It’s finished. It’s on my back. It’s permanent. Hell yeah. Thank you to the super talented and super cool Guen Douglas for understanding what I wanted and translating into an awesome piece. This Mr Puss-Face, is called Buster. I’m thrilled.
I must discuss tattoos, vejazzles and roast meat.
I’ve a tattoo on my left shoulder. Once upon a time, long long ago, I persuaded a tattoo artist I was old enough, although I wasn’t. I’d great fake ID, even better make up and a bit of an attitude. My adolescent risk taking behavior really isn’t his fault – so don’t hate on the guy who marked me for life with needles and ink when I was only a woman-child nymphette.
The time has come to ‘grow the collection’ as the say in tattoo circles. Truly, I’m about to get a new tattoo. For this, I am considering my lower back, but it’s caused more than a frown from the few people I’ve mentioned it to. Having a tattoo on your lower back is considered a little bit rubbish apparently.
No please don’t! It’s so not you and it will look cheap, seems to be the consensus.
Oh dear. Do I care? Not much.
You see, the lower back tattoo is sometimes referred to as a slag tag in The U.K or a tramp stamp in The U.S. Even if the design includes beautiful words by T.S Elliot as mine will, the new tattoo will still be a ‘tag of slags’ . Doesn’t matter how high brow or unique my back will symbolically come to stand in for all sorts of dodgey info about my morality, easy virtue and inferior taste. Those people with higher cultural capital will mock and shun me ( maybe even by fluttering fans at me like in Les Liasons Dangereux), thus reassuring themselves they’re the legitimate ruling class by their superior judgement and subordination of me and my back.
It’ll be super awful and I’ll be stuck with a badge of shame for life. I’ll probably have to sew an ‘A’ on my breast just like poor Hester in A Scarlet Letter. Perhaps I’ll simply get an ‘A’ tattooed on my breast instead and cut to the chase?
Actually I’m having none of it. A slag-tag is a complex simultaneous cultural equation. Yup, I’m not brilliant at mathematics, but when I do the sums for this tattoo – I come out with a composite number rather than a prime number and I’m sure I’m correct. As a sign it’s polysemic init?
Remember McQueens bumster trousers?
McQueen adored the slight dip and curve of lower back as it meets the buttocks. It was his favourite part of the female body apparently.
Wadda ya think? Should I go ahead?
Finally I promised today that I would mention a dream my friend had about a vejazzled roast pork belly recently. I KNOW! You don’t need to say anything. One doesn’t need a degree in Jung to know there’s something more than a bit Peter Greenaway the cook the thief the wife and her lover about this. I suggested a suppressed fear of female sexuality combined with an irrational phobia of south-east-folk-glamour. The total objectification of the female genitalia reduced to a carnal slab of meat with rosemary and fake gem stones. Hmm what can it all mean?
Now my friend now wants to know if there’s a market for a new restaurant that adorns meat-dishes with semi-precious stones in the the shape of cherubs and love hearts. Hotpotjazzle madame? JazzyKebabby for you sir? I said no, I didn’t think so.