I have exactly no tattoos on my body and never intend to get any. I’m not against them, some of my very best friends have them, they just aren’t for me. I can’t help thinking that they aren’t for some people who already have them either after walking along a hot and crowded Oxford Street in the centre of London yesterday afternoon.
I saw one chap with the word ‘Lucky’ emblazoned down the left side of his neck, quite ironic really as he had the definite air of someone who had suffered a lot of misfortune. Then there was a lady who seemed to have nothing more than a smudge resembling the shape of Bulgaria on her shoulder. It would have been mistaken for a birth mark had the shape not been so indelibly ink based. I’m still confused about another woman I saw who appeared to have a very small celtic cross on the back of her neck. If you’re going to spend money on a tattoo surely you want it to be in a place that doesn’t require two mirrors and some painstaking contortion in order to see the thing?
I was reminded of a joke I heard years ago about a guy with the initials BB, his first name being Basil. He decides on a whim to go to the local parlour and have his initials tattooed on each butt-cheek. When he gets home he excitedly tells his wife he has a surprise for her, whips down his trousers and bends over. A sight to which his wife angrily responds – “Who the f**k is Bob?”.