Day 148: Prick

Hate (Prick)

Today I get to go into a tattoo parlour.  I've never been in one before, so I'm not sure what to expect.  This one's in Old Street.  It's called 'Prick', and it's run by a man called Henry Hate.  He's a big character, imperious and with a touch of the diva.  He sweeps through the shop, ordering people out of his way.  It's a tiny shop, and he's a bulky man - so the likelihood is that most places you can stand will be WRONG.  His assistants look on edge.  I suspect Mr Hate may be an exacting boss.

I once saw a man who'd had his entire scalp tattooed like leopard skin.  His hair was bleached and short - a number one all over.  It looked good - like velvety fur.  He was young.  A definitive gesture, meaning that he'll have a shaved head for life.  The merest hint of receding hairline would mitigate against the option of growing his hair as a cover-up.  Perhaps he did it deliberately, as a career safeguard, to prevent passage through any door marked 'business dress'.  I can see the appeal. 

Or perhaps he just didn't think about it too much.  Like the man in my hometown who had a spider's web tattooed on his face.  Around the eighties, I think there was one of those in every town in Britain.  Ours was called Spider.  Original. 

Rhod Gilbert has the best tattoo ever.  A flaming battenberg cake on a display cushion.  Can his new show really live up to the title (or the tattoo)?