So…I went to a tattoo convention

While I have always appreciated the aesthetic of body art, I have never known what to commit to getting. Do I go with my interests? Something with a deeper meaning? Maybe just shove a crocodile nursing a cocktail as it rides in a shopping trolley on my left arse cheek? The associated discomfort was definitely something that discouraged me further!  I do have one though.  My tattooist had the patience of an oyster. Given that the sum total of tattoos I have is only just bested by the handful of episodes of Miami Ink that I saw in the mid 2000s, I would consider myself an outsider to the tattooing culture. I think it’s easy to perceive the old school “NO PAIN NO GAIN” brigade as more than a little off putting.  Thankfully this viewpoint appears to be on the wane, and you now have an emergence of a multitude of styles and inclusive spaces in which to get inked in, relative, comfort.

In the millennia that have passed since Ötzi the Iceman was having charcoal liberally smushed into lacerations on his body - "NO PAIN, NO GAIN" - tattoos have become a symbol of rebellion, a way of indelibly expressing oneself without any ragrets. At the start of the 20th century tattoos were primarily reserved for sailors and circus performers; they would denote stories or represent what their owner did as a living. Now, they are found on around a quarter of the population of the UK and commonly provide a convenient Tinder time filler..."so, do you have any tatts?". Trends may have meandered through Celtic knots in the 80s, sun tattoos of the 90s, or 'tramp stamps' of the 00s, but for many it is an identity, a way of life. For the converted, there is no better place to head than Brighton Tattoo Convention.

The convention started waaaay back in 2007 when I was tuned into Ami James perfecting his pantomime pissed-off schtick.  The festival has continually grown over the years, moved from the Brighton Race Course to the far more expansive Brighton Centre and now welcomes over 500 tattooists and traders to show off their skills and goods to the thousands of people making the pilgrimage to the south coast. My own exploratory voyage comprises a cheeky three and a half hour drive, with nary a pause but for a mid-journey 'Patty Monarch' - other burger retailers are available - and a fuel up - other ethically dubious oil conglomerates are available.

After narrowly avoiding the embarrassment of careering down a bus lane - it was a long drive - we parked up, dragged our overloaded sacks past Friday night party people and arrived at the hotel. Certainly, access to the event appears great.  The train station is a ten minute walk from the venue which proudly states that you can get there by air, rail, eurotunnel or sea. Yeah, I guess you could swim if you’ve got the thighs for it. Hey, while it’s is probably offset by the amount of big bangy things that have previously been sold to Uncle Vlad, you can even pair your aquatic cardio sesh with testing out  the vast amount of wongles the government has spent on that there Border Force defending us from them there refugees.  Let us know how you get on.

I decided to get into the zone…an 8:30am get up, cup of tea and some coco pops on the hotel balcony.  Given the influx of people for the weekend’s festivities - there was a half marathon happening on Sunday too - it was surprisingly calm.  Any concern that it was the wrong place was quickly dispelled when I spotted someone in a leather jacket with “Still Hate Thatcher” emblazoned on the back.  We decided to treat ourselves to a gentle mooch to the venue through the main shopping centre to take in the sights and sounds of “one of the best places to live in the UK” according to the Sunday Times.  While not a publication I expect to be being sold at the convention, I did see a lady proudly being dragged along by a cat on a lead and a motionless man pressing a microfibre cloth to the rubbered handrails of a set of escalators in order to clean it as it passed underneath.  This level of care has clearly factored into the Times’s thinking.

As we emerged onto the seafront, we scanned to find the venue and noticed the maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasive queue that snaked itself beyond the Centre, around the corner and up the street behind the stab fest.  A solid 45 minute shuffle meant I got exposed to more of Brighton's delights; the unfathomable horror of a “club room” at Revolution, the Odeon leaking for absolutely no reason and a Vespa parade.  Nice. 

The negotiation of a revolving door-shaped final hurdle and…we were in!  Someone is setting up what looks like a keyboard-embellished magic show hosted by Chewbacca.  My wristband requires an inordinate amount of brute force before I'm permitted entry to the festivities.  Due to the fact that the map of the four-floor the event resembles a Butlin's village map, we adopted the tried and trusted weekly-shop-at-Asda tactic; proceeding to work systematically up and down every single aisle that we came into contact with. 

I was expecting to be driven slowly insane by an incessant buzzing sound, but, while the rotary guns sound angry as fook, this quickly melts into the general babel of the masses.

The work on offer is amazing but, as we get swept up in the general current of bodies, it is difficult to pause and appraise each stall on an individual basis.  There is so much to take in that, for my untrained eyes, it starts to become a homogenous blur.  I can see why this is a two-day event and would encourage those interested to opt for the ticket that grants access for both days.  Many booths provide goodies to entice passing punters in.  These stretch from sweets to condoms.  So, if you don't leave the convention with a tattoo you can still treat yourself to a posh wank with a side of Haribo - other avenues of diabetes are available.  Certainly the artist's booths are really tetrised into the floor space with no room to swing a cat on a lead.  In a place where the best tattoos are eligible to be entered into a competition, it seems unfair that the spaces given to the entrants are so compact that, at one point, I heard a tattooist apologetically turn down a potential patron's request as they wouldn't be able to navigate around their bench to do it justice. 

While attempting to escape the lustful gazes upon my bare arms, we stumbled through a set of pink curtains and into the “Femme Fatale Room”. Here, palm trees, pink decor and a cocktail bar dominate the landscape. Notably, however, here the gangway is gargantuan in comparison to everywhere else and there is even a sofa to rest your tush with a margherita. It was right lovely!

Despite the Supermarket Sweep level of speed that we were wanging it round, one piece that really caught the eye was a huge realism-glitch tattoo.  I was hoping to catch it in its finished state, but, given the progress that had been made when we swung by later in the afternoon, I wouldn't be surprised if they were still there when Norman Cook rocks up to the venue in mid-March.

Overall the convention was a great experience that really opened my eyes to the amazing work tattoo artists are capable of. The vibe was incredibly friendly, and you could tell there are people that travel some serious distance to be a part of the festivities.