Your Penis by Clare Bowden

If you popped a pair of glasses and a Groucho moustache on it, you could have your own street performance set. People would flock from miles away, maybe even from distant shores. You could be a minor celebrity and appear in Dazed and Confused. They'd do you up with matte make-up and you could say things like “I feel that art and love are interconnected concepts. Both allow you to carve out tiny shells in which we can make our homes,” and punch yourself in the face afterwards, descend into self-loathing, develop a problem with alcohol, appear in the National Enquirer under a gaudy headline and realise that you'd been mutated by the pressure of celebrity. Emboldened, you'd move to England to make a new life for yourself. You'd appear in a documentary twenty years down the line about celebrities who suddenly disappeared and make a reference to me that would get on my nerves.