Quite suddenly I have become tickled by the fancy of having a tattoo. Where this particular whim should have come from I have no idea.
It’s surprising, because only the other night I was watching a programme about people who had terrible tattoos and they wanted rid of them, and I have to say I could see why.
What on earth possesses a human being to have a frankly dreadful image of Amy Winehouse inked on their abdomen? When this fan was young he was such an admirer that he wanted to mark his devotion forever, but let’s look to the future here. Just what will that portrait of Amy look like on a tummy no longer taut? To be honest, the famous beehive was starting to sag already, never a good look on a legend.
It worries me to think that had I been allowed to run rampant to a tattoo parlour in my young day, my navel could have been adorned by the Osmonds these 40-odd years.
Imagine staring at those glassy-eyed toothy sibling singers every time you came out of the shower.
Let this be a warning. You and I both know that somewhere out there is a teen girl saving up to have a full colour portrait of 1 Direction emblazoned from bikini line to rib cage. My answer to that is, no, young sister. Ask yourself, what will happen to the faces of Niall, Liam, Harry, Louis and Zayn should you ever embark on motherhood? There’s nothing worse than stretch marks running through your heroes’ faces.
And yes, I know Zayn has left the 1D line-up.
I know this because I had to look them up on the interweb.
That’s how I found out the names of the rest of them. And yet, there I was the other night, thinking, well, why not?
At my age, it’s not likely I’ll regret it, and the fear of my mum stopping my pocket money has long past.
It did cross my mind that a tattoo of my own name might be handy, especially for those late nights during the Festival when I have been known to shout ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ and people think it’s me being a irate luvvie, but it isn’t, it’s genuinely me forgetting in the midst of a chardonnay meltdown.
Don’t dress down for red carpet
Tricky things, dress codes. The memo for full on glamour clearly didn’t reach Chris Evans for the premiere of the Bond movie.
The curse of the double-denimed Clarkson has hit the lad already. No man can present Top Gear and cast off the blue jeans, not even for Bond. It’s a like a massive tattoo on the legs.
Chris Evans showed up amidst the sequins and bow ties in boots and denim and caused a red carpet ruckus.
It was the premiere for the latest film dedicated to the man who wore a dinner suit underwater, for heaven’s sake. The man responsible for the changing rooms of Moss Bros being full of blokes swinging around to look at themselves saying “the name’s Bond, James Bond”, in the suit they’ve hired for the annual All English Regional Finals of the Sanitary and Sewage Management Achievement Awards (Recycling and Reuse Categories).
For future reference, Chris, Bond doesn’t do casual.
History dry? Don’t you believe it
Will there be another Bond movie? Of course there will. It’s making money. Will there be another Previously... Scotland’s history festival? Of course there will. We are mad.
November 18 -22, programmes are out and about, the website is here www.historyfest.co.uk, and there are loads of goodies for you to come to.
You can have brief introductions to Vikings, Scotland and martyrs. You could come and see Phil Differ’s Very Important Play called MacBraveheart. Seriously, history has never been this funny.
Whilst the world is in a welter about suffragettes, you can come along to hear Dr Lesley Orr talk about the “women who widnae haud ther wheesht”, those Scottish women who just wouldn’t shut up in the face of injustice, and you are allowed to feel a wee bit smug about these great battlers.
Into the whole Game Of Thrones juggernaut? Check out Sunday, where we’ll be looking at the Scottish influences on the world’s biggest fantasy blockbuster. You can dress up, if you like. That’s not a dress code, just a suggestion.
Is it smart to be casual or should casual be smart?
An INVITE arrived in the post to a do, and the dress code is “smart /casual”. Well, that threw me slightly. Which bit of me gets to be smart whilst the rest gets away with being a slob? Should I haul on a floor-length frock and a pair of trainers? Break out the old tiara and cardi combo?
Perhaps I could opt for the skimpy top and the pyjama bottoms, teamed up with the Minion slippers, but that’s the dress code for Asda.