Traditional style flash design of a smiling pin-up woman in boots and gloves riding an oversized black moustache, with Best Ride lettering and Giddy Up beside it.

Pin-up woman riding a giant moustache

Traditional · Mixed · Flash

A smiling pin-up woman with dark hair, a teal blouse, yellow belt, brown shorts, yellow gloves and tan boots sits astride a large black moustache. Bold black outlines and solid fills are used with a red halo behind the figure, and the lettering reads Best Ride with Giddy Up in smaller script. The composition is centred and symmetrical, with motion marks on either side of the moustache.

Traditional Lettering Pin-up Woman Moustache Boot Glove Lettering Halo

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The moustache came off the back of a lorry in Skegness the week before the August fair, wrapped in a tarpaulin like a dead thing, and Mr Corrigan swore on his mother's grave it had belonged to a Hungarian strongman who could lift a Morris Minor with it. Nobody believed him. Nobody believed anything Mr Corrigan said, which is why he needed me, and why I needed him, because I had a head for heights and no money for the rent on my mother's flat in Mablethorpe.

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We hung the thing on a pole at the centre of the Big Dipper's shadow, all curl and gloss, and painted a sign that said BEST RIDE in letters a foot high. Giddy up, I wrote underneath, because a sign needs a little manners. The punters queued from the dodgems to the candyfloss. They paid their shillings and climbed the little wooden step, and I sat astride the upward curl in my brown shorts and yellow gloves, grinning like I'd invented joy, while the whole thing bounced on its spring like a bronco.

The trouble started when the Hungarian's ghost turned up, or possibly a retired wrestler called Bram, who wanted his moustache back and said so at the top of his voice. He chased us round the helter-skelter twice. On the third lap I stopped, pulled off a glove, and offered him the first ride for free. He stared at me for a long time. Then he took off his cap, sat down on the wooden step, and cried into his hands like a boy who'd lost his kite.

We never did get the moustache back to its rightful owner. Mr Corrigan says it belongs to the fair now, and I say it belongs to whoever is brave enough to sit on it.