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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.