After months of debating it, I finally bit the bullet today and got myself a tattoo. I wanted something tasteful and discreet, something classy, something that was unique and said something about my personality, so I was going to get the word Ball-ache on my left knee. I entertained the notion that not a single other person on the planet would have the word Ball-ache on their left knee, but as I waited in the parlour, I noticed three other people with the word Ball-ache on their left knees.
So I had to quickly make a new choice, and the man gave me a catalogue to look through. There were a few nice ones, including; a realistic looking nipple to sit between your two other nipples; an arm with a tattoo on it; a turd; the complete text of the court judgement against Jonathan Aitken across half your back; a bigger turd; Thora Hird’s dustbin; Kermit’s spinchter; and the soggy remnants of a liposuction botch up.
None of those really spoke to my character though.
So I decided to get the word Ball-ache on my right knee.
After some garbled pidgin English exchanges with the tattooist, I fell asleep with the utter confidence that he had understood my directions. Somehow I managed to sleep through the three hour long intensely painful procedure, and awoke to a nasty surprise. He had tattooed the word Knee on to my right ball and made it ache.
Still, I may now have the instructions for a mugging etched into my scrotum, but I’m glad I wasn’t the girl who followed me; she ended up with 53 stars on her chops.