Almost Embarrasing

It had been a spur of the moment decision. A resounding win on the final match day had meant the Club had beaten their current record of consecutive wins. A hefty number of beers later, and Nathan had drawn the short reusable straw.

“You alright pal?” the tattoo artist asked Nathan. Nathan’s fellow cricketers had decided the incessant buzzing of needles and hideous fluorescence of the industrial-chic-copper-pipe-with-a-hint-of-steampunk-themed lighting wasn’t good for their delicate dispositions and had abandoned the tattoo parlour in favour of breakfast. Sadly, Nathan wasn’t able to escape given he was sat in a chair being jabbed with needles.

“Hmm,” replied Nathan, “just keep going.” The tattoo needle seared Nathan’s skin. The tattoo parlour smelt of craft beer and moustache wax. It made Nathan feel queasy.
“So, you all mates then?” the tattoo artist asked, waving where the cricketers no longer were.
“Hmm,” replied Nathan. He was concerned about the tattoo artist’s wanton waving. The chap didn’t seem to have full control over his body, which was a problem given the fingers gripping the tattoo needle were attached to said body.

It had already been a chore to get to this point in the tattooing process, as the artist seemed dead set on getting something wrong. “A bale?” he’d asked as he’d first bared down on Nathan’s arm with the tattoo gun. Nathan had presumed best practice was to ensure the artist knew what Nathan wanted before starting to pierce irremovable ink onto his skin. The artist seemed to have had other ideas.
“Yes, a bail,” Nathan had replied, cradling his hangover-damaged forehead.
“Huh. Why a bale?” the tattooist had asked as he’d put needle to skin, “you guys play on a field or summin’?”
“Ouch! Yes, a cricket field. Why do you— Ouch! Why do you ask?”
“Only it’s a bit weird to have a cricket tattoo with a hay bale on it.”
Nathan had almost leapt out of the tastefully-cracked leather chair.
“No! God no, sorry. Jesus. A bail as in the bit of wood they put on the stump. In a game of cricket.”
“Ohh,” the artist had replied, “not a bale, a bail. Gotcha, gotcha. Makes sense that, I wondered why you’d want a hay bale with a bat and a ball.”

Twenty minutes later, the artist had inquired as to what colour Nathan wanted the ball.
“I was gonna just do it black and white,” the tattooist had suggested, “classic you know. Only I wanted to check with you.”
“Black and white... classic?”
“You know, the classic football colours.”
“It’s a cricket ball. To go with the cricket bail. Not a football. The tattoo is cricket themed.”
“Ohhh, I see, I see. All makes sense now. Cricket ball, cricket bales, cricket team. Gotcha.”
Usually Nathan would have responded to such a remark with a sassy and sarcastic, but nevertheless charming, quip. However, given the delicacy of his head and the fact that the tattoo artist had a rather sharp needle between his wanton waving fingers, Nathan had resorted to a head nod.

Another half an hour or so passed and the tattooist was almost finished.
“Can you just add the initials NM onto the bat?” inquired Nathan over the buzzing. He figured that, considering he’d made it this far without vomiting, he might as well make the damn tattoo look as good as possible. Prank or no prank, this thing was going to be a work of art.
“Sure, sure. What does MM stand for then?” asked the artist.
“No!” spluttered Nathan, “N. M. As in NORTH. MIDDLESEX. North Middlesex Cricket Club.”
“Oh NM. Gotcha.”
Jesus, thought Nathan. Imagine if he’d gotten all the way through the bloody tattoo, avoiding hay bales and footballs, only to find the initials on the bat spelt out Morth Middlesex.

“And where on the bat do you want the initials?” asked the tattoo artist, “on its wing?”

Stefan Matthews is a screenwriter and graduate from Bournemouth University. He is a dream-smith, an illusion-weaver, a forger of fantasia. Well, that’s what he claims.