Following the few instructions, I took a leather hand profile slightly larger than my left hand and placed it on the outline under the thick needle threaded with a coarse yarn. Trying not to look at the numerous spots of blood, I placed my now shaking and sweaty hand on the piece of skin and pressed the green start button. There was no red button.

Slowly at first, the machine stamped the needle on either side of my thumb and then sped up sounding like an accelerating DC3 to a high whine as its point passed over the back of my hand and between my fingers in a blur. I finally dared to move when the machine stopped with a sigh. With a pair of shears I cut through the threads joining my fingers as I control-counted my undamaged digits.

To my buddies and the rest of the bar, with pale face and rubbery legs I raised a hand in triumph, covered in an ugly embroidered but macho glove.