Читать книгу Meatspace - Nikesh Shukla, Nikesh Shukla - Страница 13

I got a tattoo of a bow tie on my neck today.

My brother, Kitab. He got a job description on his forearm. He’s a writer so ‘Everyday I write the book’. It’s so analogue. It’s so meatspace, innit.

Anyways, I woke up my man Kit with some Buck’s Fizz. Got the guy proper high so he don’t back out. Then I did some push-ups to really tone up my neck and chest, because if man has a neck tattoo, man needs to rep it proper, seen. So anyways, anyways, anyways, I passed out. Don’t mix alcohol and weightlifting, my friends. It’s a dangerous business. I’m finally getting rid of this ugly stupid thing on my neck. This scar from when I was a kid.

We headed to Sick Charlie’s for the tattoos. This guy is a proper swagatha. I argued with Kit all the way cos the dickhead wanted to pay with a cheque. He’s got some royalties due but still, act like you know, you know? Wear this process with pride.

‘Chequebook?’ I scoffed.

‘Yeah, I need it to clear in 5 days. I get some money in about 5 days.’

‘What money?’

‘I get that 80 quid from the Guardian for the best Asians in fiction article.’

‘Sell-out.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Still? A cheque? You’re so 1997 about things.’

‘1997? That’s the advent of the cheque in your brain?’

‘No, well … you know … chequebooks. It just looks a bit lame. Charlie, the tattoo artist’ll think you’re a mug.’

‘Oh right, so you’re worried about me looking uncool in front of a tattoo artist.’

‘Hey, the cooler you are, the more likely they are to do a good job.’ That right, right? Tattoo artists have to do a lot of work. Imagine if they think you’re cool, they’ll put in the extra 10% to make it 120%.

Sick Charlie’s tattoo parlour is too cool for school, my friends. Picture a tattoo parlour in your head. What you’re imagining resembles the outhouse of a biker gang’s gang hut. Where all the crystal meth and bukkake happens. This place was like a hipster design studio, innit. Everything was angular. There were so many angles, you’d think it was an isosceles triangle. There were iPads to read or watch the iPlayer on while you wait. The magazines in the iPad newsstand were Playboy and GQ. The music playing was loud, up-tempo high-pitched hipster indie … you know the song … nee-nee-nee-nee-nee-noo-noo-noo-noo riffs, thumping kick drums. White boy tunes. There was one chair for the one tattoo artist and the mirror was lit by a floating orb, suspended from the ceiling on a transparent string. The chair itself looked straight off the set of Sweeney Todd. Meat. Meat. Meat. Branding meat.

Sick Charlie, he was malnourished thin, no arse to speak of, no visible tattoos, a pointed floppy fringe and dead eyes that told you whatever you’re thinking, he was ‘already over it’. Every time I see a white boy like this, I always wonder how he balances on a toilet with no bot-bot. What do the girls have to stare at when he walks away?

I Instagrammed the place and added ‘Double virgin skin with @kitab’.

I went first into the chair and I watched as the bow tie was sketched onto my neck. It itched on my scar. Sick Charlie kept telling me it was going to be fine but there was one bit, the bottom of the gullet that might hurt a bit. I was like, bruv, I don’t care, I’m really drunk, and Sick Charlie laughed because you’re not supposed to get tattoos when you’ve had booze because your decision-making might be impaired and because they tend to bleed more. I told him I’m joking. But the reality was, Aziz had been drinking – we necked 3 bottles of beer from the fridge before leaving – and I’d had 2 Lockets and one packet of Monster Munch to disguise the smell, because Sick Charlie takes himself and his work very seriously. And some onion chutney. There is a lot of onion chutney in our fridge. But that’s another story for another time told by another person, innit.

When Sick Charlie started the actual inking, I looked at poor lost little Kitab, sat there watching me like his master’s voice and I was like, ‘This is gonna be an hour, why don’t you step out for a bit?’

Kit stared at me and I shrugged and close my eyes. Miraculously, 3 pints in, I fell asleep in the chair.

But when I woke up, I looked like a champion. It hurt like a motherfucker, the red of the bow tie and the red where I was bleeding didn’t really mix well together but fuck it, I stood up a champion. I gave Sick Charlie a cuddle and told him he had done fine work. I look like a baller, a pimp, a motherfucking amazing Spider-man or some shit. I look like Teddy Baker. I look the best.

Looked like the wait was too much for little Kit too, so I woke him up. And then I fucked off into the night because there is nothing that can contain this guy right now.

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