Andy Richardson: No more painful tattoos... until next time, that is

It’s been a while since my last tattoo and on that occasion the words of Muhammad Ali were inscribed on an inner arm for an hour or two.

Afterwards, I felt as though I’d been teleported back to the 1960s and taken a tablet of something naughty.

As my arm refused to lift even a mobile phone – nah, mate, we’re on strike – I delighted in a quote from the boxing great.

The quote had come from a good friend following the break-up of a marriage – mine, not her’s – and the words fortified me, serving as a buttress against the pain of failure.

This time it’s an altogether brighter occasion. I’ve booked a lengthy passage of text from Jack Kerouac, the American author of On The Road.

Kerouac published his road trip in 1957 and it became the defining work of the postwar Beat and Counterculture generations.

Jazz, poetry and having a good time were the backdrop to a stream of conscious book gifted to me by a well-intentioned brother some decades ago. And now a passage will be immortalised on one of the most painful parts of the body for reasons I can’t fully understand.

I’m not intending to sashay along a catwalk like a gung-ho Dave Gahan. It’s just a note to self. A reminder. A standard by which my life is lived. I’m sure my dad will say: ‘What have you done that for?’ And maybe he’ll be right to ask. We live in different times.

And while some decades ago, pretty women and flags were inked onto a few hardcore blokes, tattoos have become as ubiquitous as cups of tea or shifty Government ministers.

A note to self was the reason for an Ali quote, before. After my son had been unexpectedly taken away, I made a commitment to endure.

I’m glad I did. It tells my story and there’s not been a scintilla of regret.

Before that, it was the turn of Lou Reed, whose Perfect Day had been playing on the radio on the exact moment my son entered the world. It seemed fitting, somehow, and the lyrics that I’d noted when he appeared were etched permanently onto an inner bicep.

I don’t need a reminder of my enduring, absolute and unconditional love for him, of course, though the birthdate is useful if ever I have to fill in a form. Date of birth? Hang on a minute. I’ll roll up my sleeve and double check. Yeah, thought so.

My attempts to turn myself into a walking Wikipedia of notable quotes started before that with a few lines from Churchill. That’s the former Prime Minister, not the dog on the insurance adverts. ‘Oh Yess’ wouldn’t have been as profound as the short motif that I’d read by the wartime leader while visiting my late nan in a nursing home.

Through his words, she lives on; the tattoo is a reminder of her smile and hugs, her love of lamb dinners and her comedic deafness. Or was it selective hearing? I guess we’ll never know.

And prior to that it was a two-word Italian quote which very nearly went wrong and could quite easily have been the slogan of a Fiat advert. Good job I checked the night before. Thanks Google Translate.

My friend’s attempt to add Kerouac’s words to a vulnerable ribcage, I should add, were interrupted. Something to do with the wrong technology and a desire to do it right next time, rather than make a mess. And so I have a painful day to look forward to under the hands of a creative teenager and her watchful mum as I commit words to skin.

I’ll get the oranges to bite on then vow never to go under the needle again.

Or, at least, not until the next time.