Ink
My house is a Victorian terrace in the sort of area that still has a corner shop and a pub every couple of blocks. In fact, I live about 10 doors from one pub, and there's a second just across the road. (I've never been into the latter: I'm a touch scared of it, on the basis that there's something about a pub that's lit with fluorescent tubes that screams "rough".)

When I moved in a couple of years ago, the house pretty much directly across the road from me (and next door to the pub) was derelict and for sale. Eventually, though, someone bought it, and converted into a shop unit with a flat (which must be tiny) above it. The commercial unit was let to a guy who turned it into a tattoo parlour.

Thus I have as neighbours two pubs and a tattoo place.

Such is the marketing genius of the inky entrepreneur that he had used to keep unconventional hours at the weekends. Notably, for the first few months of trading, he would stay open until midnight on a Friday: perfect to catch the passing trade in noisy chavs who, blitzed after several hours of cheap lager and alcopops, think that there'd be no better end to the evening than to have a permanent record of their love for Shaz or Baz or Kaz or Gaz or Daz somewhere on their body.

Classy.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:56, 1 reply)

Ha
Completely agree with tube lit boozer theory! Steer well clear.
(The Boy Monders I have ginger bits in my beard., Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:03, closed)