Apparently there’s a code of mutual respect amongst tattooed people; you don’t look at another man’s tattoos, wince in disbelief and say “what the fuck were you thinking, man? That’s not gonna come off, you know! You do know that, right? Everyone knows that. For fuck’s sake! Why didn’t you just cut your dick off and ram it up your ass if you wanted to fuck yourself so bad? Sheeeeet! Ah tell ya, boy, you some fucked up sumbitch. Get the fuck outta my eyes with that monster bad shit! [improvises for ten minutes]”
I don’t have a tattoo, so I say that sort of thing nearly every day. It’s still probably a bit rude, but really – it’s your own fault. It’s not like your parents had a latent genetic defect which caused you to be born with a naked woman riding a pony into a skull’s mouth on your arm. Although if there was a gene that did that, I would instantly believe in god, and sing his praises from my tiny bedroom window.
I like most tattoos. I prefer bad ones, though. Until last week, the tattoo below had been my personal favourite in the “most bafflingly ill-advised skinstain” competition. This tattoo was the one, more than any other, that left me gobsmacked with incredulous horror.
And I can’t explain why, properly. Whenever I try to explain why this is a terrible, befuddling choice of body decoration, words genuinely do fail me. Luckily, when I show it to other people, they generally say “no way is that a real tattoo, fuck off” in such an appalled gasp that I don’t need to explain. Here it is, I’ll let you react.
Does your body ache with sadness? What bothers you more – is it the tube map (for which he had to get permission from London Underground), or is it the domain name, complete with doubleyoudoubleyoudoubleyoudot?A domain name bellowed in a gothic font that would unite the Bloods, Cripps and Beckhams in a tooth-sucking free-for-all?
Well, forget that. Because last week, I walked past the worst tattoo I have ever seen on a human being.
No. Fuck you. Fuck off and fuck you. Also, fuck that. Fuck off, you, and that. Piss off. Piss and fuck off, and fuck you and that. Mathematically, if that’s me, what are you?
fuck off + fuck that + fuck you = me
divide both sides by fuck
off + that + you = me / fuck
you = me / fuck - that - off
I’m sorry. I’m burying myself in comfortable maths so I don’t have to deal with the image of the unhappy folds of melting flesh rolling down his back, and the big spot by the man’s right knee. The picture, as hideous as it is, isn’t the thing that makes me want to cry so sad Doctor. It’s the fact that it seems to be the clumsiest, most ham-fistedly in-your-face way of saying “I LIKE TRUNCHEONS UP MY ARSE”. Power to you, sir. Here is a medal the size of a dinner plate. Why not celebrate your love of truncheon-ups with a fucking huge, ugly mess on your back? Oh! You already have! My silly!
I know of one guy who’s got a really badly drawn picture of Mark Lamarr on his leg. What I wouldn’t give to waggle its chin and say “Hi, I’m Mark Lamarr! Who wants a jelly baby?”