Cheryl Cole has really gone tattoo, too far
EVEN if Leonardo da Vinci were living I wouldn’t want him to draw on my flesh in indelible ink.
If Rembrandt himself were bearing down upon my thigh with a tattooing needle I’d head for the hills.
Art, even of world-shattering quality, belongs on a canvas or a fresco or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, not on the wobbly bits of a human being.
Let’s face it, tattoo artists may be skilled, some may even be creative, but they are hardly Old Masters.
You wouldn’t want the same wallpaper in your downstairs loo for life, so why would you want the same fast-fading clumsily etched heart plastered all over your left foot till your dying day?
As for Cheryl Cole’s decision to swathe her pert and perfect derriere in a lurid, crudely executed mishmash of unconvincing roses?
It’s inexplicable, unfathomable and so ill-judged as to be – at least as far as the taste police are concerned – borderline criminal.