There's nice ones and cute ones and pointless stupid drunk ones, and the nasty little 'tramp stamps' of the kind favoured by my favourite definitely-not-a-racist Cheryl 'jiggaboo' Tweedy.
Mum says if I ever get one she'll disown me, but I've never felt the urge because getting a tattoo is a lot like wearing jeans: once seen as rebellious, and now frankly just boring.
Except for Jacqui Moore, 41, who has covered 85 per cent of her body in ink after falling in love with - you guessed it - a tattooist.
Fair enough. She's gone to a lot of effort and pain and he's had a practice at drawing dragonflies on her back, swirly flowers on her leg, and an open eye in her right armpit. Not a piece of naff barbed wire or 'Mrs C' to be seen anywhere.
But one thing bothers me about this. Why, in the name of all that's holy, has he also drawn a series of tarantulas crawling over her stomach down towards her lady parts?
Spiders are bad enough, horrible great big hairy poisonous ones are even worse and the thought of one anywhere near my bits is enough to make me take a bath with wire wool and some bleach.
It's the work of a diseased mind. The man's a psychopath and wants locking up. DON'T SAY YOU WEREN'T WARNED.
