If you'd told me even a week ago that I'd be joining small boys by the nose to act as a giant human clock then I'd never have believed you, but it's true that we get more right-wing as we get older, and I now recognise that my needs come before those of others. For the young and foolish amongst you who feel in your misguided idealism that there is somehow something wrong in making clocks out of people, I urge you to listen to my story and then just do what I say: your misguided idealism is misguided - it says so in the title.
What you will need: three small boys, preferably lithe; the backs of eighty-one cereal packets, stuck together 9x9 and then cut into a large circle; a semi-permanent (at least until something better comes along) pen to mark off the twelve numbers and forty-eight inter-something lines; the longest nail you have; a hammer; and ans tiseptic, ticoagulant and aesthetic. What you won't need: a stomach that blanches at the sight of blood and sound of anguished screams; any more semi-colons (well, what else was I supposed to do? Numbered or bulleted lists are so 1974 and commas might lead to confusion. Anyway this way I can see if I can't make the whole thing no more than eight sentences); and something completely random and unrelated, and thus supposedly amusing.
It's all pretty common-sensual to assemble. In the event that you didn't fall far from the stupid tree, landed on your head repeatedly and had a string of really bad teachers who never understood how to harness your beautifully pure ignorance, it goes a little something like this: use the cereal packets and pen to make a clock face, nail the three boys to it at their noses, after administering the drugs which work as even you might expect. Sharpen all feet to a fine point so as to avoid confusion, ensuring that these wounds are properly covered over with sellotape. Enquire as to which boy has the best sense of rhythm; he will be your second hand (or third if you're not, if you'll pardon the rather witty, but not very funny, and, on reflection, not that witty, joke, an amputee. Umm... a hand amputee of course, not a leg one, cos that wouldn't work. Head amputees I won't even mention cos they're probably dead, or at least resting very hard). Set him moving around the clock, one sixtieth every second. Inform one of the other little chappies to move on a sixtieth every time Boy One passes him, and tell the final boy to move on a twelfth each time Boy Two passes him. Congratulations! You are the owner of your very own owned Three Boys Nailed To Cardboard (patent not applied for, but please don't steal my idea).
Oops, I know why they keep dying or screaming in unquenchable agony: second hand boy shouldn't have anti-coagulant as his constant movement will keep the wound open, and hour boy should have extra so that he doesn't have to rip his scab open every sixty minutes. Ah well, you live and learn. Speaking of learning, I learnt something once. It's almost (but not quite) as if God exists. What I learned: you'll find after two or three days that your boys start tiring, and crying out for food, water and sleep. This is most definitely a bad thing: seconds are lost track of, the fundamental tenet of time-keeping (i.e keeping time) is ignored, and all you're left with is brutalised children bleeding over a circle of cardboard. Compassionate conservatism: let them have time off: rig up an intricate array of ropes and pulleys attached to a watch, clock or other time-keeping device. This can then be attached to each of the boys and they'll be dragged around at the correct pace as they catch up on much needed rest, drink a glass of water or eat a cheese and tomato sandwich.