Short fucking story

People often ask me how it started.

It’s hard to put into words. Maybe it’s best described as some kind of Lynchian nightmare, a fucked up plot for an even more fucked up horror film dreamt up by a lonely cretin with a deep penchant for the truly bizarre. A situationist prank by an angry interventionist God. A veritable lollapalooza of misfortune. It could be all these things, a combination of some, or none.

Most of these stories start with people breathlessly reminiscing about how happy and fun-filled their childhood was, their great woe manifesting itself in later life. They’re usually accompanied by black and white photos of happy family holidays spent on a beach. Father, Mother and kids all merrily slurping sandy iced-creams while the grandparents look on with white skin and brown teeth. It was a similar pattern for me although my particular tale is different to most. Some say I have been touched by the Gods and should be worshipped like some kind of deity, others are completely freaked out by me and think I should be allowed to die in the corner of a pub car park.

I’ll try and get this story out with the minimal of emotion and stick to the facts.

Throughout my formative years I was indeed that normal child. I wasn’t precocious, particularly gifted at sport or proudly artistic. I came from a really close family that spent lots of time talking. I once filled my sister’s rucksack with soil on a trip to the swimming baths, ruining her Walkman and rendering her swimming costume filthy. Apart from this we never really fell out. My favourite memories are visiting the boating lake near my Nan’s house in Swaffam. I often think back on this time and when I’m feeling low. One of those blissful memories that truly encapsulates the joy of youth. I was a popular kid at school owing to the fact that I possessed a very powerful magnet – scavenged from a local scrap yard – and my father had a key that could open any door, anywhere. At least that’s what I told my friends. These sorts of details are important when you are in primary school.

I was also pretty good at basketball but once soiled myself during a game and had to play with an arse full of shite. Mr Daly the PE Teacher (Springwood High School, King’s Lynn, circa 1993) didn’t believe me and wouldn’t let me change my shorts. I was too terrified to try basketball again after that experience.

An ideal childhood? Yes. Apart from the arse full of shite.

People usually say at this point something like “we were never rich but we never went without”. Bollocks to that. My parents were fucking loaded but me and sister got fuck all. We really *did* do without, and I harbour resentment about this all these years later.

There was nothing indicating that I was going to be plagued by strangeness. Nothing at all.

The first thing I noticed was that my limbs were stiffer than those of most kids. Whilst my peers were playing football, climbing on the school roof and daring each other to cross the railway tracks I was spending countless hours with Dr Thrift, our local NHS physiotherapist. For years many medical professionals thought it was simple Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis – a recognised medical condition that affects thousands of children. I was put on all manner of drugs and exercise regimes to try and loosen up my stiffening limbs. Nothing worked. Someone suggested that Saturday afternoons spent on the indoor climbing wall in Norwich would add strength and flexibility. Alas, no. After a particularly nasty fall one weekend in 1991 my parents decided enough was enough. They took me to Laser Quest instead from then on. This was one of those prototypical early nineties cyber-holes filled with fake smoke, rave music and fluorescent paint.

At age fourteen, when my friends were entering puberty, I was going through a very different body change. It would baffle the scientific world for decades to come. There was no escaping it; my skin was turning brown. It initially affected only arms but slowly spread throughout my torso, legs, and finally my face & neck. Of course as a child of fourteen this affected my self-esteem. While the other kids were called bullied for having the occasionally pimple on their oversized noses I had the fucking colour of Creosote appearing on my bollocks. It’s hard enough to fit in even when things go right, let alone when you’re getting called ‘Mr Browncock’ on a daily basis. And that was just the teachers.

Time went on. My youth was ticking by. Things slowly got worse.

When my whole body had turned brown a strange pattern started to appear. It first it was barely noticeable. Then it became unavoidable. My delicate, once-perfect childhood skin was taking on a wood veneer finish. There was no mistaking it. It had a grain and knots. Not just my bollocks. Total skin coverage. The grain got more and more profound and eventually took on a high-gloss finish, kind of like that corner table your Nan has probably got.

By this time I had been referred to the top dermatologists in the country. I felt like some kind of fucked up oak tree that had sprouted limbs. It was as if the Ronseal man had burst forth from TV, donned a school uniform and was slurping a Calypso from the school canteen. I appeared on several mid-morning chat shows and held court.

Of course by this time I still wasn’t famous. I was getting well known to the local community but mainstream success eluded me. I was young and scared and stupid but instinctively knew the implications of my dilemma; I could make money. Massive, unspeakable amounts of money. I could travel the world as the Eighth Wonder, be pawed at by tourists far and wide and be touched by kids in obscure African villages. A film? Who knows. It was probably not out of the question that I could land a high-powered job in the music industry.

Then things got worse. My body shape actually started changing. People initially thought I was merely piling on the weight but my whole torso was getting more and more square. My legs were actually becoming webbed together and my feet had become blocky and fucking massive.

Now this was bad. I didn’t mind being a bit stiff and grainy, it added a sort of élan that most do not have. A talking point if you will. The girls fucking loved me. This was getting serious though. I was now as rigid as a board and had to be carried like a ladder. If only one person was available they had to load me on to one of these trolleys like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs and wheel me down the street.

Time passed. Experts came and went. Nobody knew what to do. My body was growing more and more square until one day I happened to be at an antique auction in Acle. I was having a good time at this auction just generally wandering around and taking in the ambiance when a strange thing happened:

AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN CARRYING AN ATTACHE CASE TRIED TO BID ON ME, MISTAKING ME FOR A BORNHOLM GRANDFATHER CLOCK. HE THOUGHT I WAS PART OF THE AUCTION. IT WAS CLEAR THAT I WAS SLOWLY TURNING INTO A GRANDFATHER CLOCK.

For those not au fait with Bornholms here is a brief description:

This kind of grandfather clock takes the form of a tall wooden box. These are Danish long case clocks driven by a pendulum made in Bornholm, a Danish island found in the Baltic Sea. Bornholm clocks are pendulum driven clocks that were made from 1745 until 1990. However the demand for Bornholm grandfather clocks began receding in recent years.

My woody condition worsened until I was ticking and had an actual working clock face on MY face. I was now completely immobile and had to be fitted with wheels. I tried to carry on a normal life but it’s hard to enjoy one’s self when you’re a fucking massive chronometer.

I suppose the saving grace in all this is that I am still able to speak. Nobody fully understands how my voice has been unaffected by these unfortunate changes but I’m not complaining. I can sing, orate and bust a rhyme with the best of them. Who knows, maybe I can even find work as a rapping timepiece?

I was able to write this by dictating it to my best friend Tom. He has stood by me through thick and thin. He also polishes me up when I’m a bit dusty.

I’m not angry at life. I actually count myself lucky that I stand out from the crowd and genuinely consider myself an individual. It’s a drag not being able to do normal things like drive a car and consume Tic-Tacs but I’m a simple man/clock and have simple pleasures. I don’t ask much from life. Just stand me in the corner of Nag’s Head and pour the occasional pint of Wheatsheaf into my moon dial and I’m happy.

I dream of going back to the yacht pond in Swaffam one day, just like I used to with Dad.