|This is what Dale the Snail looks like|
Ah, the fragrant Tracy. Tracy is inspirational. She certainly inspires this author... to don a pair of Ammo boots and kick her cnut in for half a fucking hour until I'm exhausted. [Thanks to Derek & Clive for that truly inspirational suggestion.]
Tracy is very famous, controversial and much feted by the liberal elite, Grauniad-reading lefties, arty types and the Arts Council. Perceived by some as an unwashed trollop with 'issues' she is viewed by others as a genius.
She has an impressive set of lungs, but this is insufficient to make you forget she has a face like a moose crossed with Geoff Boycott.
Her work includes the famous unmade bed, a tent - bearing the names of everyone she's shagged, a pile of dhobey, a room full of minging chinky cartons, a skip full of crushed beer cans and some truly festering underwear. For this she was made a member of the Royal Academy. Fuck me if it's that easy, every member of the WRAC is eligible.
Tracy has recently been bleating to anyone who'll listen that she's 'frightened of being alone'. That's frightened in a 'can't get laid' sense, and not frightened in a 'lost in a scary forest... at night... with wolves and stuff' kind of way. Well Tracy... look in the fcuking mirror sweetie - the one on the wall that is... not the other one.
Do yourself a favour. Take yourself off to Thailand - that's the Southeast Asian country, not the spiffy cravat outlet at Waterloo Station - and spend some of that cash you've swindled out of dim arty fuckwits and get yourself some treatment. You might also wish to consider staying there, thereby doing us all a favour. Everyone's a winner!