I have mentioned modern artists before. They are not my favourite people. That is why I was particularly drawn to a piece in the free London Paper a couple of weeks ago regarding a complaint made by Tracy Emin.

Wild-child artist Tracy Emin last night lost her battle to prevent a beach bar from reopening behind her £1 million London home.

Emin vowed that the scheme would go ahead “over my dead body” after she complained of noise and mess at the City Beach Club, which is in Spitalfields.

I can empathise to a certain extent, I have lived close to a nightclub, and excessive noise at 3 a.m. can be a pain if you are not the one making it.

Emin, 43, said: “The sheer numbers of people coming to the area because of City Beach leave vast amounts of rubbish over the surrounding streets, including half-eaten food, beer cans and condoms.”

Hang on.

She is actually upset because of the rubbish, half-eaten food, and condoms. A bit like this then?

She should consider it a compliment of the highest order. Clearly the bar regulars are trying to make London one big artistic statement. In her honour. You would have thought Tracey would approve? There are people who would literally kill someone to death in order to live in an area surrounded by modern art.

Can you imagine what it would be like if the art that surrounded you was just the sort of art that you specifically appreciated? Or maybe even created yourself? That would make you happy, surely?

Unless of course she thinks her stuff is utter fucking shite, just like the rest of us?

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