A disfigured doll that’d had a fight with a blowtorch: me and tattoos

I’m off to interview a nice guy called Adam (and his gang) who run a kooky little shop of vintage clothes, records, CDs and can even do you a tattoo if you fancy.

I have a curious relationship with tattoos. My first ones were stabby pin and ink DIY jobs done by a rascal I knew. Left upper arm: Led Zeppelin (because they were my fave band).

Right upper arm: my girlfriend of then (oops). Both were terrible. The tattoos I mean.

My mate had an entire eagle done, landscaping his chest. That must’ve really hurt. My next tattoo was an ‘out with the lads drunk as buggery let’s go for a tattoo down this back-street what could possibly go wrong’? The tattoo I chose was an impish little devil that looked cute and devilish all at the same time. Right lower arm, sorted.

The next day I woke up at lunch with a bandage on my arm.

It took a moment to suss why. I took it off slowly, trying not to vomit. When I saw the tattoo I had no choice. It looked like a disfigured doll that’d had a fight with a blowtorch. It was supposed to have its little finger in its mouth looking coy, but the finger was clearly up its nose. I vomited again.

Did I stop there? With the tattoos I mean. No. I needed cover-ups. Solution: get drunk with mates, go get it sorted. Sound plan.

Start with the upper arms: the girlfriend is an ex and Led Zep are great, but. I want something with meaning, so I go for Celtic symbols of how everything is connected and eternal and and…

Okay. In short: drunk me annoyed the tattooist and afterwards looking in the mirror I realised that the connected and forever were muffed by bits missing so the pattern of an always is came to an abrupt stop. And so did I. No more tattoos. Ever.

I had the blowtorch doll lasered off. And boy did it hurt.

The bus pulls up at a stop. A mum gets on with her kid, this little girl who play-jogs up the bus while her mum pays, the little girl yelping hello to everyone while whacking their knees. In my ears The Mamas and the Papas are singing ‘make your own kind of music, even if nobody else sings along’.

The girl plumps herself down on the middle of the backseat, so we all have to slide along to make space for her. I glance at her. She grins and waves. I wave back. I can hear everyone laughing over the music.

Not that long ago I got married.

The day after we celebrated by having matching tattoos. I love it.