I have, over the last few years, become obsessed with getting tattooed. It started shortly after the birth of our first son. My wife and I agreed we would both get the boy’s name inked (classy, I know). I went ahead and did it, and then she bottled it – a betrayal for which I am yet to cash in my martyr points (see earlier column for an explanation of how martyr points work). I got another done when my second son was born, but am yet to get a tattoo for our youngest. The clock is ticking, because he is now learning to read, and will be upset when he discovers that, not only have I got his brothers’ names, but also Richard Pryor, Nas, the Roots and the Transformers’ Autobot logo before getting round to him.
As part of a travel show I filmed for BBC Two last year, I visited Albania, where I met an ex-con who offered me a tattoo. I wasn’t completely up to speed on the social etiquette of this situation, but I decided that if you are in a bunker with an ex-con and he suggests inking you, it is probably safer to accept and deal with the repercussions later. I loved Albania, so it didn’t feel that big a deal to get its flag tattooed on my wrist. The producers of the show were slightly more worried, asking if my wife would be upset; but the truth is she is so unbothered by such things that I could get a swastika tattooed on my face and she would probably say, “It’s better than the Autobot one.”
A few months after my Albania trip, I found myself in a restaurant with my family and the waiter told me that the manager would like a word. Moments later, a surly looking man emerged from the back of the restaurant. “I saw your Albania show,” he said. “Is the tattoo real?” I told him it was and he asked to see it. He looked upon the two-headed eagle and nodded. “I am Albanian. You never have to pay for anything here, ever again.”
While it was great to have a meal for free, I certainly can’t return. Either they will all assume I’m back because I’m a cheap bastard; or the manager won’t be in, I’ll try to pay with my wrist and they’ll think that I’m a cheap bastard.
People often point out that my tattoos will look awful when I’m old and wrinkly, failing to appreciate that all of me will look awful when I’m old and wrinkly. And yet I won’t care as I enjoy my later years with my wife, or the younger woman I have left her for. I will admit to being slightly embarrassed that I am getting tattoos relatively late in life. Tattoos are meant to be something you get in your 20s when you’re actually worried about your appearance. Getting a sleeve at my age is a midlife crisis for the man who can’t afford a sports car.
Still, I have finally booked an appointment to get my youngest son’s name tattooed on to my body. It will mean that I feel less nervous about being on holiday together, or getting out of the shower and him suddenly realising his name is missing. If that does happen, I will simply point to my wife’s unblemished body as evidence that she doesn’t really love any of them, at all.
