What is the deal with tattoos?
It seems that if you’re under 30 and you don’t have an article of clothing - like shorts or a sleeve or a sock - permanently embedded in your skin then you may as well be declared a social emergency.
I may be 44 but I still feel young at heart and think I understand what makes the Gen Z’s tick. As a parent of four I’ve always fancied myself hip and with it when it comes to the realities of my children’s existence.
I know that lives are now led in the fond embrace of a computer as all the latest gossip at school is amplified by Facebook. That’s OK.
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At Melbas nightclub on the Gold Coast they won’t serve people with hand, neck and facial tattoos. You can, however, front up to the bar wearing a stocking on your head.
Helpfully you don’t even have to bring your own. For just five dollars you can buy a stocking at the club door. “It’s a policy that really works for our venue,” a worker at the bar told The Punch.
Imagine if cops were subject to the same measures. They could be, if the draft proposals being considered by NSW Police Association come into force.
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When did everyone suddenly get tattoos? And marginally more sinister, why do I want some? I’m in my early forties, married with three children, and suddenly I have a yearning for three hours worth of ink-work on my upper arms. What gives?
Maybe I’ve watched too much rugby league. Perhaps it was being surprised at what nice lads those brothers from Good Charlotte were on their recent visit (and they’re covered in the stuff). Or maybe the constraints of my fortysomething life have lead me to believe that defiling myself would be some sort of rebellious act. Whatever the catalyst, I’ve had a paradigm shift in my view on tattoos. In particular with reference to whether they should appear on my body somewhere.
I grew up in England in the working class, naval City of Portsmouth, where tattoo parlours were plentiful and usually sheltered menacingly under railway arches; their windows covered in wire mesh.
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