A couple of weekends ago we went to a school reunion in Anglesey. My old school (HMS Conway) lies in the grounds of Plas Newydd, the estate of the Marquess of Anglesey. It was built after the original school, which was a wooden sailing ship, foundered on the Swellies, a patch of rocks in the Menai Strait, when being towed to Liverpool for a refit in 1953.
It was first a tented camp in the Marquess' grounds, followed by a hutted camp (much like a German WWII prison camp) before a purpose built school was erected and opened in 1964 by Prince Philip, who was a patron of the school (no, he didn't build it). It was eventually closed down in 1974 by, of all people, Margaret Thatcher when she was Education Secretary.
Our usual, annual reunions are expensive affairs, being formal, black tie events held at hotels around the country and costing a fortune to attend. This was the first time one of our members had managed to secure the school for an entire weekend - it's currently run by a charity that provides activities, including a lot of water activities, for children, including disabled kids. we also had free access to the Marquess' house and the grounds (we took advantage of this by testing the tandem I bought on the unpopulated paths).
Plas Newydd estate, including the ancestral house. is now owned by the National Trust, as the Marquess could no longer afford the upkeep as one of his ancestors, the 5th Marquess, had squandered all the money on parties and fancy dress. The first Marquess and Earl of Uxbridge was with Wellington at Waterloo and lost his leg there, which was followed by a notable exchange between Uxbridge and Wellington. Uxbridge's prosthetic leg is on display at Plas Newydd.
It was a brilliant weekend and made me realise who much I owe to the school, despite my sojourn lasting only the 2 years before O Levels and starting a career at sea. It made me the arrogant, elitist, opinionated, privileged, overconfident, argumentative and entitled bastard I am today.
If you want to see some of the videos and drone footage I shot, then look here, here, here, here, here and here.
This spurred me into thinking about getting a tattoo of the school's crest or, more correctly, the crest of the Old Boys Club, on my arm. I already have a tattoo on my right arm that was obtained in 1975 while I was outside of a case of Tennents lager after my stag night in Tilbury Docks. However, that tattoo has suffered the ravages of time and the writing (Homeward Bound) is no longer legible.
When I had the old tattoo it was considered a bit subversive for a ship's officer to have a tattoo, as they were primarily limited to the seamen and prostitutes. Nowadays it's subversive NOT to have a tattoo. I never wore a short sleeved shirt when in the presence of my father, who would have gone ballistic.
I enquired of a friend of mine who has extensive tattoos of the modern ilk as to where he would recommend, and it was a place called The Inkwell in Westerleigh. I duly visited said place and enquired as to how long the design I wanted would take, to which I got the response of 3 to 4 hours at £40 an hour. An appointment was made for the following day at 9am- last Friday.
When I arrived, Dave, my tattooist, was still working on the design. His method is to use the original design I provided and make a transfer to stick to my arm as a guide. Apparently this is the modern way many designs are done, not the freehand that was used in the 70s.
Here's a photo of the toilet:
The rest of the place is similarly decorated with scary or eclectic items from the tattooing subculture.
By 10am he was ready to start work. The transfer was applied and he then started setting out his various needles. Here's the transfer and you can see that it's very intricate.
Here is the design I wanted, which shows the original ship with all the rigging, which is what gave him the problems.
The outlining of the design wasn't painful in the least, but when it came to colour infill, it was like fire being applied to my skin. This is because larger needles are used - up to 9 in parallel. Not unbearable pain, but I certainly had to grit my teeth a couple of times.
Anyway, it turned out perfect. Dave told me he had never done something so detailed and intricate and he was especially proud of the result. The problem was that he'd grossly underestimate the time it would take, which was actually 6 hours. Bless him, he didn't want to charge me more than 4 hours, but I insisted he take payment for the full 6 hours, plus a £40 tip.
Here's the finished result, smeared in some antiseptic cream and wrapped in cling film to keep it sterile for a few hours.
And here is the final result in all its glory, along with the faded, original, 1975 tattoo of a sailing ship under full sail.
There's no comparison. The new one is more sophisticated and refined than the cartoonish blob further up. The scroll under the wreath says; "Quit Ye Like Men, Be Strong," which was the school motto.
Dave the tattooist said he'd touch it up for free if some bits require further attention in a couple of months, which was very good of him. He took several photos of it for his portfolio.
The method used to prevent it scabbing over is to keep applying antiseptic moisturising cream at regular intervals. When I had my first tattoo I received no such advice (nor was I in a fit state to understand it if it was given) and it scabbed hideously for a week. Being 70 next year, my main worry is whether it will fade in the next 48 years (in fact, Hay thinks she'll have it made into a lampshade when I eventually kick the bucket). After a week, it has scabbed over in a few places, as I wasn't as conscietcious about the moisturising as I should have been, but it will heal well.
The tattoo is old skool of the Old School). Hay actually loves it and is considering having something delicate, resembling jewellery, herself.
Why did I have a tattoo when all my life I've warned my kids against having one? Pride in my school and I no longer give a shit about what other people think (not that I've ever really given a shit about what other people think anyway, except for my dad).
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