Tracey Emin
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“She is the rudest man in Britain”
~ John Humphrys
“I wouldn't rape that if she were a famous Juggler”
~ Quagmire
“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 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 lay of Janet and Smeagol is seldom told.
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[edit] Artistry
Tracey Emin (or Ermine, the incongruence splits my sides) is a supposed artist, her art being the remnance 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 cat. Her art - if it must be called such - is "situationalist", which basically means she can't draw or paint. Her personality has been compared 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 DDT and Agent Orange lest they catch something such as CHLAMYDIA (shudder). 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.
[edit] War
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.
[edit] 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. Sadly, the fact that an ex-girlfriend of mine obtained a 2.1 degree from Reading University despite not being able to spell 'confabulation' merely confirms the status of "Art" as a not subject, and Emin has helped in this decline. The cow.
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!!!"
