CSI: Leytonstone
Spring, 2005, and I’d just had a fairly sizeable tattoo etched on to my back, between my shoulder blades. Although a fairly simple design, I’d been under the needle for about two hours in the window of the tattoo parlour in London’s Selfridges.

After the man who had been leaning on my back for the last two hours wiped me off (fnar!), he placed what can only be described as four rectangles of surgical cling film to the area the tattoo covered.

“Do not” he said to me “remove these for at least four hours, preferably eight.”

“OK.” I solemnly agreed. I handed over a fistful of cash, bought some care lotion, and made my careful way along Bond Street towards home. Sitting on the tube, I could feel the skin on my back begin to swell and throb slightly, and unless I was very much mistaken it was getting hot, too. I leaned forwards, relieving the pressure, and rode the train home.

By this time I was becoming woozy – like an idiot I’d had a few pints the night before and my blood must’ve still been quite thin – I’d certainly lost a lot in the studio. I grabbed a subway, returned to the flat, and crashed on to my bed, face first. I lay there for half an hour or so, before the combination of heat, loss of blood and food lulled me in to a sleep. I woke up briefly to take my t shirt off, and then fell immediately in to a deep and dreamless state. It was 3pm.

I awoke some 5 hours later to a text message from my friend, in the local pub, asking me where the hell I was. Quickly, I grabbed a shirt and a towel and ran to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I could see the tattoo, pink around the edges, glistening on my back. I was going to show it off. I showered, letting the hot, soapy water work the glue on the dressings free, and then peeled them off with my fingers. Patting it dry, I applied some healing cream, got dressed, and went to the pub.

Drinking on blood loss is not a good idea; let’s get that straight right now. I remember trying to chat up the barmaid in a suave and debonair fashion but have since been informed it involved me leaning over the bar swearing indiscriminately and making inappropriate gestures. Surprisingly, I didn’t get a date, and it did cost me a bunch of flowers and a grovelling apology.

Anyway, a few hours later I arrive home. I say arrive, I crashed through the door with all the grace and aplomb of an elephant in roller skates. To find my housemate, standing in my doorway, white as a sheet.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, thank God you’re home!” she said “I’ve been so worried. I’ve been trying to ring you but couldn’t get through, I nearly called the police. What happened?”

“What do you mean? I had my tattoo, and have been out for some beers...”

“I think you’d better have a look.”

I stepped through the door to my bedroom. It looked like a scene out of CSI Miami. And then it came flooding back. I’d gone to sleep on my front. I’d woken up... on my back. The dressings applied to my back must have contained the flow of quite a lot of blood, and, when I turned on my back, they popped.

There was blood on my pillows. There was blood on my bedsheet. There was blood on my duvet. I had obviously put my hand in some, because there was blood on the bedframe and yes, there was some on the doorhandle.

And that, dear friends, is how having a tattoo can lead your housemates to believe that you’ve been brutally murdered in your own bed.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:27, 5 replies)

Nice
I had one on my ankle, quite a lot of black in it and as I was driving home I could feel the blood seeping out the dressing and running into my shoe. Obviously no where near as much as yours but it was still icky and ruined my socks!
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:48, closed)

I wanted a tattoo of something till I read this.
Owwwww. And ewwww in equal measure.
( Maladicta, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 23:09, closed)

niiiiiiiiice
I have a big black tattoo on my back and in the car on the way home after getting it done I left a nice big blood/ink imprint of the tattoo on the seat of my friends car. She wasn't impressed.

btw - leytonstone? we're neighbours my friend, I live in Leyton!
(Lucy Van Pelt embracing ginlovers, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 10:34, closed)

i've been lucky with tattoos
i've got 2, neither of which bled more than a couple of drops as they were getting done. my ex was with me for the first one as he was getting one as well. his bled like a bastard.
i'm getting 2 more next year, one on my bum and one on my ankle. hope they're as well-behaved as the first two!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 18:48, closed)