But there is more to this than just words. It goes deeper. Wat Bang Phra’s tattoos come with promises of protection and prosperity. The hard men come in reverence and expectation and the monks etch images of fearsome animals onto their skins, along with prayers and chedis. The Indian monkey god Hanuman makes an appearance, as do tigers, dragons, birds, snakes and eels. The punters later live out their specific possessions in the yard outside. Their attempts to storm the stage are actually a show of respect to the late head of the monastery, Luang Paw Poen. This strange collision of Indian mythology, Buddhism, animism, straightforward superstition and gangster culture is a colourful one, a bizarre mixture of faith and history, of seekers and charlatans, of humility and macho, that has a life all its own.

The monks have several working methods. Some use the same needle and the same pot of ink again and again, others seem to exchange needles after every operation and always start on a tiny new tub of ink. Thailand has a very real AIDS problem, but the punters don’t seem to care.

Some of the younger boys shake under the needle, held down by their friends. The monk just taps on regardless; he wipes off blood every now and then, mumbles, smokes and drinks Red Bull. In any case, the men with the hard faces and terrifying scars queue, pray, bleed, and go beserk in the yard. It’s their day.

It’s all done quickly – in the blink of an eye another chedi comes into existence on someone’s flesh; another prayer for the great Buddha. What would he make of all this?

Post tattoo, the punters traipse off to another hall to be told what rules they will have to follow in life in order for the protective charms to work. Some swear that they can stop bullets.

Why is this happening? Buddhism is in dire straights in Thailand. The current generation of supposedly faithful pour into the cities, in pursuit of the dollar. The intense, free-wheeling capitalism the country has experienced in the last 10 years has had a major effect, not only on how the Wats – the traditional centres of all communities– are losing their grip but also on how individual abbots react to the challenges of the 21st century. Some Wats cater to the super rich, others suggest lottery numbers. The monks are part of the larger community, caught up in social change. You see them poring over mobile phones in shopping centres or picking through gold bracelets at the Chinese jewellers. They populate the Internet cafés, and in a Wat near Thanon Khao San, I saw a Metallica poster on the wall of a monk’s cell (now they don’t sound like nirvana!).

Tattooing brings in money too, and Wat Bang Phra is by no means the only one offering a second skin of protective spells. Everybody who gets tattooed has to buy some flowers and incense for the tattooist’s teacher. Amulets are on sale everywhere and are doing a roaring business. The eminent abbot who started the tradition, Luang Paw Poen, died last year. He didn’t seem to have any tattoos himself, but had picked up the tradition and the connection with animal magic from his own peers and teachers. Even in the hall where his remains are stretched out in a gold-framed glass coffin, you can shop for temple memorabilia.

Not everyone agrees with this commercial hustle and bustle. One of the most eminent monks in the country, Phra Payom Kalayano, has commented repeatedly on the marketing forces that dominate many monasteries’ agendas these days.

Luang Pee Pan, currently the most prominent of the monk tatooists, is most certainly tattooed, in fact almost everywhere. He sits far from the madding crowd, on a low stool, welcoming an endless stream of people under his needle. A pile of cigarette packets and Red Bull bottles is stashed behind him. A young woman is next in line. Luang Pee Pan is not allowed to touch her, so he moves a pillow between himself and the woman. He grabs a fresh tub but no ink is used now. For women (and some men) an invisible prayer is etched onto the skin with oil. The process is the same though. The monk taps, the woman shakes, her skin bleeds, but no prayer becomes visible. The needle contraption is about a foot (30 cm) long, so there is no danger of physical contact. The tattoo is just a few centimetres wide, on her left arm. The monk smokes while about his work and he’s quick; he just hammers them out. Sac Nar Man, as it is called – a coconut-oil tattoo – is considered the most powerful tattoo. A few seconds of pain and another mark for the rest of your life. I hope she will manage to stop all bullets.

Outside in the yard, thousands now sit in the sun. Part of this huge forecourt has been fenced in by blessed white thread. Inside the square of thread, more and more men turn into animals and go berserk. The heat, the alcohol – it’s all too much. A monk warns that only genuine berserkers are authorised to go mad. Should anyone be found to be in possession of alcohol or yaba, they will be kicked out. The crowd carries on regardless. Some of the men are possessed again and again. They get up; they contort; they scream. Some turn into different animals each time. They run in a straight line towards the stage. They run into the boys in white T-shirts, struggle and go limp. I stand in front of the stage, looking at 10, 000 faces. Here and there another one pops up. It’s all very George Romero: zombies in bright daylight.

The monotone voice of a priest drones out of massive speakers. When he pauses there is total silence but for the cries of the currently possessed. Like an open-air lunacy ward. The fattest, meanest bad man in the crowd has joined the boys in front of the stage to help catch the incoming lunatic missiles. It’s a gig. It’s a great show. It’s the final attack. The monks and the new head of the Wat have climbed onto the stage. Some drop candle-wax into a huge silver vat to make holy water. Another grabs a hose-pipe and sprays the surging crowd. Everybody is up, pushing and pulling. Some are possessed, others not. Towards the stage, the crowd gets very dense, and people start getting squashed. Here and there, men suddenly go berserk, scream in rage and push those around them. The heat is intense. The holy water rains down on the crowd, the tigers, Hanumans, snakes and elephants turn into small-time criminals with heavy, self-inflicted skin problems.

At 11am it’s all over, and after hearty good-byes, slaps on the back and last shared cigarettes, the lower echelons of Thailand’s underworld shake hands and disappear once more into their everyday realities of killing, rape, extortion, robbery, protection rackets, and the trafficking of women, children and drugs. If I led this kind of life, I’d get tattooed; any spell would do.