Needles

Now they have a point. Perhaps that’s why I don’t get on with them. Bit of a fainter, me.

Blood tests, jabs, knitting. All bring me out in a cold sweat. I’m a proper bloody nuisance when I have to go to the doctors or the hospital. Out here, they have a big bank of vampires in a line along the hospital corridor, sucking countless gallons from bulging veins, all day long, open for all to see. I try not to look. Correction, I never look. I’m too busy looking for the softest spot on which to land, should I feel one coming on. Mercifully, there is usually a bed at the end of the line for the likes of me. Oh Christ! Now I’m feeling faint just writing about it.

Probably not the best subject for Fainty McFaintface to be giving any thought at all, you would think. Indeed not. However…

Tattoos. Not the Edinburgh type, obviously.

I had no intention of thinking about this when I crawled out of my pit, this morning, but we were out on the bikes and a chap just ran past us with tattoos on much of his body, including his face. Tattoos themselves are not uncommon here, but on the face is rarer. Tends to be your actual wannabe gangster, I believe, but this gentleman was out doing laps of the museum park and he didn’t look like he was going to go all Al Capone on us anytime soon. Tattoos are no big deal these days, but it got me thinking again. Of course it’s another ‘why?’ scenario.

I find it quite interesting that different cultures around the world have this as an art(?) form, apparently devised independently back in the depths of history, so what is it in the human psyche that persuades us to stick needles and ink under the skin? Why would you do that? It’s the permanence of it that really bothers me. Bizarrely, it makes me think about my life choices, to date. I could not imagine doing the same job year after year, living in the same place, year after year, although I am somewhat envious of those who have a degree of stability of which I can only dream. I don’t think I’ve lived in the same house for longer than seven years. A tattoo celebrating a favourite band, a love(r), mum, dad, love, hate, cheese, or even Mt Fuji. It’s is just so permanent. Mum/dad – yeah, fair enough, but on the knuckles? Nope. Don’t get it. In any case, I change my mind too often. Stilton was once the only one for me, but right now I can’t see past a mature cheddar. Next year, however, I may go French.

I once heard of a woman who went to the local ‘artist’ and asked for something discreet on her nether region. The artist happily declared that he was rather good at bees. Said punter agreed that a bee on each arse cheek would be splendid. Sorted. Later that night, the woman – let’s call her Sharon – was back home in the bedroom, getting down to some intimate one-on-one with Mr Punter – let’s call him Dave. Dave takes up position round the back and carefully removes Sharon’s undercrackers. Impressed by Sharon’s new ink he was not. “Sharon! Who the fuck is BoB!” [Disclaimer: old gag, undoubtedly better when the delivery is spoken. Try it on a friend.]

When we were young, we only saw tattoos on sailors. Some of dad’s old mates would have had something suitably sailory, I’m sure. When I was older, a friend joined the Royal Marines, and I seem to recall he told me they would all have one somewhere on their arm, recording their blood group, alongside some kind of blade and something about going Commando. Probably. Now that (the blood group on a bloke likely to be injured in battle) made sense, but a butterfly on the ankle, a spider’s web on the neck, a strawberry on the inner thigh or a line of meaningless Chinese characters down the forearm. No, sorry. I don’t get it. Close family members have gone under the needle to a greater or lesser extent in recent years, and I have no problem with that, as long as they walk at least ten paces behind me if other humans are around, but I have yet to hear a convincing argument as to exactly why.

Rest assured, this fainter ain’t going anywhere near the inkers’ needles.

I’d feel a bit of a prick.