Born to be Mild: Del Hughes – cool under pressure, bent on rebellion

Del Hughes 

Orwell, Churchill, King Harold II, Cher, Joplin, and Dame Judi Dench are each, in their own way, undeniably cool and culturally iconic (even if some of their views wouldn’t pass muster today). And now, improbably, I find myself counted among them.

Suddenly, I’m in with the in‑crowd – and I bloody love it!

Because, in all my years, I have never once been considered cool. At school, I was neither pretty enough nor sporty enough to be welcomed into the golden clique of beach-blonde girls and bronzed surfer boys.

Instead, as their laughter and flirtations rang through corridors and classrooms, I sat by the tuck shop with Tolkien, wistfully wishing for an invitation that I knew would never come.

(I did try, just once, to catch the surfees’ attention, but the impulsive use of Sun-In turned my mousy locks an obstinate orange, and that lingered far longer than my dreams of fitting in. Still, at least I learned early that currying favour often ends in folly. Sigh.)

But now, at an age when I really do know better, I’m joining the ranks of the hip and trendy – though I guess declaring myself as such proves I’m surely ineligible.

This is also my birthday present from Tim, who – miraculously – is ahead of the game for once. (Mind, since my birthday is just two days after his, you’d think that might serve as an annual aide‑mémoire. Eye-roll.) But this year he’s got it sussed, and it’s spurred me into action.

There are a few reasons why I’ve never done this before. Chief among them: in my mother’s book, this was strictly the preserve of ‘ruffians and rebels’ and therefore not something a gently‑bred trainee teacher should ever contemplate. Lol!

But if the last few years – and few weeks in particular – have taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you have to say sod it and dive right in.

Trouble is, I’m needle-phobic and firmly pain-averse, which makes the prospect less than appealing. But given my supposedly dangerous living regime, it struck me as the perfect fear to face down.

I asked Tim how it felt when he’d had his, but his response – ‘T’wasn’t that bad.’ – was hardly illuminating. On the other hand, a neighbour likened it to ‘being cut with a rusty knife.’ And the internet? Well, that veers from ‘being repeatedly licked by a kitten’ to ‘being tortured with red-hot razor blades!’ Crikey.

But I pushed my reservations aside, and that’s why, for the first time ever, I’m supine on a daybed, sleeve rolled to elbow, heart thudding, and nerves a’jangle. Because, finally, it’s Tattoo time! Eek!

Squeamishness

 Getting to this point took far longer than you might imagine. Because, beyond my mum’s disapproval, my squeamishness about sharp objects, and the fiercely conflicting stories of suffering, there was one last hurdle: my own indecision.

The permanence of it all felt daunting – a lifelong declaration etched into my skin – and I could never settle on an image that wouldn’t make me wince in ten years’ time, or for that matter, ten minutes. Even Tolkien’s runes, tempting as they were, seemed better left on the page than on my forearm.

So I stayed ink-free, paralysed, not by fear of needles but by fear of regret. And I’ve searched and researched, hoping to find that one perfect symbol that would speak to me, but to no avail. Sob.

Still, I’ve picked up a fair bit about tattoo history, which kicks off with Ötzi (c. 3300 BCE). His body had sixty-one tatts, and much as I’d like to picture this Iceman-about-town flexing a fresh sleeve down the local Neolithic boozer, the boffins reckon they were patterns of proto-acupuncture, designed to ease his Alpine arthritis. Aw. Bless his little wild boar boots.

Meanwhile, Egyptian women inked themselves up for childbirth, and adorned themselves with sacred creatures to honour the gods. Clearly, these ladies knew the score – you’ve gotta get a good design, ’cause once it’s on, it’s forever… afterlife included. (Preaching to the choir, sisters.)

The classical world took a darker turn. Rome and Athens ditched piety for punishment – branding their slaves and criminals, or anyone who upset the status quo. It’s from that charming legacy we get stigma, proof that bad branding really does last forever.

But elsewhere, the Siberian Pazyryk were far more stylish, gilding frozen forearms with elaborate animal motifs – a reminder that even in permafrost, there’s no excuse not to accessorise.

Sailors

Europe largely forgot the practice until Captain Cook’s 18th-century voyages introduced jack-tars to Polynesian tatau. The sailors returned with both the ink, and the word ‘tattoo,’ and their new body art became badges of exotic adventures.

By the Victorian age, designs were still linked with mariners and the military, but the late 19th century saw a secret craze among the upper classes. Tattoos became expensive status symbols, hidden under clothing at formal events. Even Churchill’s mum joined in, with a snake on her wrist – daring indeed. (And her famous son followed suit with a purported anchor on his forearm.)

But the invention of the electric ink machine, in 1891, made body art faster, cheaper, and accessible to the working classes. What had once been a literal mark of exclusivity now seemed commonplace, and the aristocracy quickly abandoned the fad.

Always quick to turn oddity into income, circuses embraced painted performers as curiosities. Betty Broadbent, the ‘Tattooed Venus’, toured with Barnum & Bailey and amassed more than 565 tatts, becoming one of the most photographed women of the century. (Dunno about those ankle socks though.)

The Roaring 20s saw a brief upturn among fearless flappers, who flirted with cosmetic procedures – permanent eyebrows and mouche marks – scandalising polite society, one beauty spot at a time. But by the 30s, ink was again dismissed as the preserve of the hoi polloi, and associated with delinquency and criminality.

WWII brought renewed symbolism. Servicemen embraced patriotic designs – Union Jacks, regimental crests, and sweetheart names – motifs of loyalty and brotherhood. But when the war was over, these emblems were, once more, scorned as the marks of scoundrels.

Then the Swinging 60s blew the bloody doors off. Peace signs, psychedelia, and Janis Joplin’s red heart and ornate bracelet, helped shift public perceptions. Artistry blossomed, and the 70s began turning ink into personal manifestos.

The 80s saw punk and rock culture surge in popularity, with snarling skulls, band logos, and the occasional ‘Mum & Dad’ after too many beers. But the 90s took them full-on mainstream with barbed‑wire armbands, tribal swirls, and those ancient Chinese symbols – where you asked for ‘wisdom’, but got ‘wonton’. Lol!

And here endeth the lesson, with tatts now celebrated as signs of fashion, fine art, and unapologetic identity. All very interesting, but it didn’t bring me any closer to finding my own perfect motif.

Pinterest

I trawled social media, lost weeks on Pinterest, saw thousands of fantastic designs, but nothing spoke to me. Nothing, until Barney died. And in that instant, my decision was made.

Those of you who’ve read my articles will know I’m a dog lover, and that Tim and I have always been devoted lurcher parents. And if you caught my piece about Barney, you’ll understand why he was such an extraordinary dog.

(You’ll also understand my patented kitchen‑roll grief index, but that’s by the by.) Now, all that remained was to find an artist who could do him justice.

And after three years of Insta-surfing, I found her: Katy, queen of pet portraits, and a true artiste among the masses. Her socials were dazzling, her reviews glowing. And so, with Tim’s birthday gift (‘I’ll pay’) ringing in my ears, I fired off a query – complete with seventeen photos, Barney’s backstory, and a barrage of tattoo‑virgin questions. And I think she might have sensed my excitement (read panic), because she invited me in for a face-to-face consultation.

When my stepdad dropped me off at Silver Tears in Morriston, I didn’t know what to expect, but just ringing the doorbell felt deliciously naughty – a tiny act of rebellion, heightened by the imagined sound of Mum’s scandalised gasp. Then Katy opened the door, and I stepped into a demimonde of subculture where, between you and me, I was hopelessly out of place. Still… here goes nothing. Gulp.

For all my lurid imaginings, this was no grimy back room, packed with drunken revellers. It was light and airy, with Barbie spa vibes, great coffee, and a loo that smelt of lemons. Nervous as the kitten I prayed would lick my wrist the following week, I was soon steadied by Katy’s easy confidence, and knew I was in capable, artistic hands.

Soul dog

Ice broken, and after sharing all my Barney stories – thirty minutes and counting – I was delighted when Katy put into words what I’d been trying (so badly) to convey: ‘He was your soul dog.’ Yes Katy! 100%.

The photo we finally chose carried its own magic – Barney, post-stroke, back on his favourite beach. Getting him up on three legs had taken many months of hard graft, but that smile, as he felt sand beneath his paws once again, was worth everything.

And so I left, buoyed up, and eager for the following week when, within the space of ‘around ninety minutes or so’, I’d have a permanent tribute to my best ever pal.

As the appointment drew near, I kept wondering whether my tatt might make people see me differently. I’ve never been the intimidating type, so the thought of flashing my ink and having strangers think, ‘Yikes, she’s a tough cookie,’ gave me a cheeky little frisson of borrowed bravado. Teehee.

(Enter Tim, ever the realist, and quick to foil the fantasy: ‘Del, no one will ever look at you and think danger – and a scruffy dog on your wrist won’t change that.’ Deep sigh. So much for my brief flirtation with menace.)

Finally, T-Day dawned, and I was bricking it. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent the last week obsessively reading up on the subject, but I’d been fizzing with anticipation, mixed with a bizarre compulsion to know every grisly detail of the process.

Pain maps

I’d also discovered ‘Pain Maps’ – cheery little charts that spell out exactly how much agony you can expect, depending on where you choose to wear your artwork. They range from ‘bearable’ to ‘summon a priest.’ Cue horror: my chosen spot, the inner wrist, sits smugly at the very top of the suffering scale. Uh oh.

At that point, I dearly wished I could relocate Barney to any of the fleshier parts of my body –  and those, my friends, are legion. The arse ranked low for pain, but I’d never see him there, and worse, I’d be forever sitting on him. And really, what kind of monster does that to their boy? Wrist it is then. (And breathe…)

I arrived early, and good job too, because there were consent forms and a stack of health declarations to tackle. In Wales, tattoo regulations are nothing if not thorough, whereas England’s rules are noticeably looser.

Designed to protect the client and artist, they’re the reason why every needle is single-use, every surface spotless, and why, these days, no one staggers in for one after a skinful. Personally, I was reassured by the red tape. Better bureaucracy than a botched piece of body art – so fair play, I say.

Then Katy got me settled, and we began. And it was sodding agonising!

Gotcha!  Truth be told, it was a big fat zero on the Ouch-O-Meter. Katy and I nattered the whole time, me mostly marvelling at how ‘not hurty’ it was (deffo kitten vibes, not knife). And honestly, our gossip cut deeper than the needle.

Gobsmacked by how genuinely painless it was, I mentioned the ‘rusty knife’ analogy. Katy laughed, explaining, ‘That’s usually down to rookies dragging the needle, raking the skin instead of cleanly puncturing it.’ (Blimey.)

Sometimes it’s caused by a blunt kit, the wrong needle, an off-kilter machine, or yes, even a ham-fisted artist. With Katy though, it was all glide and no drag: sharp kit, tuned machine, feather‑light touch – so the whole thing was more tickle than torture.

If I’d been of a mind to be dramatic, the one part of the process that might have earned a fleeting ‘Ow’ was when Katy added colour. The design was mainly black and grey, but we’d picked out Barney’s chocolate eyes, pink tongue, and the red harness he wore after the stroke (and which, for the rest of his days, let us tote him easily around, like luggage with legs).

Eyes and tongue were a breeze, but the harness, inked over skin she’d already worked, was a bit nippy. Still, nowhere near the quick sting of a brow‑tweeze, or the sudden yank of a bikini wax. Argh!

I’d clearly fallen foul of my own fevered imagination, whipping myself into a frothy frenzy over nothing. While Katy etched, I deliberately kept my eyes off the work – saving the full impact for the grand reveal. And in what felt like no time at all, she was done.

Epic

When I finally looked, it stopped me in my tracks. Even through the glossy second‑skin wrap (used to promote healing), it was epic, and the detail, breathtaking – every highlight, every contour, every whisker.

His harness popped, his tongue lolled, and his eyes sparkled (complete with the tiny pupil bleed, a remnant of his stroke). This wasn’t a tattoo; this was Barney – just a 2D, less fluffy version. To call it magnificent barely scratches the surface.

Back home, I messaged my mate with a pic and raved about how relaxing it had been. Her reply: ‘Is this the start of your ‘painted lady’ era?’ And while I don’t aspire to be the next Betty Broadbent, I’m seriously considering more.

Tim keeps reminding me that our other old boy, Tommy Zoom, deserves an inky memorial too – along with our current pair, John and Wolfie. ‘They’d all fit perfectly on your lower arms,’ he insists. Hmm? I’m beginning to wonder if Tim’s sudden passion for me getting ink is less about art, and more about dodging the need to rack his brain for future gift ideas. Hard eye-roll.

But, for now, it’s enough that I’m fifty-six and proudly sporting a dog tatt on my wrist. It may not make me edgy or intimidating, modish, with‑it, or even cool, but it does make me smile.

Because every time Barney peeps out from under my cuffs, I’m reminded that what matters most isn’t style, image, cultural noise, or fleeting trends… it’s love. And Barney, with me in ink and in spirit, is a timeless mark I’m delighted to bear.

(And if you’re wondering about the cool kids I named at the start: King Harold II carried ‘Edith’ and ‘England’ over his heart; George Orwell dotted his knuckles against evil spirits; Cher’s backside is awash with butterflies and flowers; and Dame Judi marked her 81st with ‘Carpe Diem’ on her wrist. Seems like us older ladies can be pretty badass after all. Boom!) 

If all this talk of ink has you itching for your own, Katy’s your gal, and she can turn her pen to anything. Or head to the Silver Tears Insta, where the full artist lineup is showcased and easy to contact.