Summer is here! The return of the empty shells that are Glastonbury-goers, and Saturday’s inevitably distressing England game, will surely mark the beginning of party season in London. Speaking of marks, what summer party season carries with it, is the unveiling of everyone’s tattoos. And I do mean everyone. Am I the last person in this city without a tattoo? Or are you all individuals?
Here are the only people who are allowed tattoos: sailors and prisoners. No-one else. Tattoos should not about your widdle attempts at self-expression, they should just be drunken mistakes made in between brawls in distant ports. This whole idea of using tattoos to highlight important life milestones along your life journey is the skin art equivalent of those framed homilies you see hanging in Airbnbs. Indeed most of them seem taken directly from them, little more than doily designs and mindfulness mewlings. “Breathe,” they say. “Arlo + Dolly,” they say. As if these people might forget basic bodily functions or the names of their own children.
