“She is the rudest man in Britain”
“I wouldn't rape that if she were a famous Juggler”
“Fuck that! No really - fuck that. If you're from London it means cock off, which means... oh just fuck off, will you”
Tracey Emin is the love-child of Janet Street-Porter and a methamphetamine fuelled night with Gollum out of The Lord of the Rings. In the "Book of Lost Tales", Christopher Tolkien concentrates rather more than he should have done on the romance of Beren and Luthien, and sadly the chemical fuelled lay of Janet and Smeagol is seldom told.
Tracey Emin (or Ermine, the incongruence splits my sides) is a supposed artist, her art being the remnants of a bizarre and perverse life. Her negligible artistry and vile, slack-jawed London accent do nothing to relieve the tedium that is her face. Many are the times that Tracey, laying immobile, has been swept up by roadsweepers mistaking her for a dead badger. Her art - if it must be called such - is "situationalist", which basically means she can't draw or paint. Or write poetry.
Her personality has been compared less favourably to the bit in Jaws where Quint drags his fingernails down the blackboard, and her seminal work - a skanky, cum-laden, whinnet-ridden bed - was exhibited for almost three hours at the Tate Gallery before curators had to spray visitors with industrial strength DDT and Agent Orange lest they catch something such as CHLAMYDIA (shudder). Sadly the incident became infamous as causing the largest mass outbreak of HIV ever in London, according to official records. She also has the despicable affliction of compulsively shoving her cack-laden fingers up her nose in coarse fashion, mistaking it for a gesture of absolute sexiness. Which in her case, looking like an anally extensive weasel with a gherkin up its vagina is obviously not possible.
The artwork however does have value, contemporary art can be many things... *cough* Banksy *cough*
During the war, Emin's grandparents were sent up into the sky over London as a warning to incoming V1 Doodle-Bugs, many of which turned back because of the smell. Indeed, much of the devastation that beset the East End of London was caused not by the invading Hun, but in fact by inclement winds blowing the Emin family's particular odour into buildings, which then simply gave up in disgust and fell down.
For the last couple of years, the impossibly pretentious magazine GQ has actually paid Emin money, in return for which the hideous bag has been GQ's laughably titled "Poet in Residence". Needless to say, the poetic value of Emin's scrawlings would shame a retarded Belgian hamster who has heard the word "cock" for the first time.
Furthering the Smell
Lately she is making a sculpture out of her own smell, which after thirty years of assiduous not washing has begun to take physical form, much like a Nazgul.
Her recent piece was a tent with the names of past lovers transcribed on the walls (that's not fair, surely they would rather remain anonymous?) and etched with extraordinary vigour onto her anus. Most people would agree that such bodily violation exceeds boundaries of acceptable behaviour in today's supposedly advanced world (but this comes from a nasty-complexioned, alcopop-swilling nation of loose-legged sluts).
THe next proposed "work of art" is she will complete the hugely creative and intellectually challenging task of buying the largest pair of stomach-crunching granny pants possible and wear them for several decades. After this is finished, she will frame them underside up as a most innovative work of art. "I will be faymush and you wiol wurrrship me cuz, look, you facking idyuts, i am skywalkers latent mother! pay tribute to me or DDDDIIIEEEEEEE!!!"