Tracey Emin's Condescending Roustabout

"Harder and Better" (than all of you Fucking Bastards)"
Tracey Emin

It's with amusement that I read Ms Emin's latest paen to Margate, all misty-eyed nods to a disappearing land of grimy shags in seafront shelters, riding the big wheel and the taste of candy floss, lollipops and moonbeams if I interpret her comment of "Kinky Contradictions" correctly.

It's fair enough I suppose. We all like to reminisce and grumble when things deteriorate from how we remember them.
However, some of us still have to live here, without having been blessed with extraordinary success and one would assume (from her recent contribution to a charity auction going for a cool £800k) no little wealth. I somehow felt we should be looking with shame on our failure to present Margate as she remembered it, on the occasions she deigned to hop in her motor and wander down from Kensington or Notting Hill or wherever it is she lives.

There have also been efforts to revitalise the area as an artist's haven. If she'd bothered to have a stroll around, she might have had a look round some of the areas provided to encourage our rosy-cheeked populace to follow in her footsteps, and in doing so perhaps lend them some much needed support and publicity.
But she does say it was awfully windy and she was busy looking for something to write about for her well remunerated column in the Independent after all.

She then fantasises about a notional benevolent giant, remodelling the place in the image of her memory, preserving it in amber, presumably making the sun shine all year round and forcibly dragging people from the East End to populate a rebuilt Dreamland running at a profit, while the ghosts of the mods and rockers kick eachother's spectral teeth in outside the arcades.

Guess what, Trace?
You're the nearest thing we have to a giant.

And from the sounds of it you didn't even get out of your car. Looks like it's up to Buster Bloodvessel.