The Ballad Of Big Dan

My life is not based on a true story, mouthed big Dan, the world's tallest living dwarf as he savagely hacked the words into a slice of toast with the tip of his butter knife at the sudden realisation as to what his life was really all about. It is a true story, a story about me, Big Dan.

This revelation was brought about, Big Dan was sure of, by his experimentation with Bovril and Horlicks. Separately of course they were just Bovril and Horlicks, but by mixing the two together in hot water and bathing for up to an hour in the stuff before drinking the tub dry, the enlightening properties produced by this act seemed to be nothing short of a miracle. In fact, Big Dan was so taken with this ritual that at every opportunity he would declare with great gusto that he was full of 'Borlicks', the name he'd given to his newly invented invention.

'Holy shittin' Jesus! Did I actually just say that out loud?' said Big Dan to himself, as panic suddenly spread over his already florid face, turning it an even deeper shade of red while at the same time ramming the entire slice of charred mother's pride deep into his throat, thus destroying all evidence in one single bite as to the meaning of his meaningless life. 'This things just too god- damn big to just blurt out to just nobody,' he hacked, almost choking on the very words and sending large chunks of soggy toast spewing out across the kitchen table like badly thrown confetti. An image which reminded him instantly of the time his 92 year old arthritic Grandmother attempted to throw a handful of the coloured flaky stuff at his uncle Oswald's wedding, only to fail miserably in the attempt, as he knew she would from the way her uneven stoop and the angle of her hump made it almost impossible for her to reach the heads of the two beaming newlyweds. Her jerky spasmodic movements did however succeed in loosening her colostomy bag just enough to spray the blushing bride with its contents of her favourite meal: Semolina and kippers.

Big Dan slid back his chair, breathed in sharply and then raised himself up to his full height of 7 feet 5 inches on his bare tiptoes. At 2 feet 4 inches he also held the world record for the longest pair of Hallux's. It was then, right at that very moment, Big Dan realised that he couldn't go back to being what he once was. He knew he had changed beyond all recognition, inwardly at least. And what he also knew was that he couldn't keep it inside, either. He had to let it out, ‘Sortez, fourmi Garcon!’ as his French teacher used to scream at him. But he also knew he had to do it right. A table full of toasted hackings would not do. What big Dan needed was a platform; A stage; an arena in which to announce to the world that he was special…very special. There was one drawback to this divine plot he was now hatching in his head however, and it was this: Big Dan suffered from enochlophobia, and being a performing hermit his fear of crowds never went down well in his live shows. The trouble was that big Dan couldn't get used to the fact that complete strangers didn't know who he was, and so, instead of delivering a routine of carefully choreographed moves that would dazzle and delight his audience, coupled with a dialogue of comic genius that could split the sides of a coach load of Moebius Syndrome sufferers, Big Dan’s street performance consisted of him standing stock still and gaping unblinkingly at the bemused onlookers. This stand-off would trigger disturbing images in his brain of the time he was lost deep in the Mekong Delta, surrounded on all sides with a not too dissimilar hostile crowd (mainly made up of his own platoon), leaving Big Dan no option but to give them his best Dirty Harry glare and then scream at the top of his lungs, 'what in gods hell name ya’ll lookin’ at, punks! Dontcha know who I am? I'm Big Dan, Big Dan from Veeeet - naaaaam!' And then open fire on the unruly rabble with rounds from his AK 57, although nowadays he was resigned to using a water pistol purchased from the 'sound as a pound' store.  This, in any case would be enough to quell their appetite for blood and send them scurrying back into the jungle or nearest charity shop whence they came.

'God all mighty, I gotta get dressed!' he suddenly blurted, shaking the awful nightmare out of his head and instinctively grabbing at his crotch. It was then that he realised he was naked, save for the red silk Christian Dior bra and panties he liked to wear these days. 'I gotta look my best for those goddamn faggotty village inbred id-jut - sons o' b*****s or they won't take me seriously!' he said, making his mind up as to what he needed to do next.

 Quickly he made his way from the kitchen and hurried down the hallway, passed a man with a ham called Stan; a post woman called Jan; his neighbour called Pam; Ivan the Dustman; another man with a very very very nice tan but without a ham and wasn't called Stan; a Gran with a frying pan who was cooking spam for her husband George. Passed all these who had mysteriously vanished from the village weeks before and who were now trussed up in his hallway, freshly soaked from his 'sound as a pound' super soaker and held prisoner, victims of his last failed attempt to show the world just how special he really was. That time he only made it to the garden gate before he was besieged by gawpers and gapers and pointers and prodders. This time, however, he was determined to go all the way…and beyond

As Big Dan half blundered and half fell into the bedroom he scrabbled frantically for the knob on the wardrobe door, flinging it wide open with a resounding THWAK! '...Sons...o'...b*****s... Sons...o'...b*****s...' he muttered again and again under his breath as he stepped quickly inside it, slamming the door shut behind him. A moment later the same wardrobe door burst wide open again and out stepped Big Dan, or Big Danielle as he like to be known in his red racy little number that had slits up to his armpits and a neckline down to his navel. He checked his make up in the full length shaving mirror opposite, pouted seductively into it and then made his way out of the bedroom again and back along the hallway towards the front door. Passed a Baker and a Quaker; Jim the chocolate flake maker; an undertaker and an over taker; Farmer Jack who owned an acre; Colin, a fan of Moonraker and Phillip, a maths test taker. When he reached the front door, Big Danielle paused momentarily, giving himself just enough time to turn back towards his captive audience and thrust out his large hairy bosom in defiance. And with that he went outside.

Big Dan lived at the very end house in Marmite Avenue. It was a street that you either loved going down or hated it. And on this particular day everyone who loved going down it had gone away on a bus trip to visit that other famous street which everyone thought was quality, so there was no one else about. A perfect start for Big Dan to lay his plan you might think. But at the exact second that the tip of his clowns shoe made contact with the garden path, which were the only type of footwear that would fit comfortably on him due to his extremely elongated big toes, Alan from the salon came gawping by, followed by a meek Greek called Pete; an old codger called Roger; a Border Collie named Molly and a daydreamer named Selina.

'Waddya all lookin' at yer great bunch o' starin' sissies?' fumed Big Danielle in his best feminine Marlon Brando drawl he could muster while at the same time whipping out a 'sound as a pound' Super Soaker from his knickers. 'Dontcha know i binna nam, goddamnit! I binna veeeeeeet naaaaaaaam!'