I hate shopping. I used to enjoy a troll round the high streets, back in the day, the boutiques round Carnaby Street, the novelty shops in Covent Garden, obviously any of the shops in Soho that had curtains on the window and an inflatable doll as the doorman. Then someone standardised the high street. Starbucks. Next. Boots the effin chemists. Phones For Us, Fones for You, AnyPhone, More Fuckin’ Fones. McDonalds, All Bar One, Pret. All the same. Every shopping centre, every road. Boring, boring, boring. No-one realised that you can’t actually standardise humans in the same way. Some of us want different things. Like inflatable dolls.

Then came the internet and the game was changed once more. In fact the game is almost up for video/dvd rental shops that were the dominating feature of every shopping parade for so long. No longer needed. Superfluous to requirements. Travel agents are a dying breed too. We book holidays online. No more ‘brochures’, no more having some smiling saleslady extolling the virtues of the Parador del Mar with its fine dining (congealed buffet), luxury health spa (broken cycle machine) and the artists impression of the magnificent infinity pool (due for completion some time in 2027 as long as the funding comes along). We now take virtual tours round resorts and by licking the app on the screen, you can actually taste the food to make sure its fresh.

The only stores to not merely survive but thrive in the post-internet world are those involved in computer-free activities. Gyms have increased in number by 114% since 2003. Why? They’re horrible places of pain and suffering. Whereas, ironically, fish’n’chip shops have also increased by a whopping, batter-coated 84%. Presumably they’re buying a take-away on the way home from the gym next door. So fitness and fatness are still worthy of the Great British High Street.

And up by a staggering 173% comes tattoo parlours. Once exclusively for drunk sailors and builders, now even the Queen has a tattoo. On her face. A great big ‘SPURS’ banner, just under her crown. If only. Though apparently she does have a ‘tramp stamp’. Well why not? She can afford it. And tattoos now cross the class divide. Samantha Cameron has one, and she’s posh. Wayne Rooney has loads and he’s a hairball.

This is a gap in the market. An opportunity not equaled since the Sinclair C5 (what?). Not since Betamax has something this big come along. Ya ready:

www.tattoo-yourself.com

You download the software and special, super 3-d ‘inkjet’ printer with needle attachment (patent pending), choose your design from the massive selection, or even create your own using our special programme guaranteed to misspell at least one word out of 7, for authenticity, and just insert the relevant body-part into the printer (which come in 5 sizes: Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Cole’s Arse, Small, Normal and Fat Bastard) and just 4 hours of sheer agony later, 3 hospital visits and a possible amputation for gangrene, you have your very own, personally designed and created, tattoo. Probably upside down. But there ya go.

Press 1 to go to the payment page and checkout

Press 2 for a lovely thursday,

A xxxx