TRACEY EMIN

Occupation: Sort of artist Resolution: Be a bit tidier

CROYDON-BORN Tracey is admired by ar t lovers for her iconic 1998 installation of her own shitted bed with all used johnnies in it. But while her natural messiness may have won her plaudits from critics from Tyneside to Timbuktu, it won’t have won her any new house guests.

So it’s safe to assume that every January, the famously slovenly ‘artist’ resolves to keep her home neater and tidier – and this year is unlikely to be any different.

The question is: how long can the ‘enfant terrible’ of British art stick to her pledge?

Done up as a plumber in a bright red ‘Super Mario’ outfit from a pound shop, I knock at Emin’s door on January 10th. When there’s no answer, I shin up the drainpipe and let myself in. A neighbour pops out to ask what I’m doing, but after clocking my disguise, and being knocked unconscious and locked in my car, he enquires no further.

I jemmy open Emin’s bedroom window and, at first glance, everything seems spick and span. The bed appears beautifully made, the carpet spotless and there’s not a single spunk-encrusted tissue or empty fag packet in sight.

However, before I can carry out a full inspection to determine whether the YBA wild child has stuck to her hypothetical cleanliness regime, disaster strikes. I leap into the room to find that my oversized blue dungarees have caught on the window latch, throwing me off balance. I careen wildly into the bookshelf, and then stagger backwards into the dressing table with my arms flailing, before spinning head-first into the mantelpiece.

As I stand up, a glance around the room causes my heart to sink. My eyes must have initially deceived me, because this bedroom is a bombsite. There are tattered books and broken ornaments scattered everywhere, shattered glass all over the floor, and muddy bootprints covering the carpet.

I shake my head in disgust that Emin has not even made it a fortnight into 2020 before allowing her house to fall into unhygienic disrepair. I hear sirens wailing in the distance, and realise that the neighbour must have woken up and phoned the filth. To make it look like an innocent robbery, I steal some of her knickers before doing a shit in the drawer. But in truth, the mess in here is so overwhelming, I’m not sure Emin will even notice

Tracey is renowned for her ‘confessional’ style of art.

But here’s one confession she SHOULD be making: “I can’t keep my New Year’s Resolutions.”