilious tone, had taken the blood gushing from its head as a formal invitation to dine. As The Big Man hastened back towards the boat, they went at their former ringleader with relish – hammerhead being, of course, the tastiest of all the sharks.

The guests and staff of the hostel were beyond keen to hear this tale told near a thousand times, once he was back ashore. Yet two marine tussles in as many days had worn The Big Man down no end, so, politely declining all offers of beers and company, he turned in for the night. The next day was, after all, a travellin’ day…

*

After Caye Caulker, came San Ignacio, a pleasing little town filled with bustling markets sitting upon the Belize-Guatemala border. He travelled now with Sam and Olivia, and, after so long living on fast-food and bar snacks, it did The Big Man much good to get involved with some healthy home-cooking at their lodgings. A nice little gathering soon followed and the local beers and herbs and foodstuffs kept them going long into another pleasant night.

The next day he went for a run about the town and stumbled upon a nearby Maya temple, around which he pottered for a while. Upon returning to the house, they all set off to the river, where canoes were hired and an impromptu expedition into the jungle was made. The rapids flowed and the monkeys chirped, and The Big Man felt that he could get used to all this tropical stuff, if only it wasn’t so damned hot. A particularly stern set of rapids then capsized him, cooling him down immediately.

After San Ignacio, would come Guatemala. This is, however, a story for another day. Let us leave our hero, therefore, on a chicken bus (not, as one might hope, a bus full of chickens – rather a refitted US school bus, the like of which fill the streets of Central America) to Flores, Guatemala.

Upon said chicken bus, he ponders his time in Belize: Aye, the diving was fabulous, though Belize City itself was not quite to his tastes – somewhat over-priced and overrated. The people, however, were mostly excellent, and he had greatly enjoyed sampling the local alcohols and learning some Belize Kriol. Overall, ‘Culdmann!’, as one might say, were one that way inclined…