this year's prize went to Rastafari Imperialism for her thought-provoking work Jelly Babies on Ice (seen pictured). Critics have on the whole been positive about this post-raphaelite example of Mz Imperialism's subdued yet upbeat recidivist style - who can forget her Three Pianos and a Chilli Pepper? - with the Guardian's Hampstead Hoemeau comparing it to Polar Bear on a Unicycle, Le Poseur's stark warning about climate change, and urging the Tate to put in a lottery bid for £10 million to stop it going abroad. Trisexual axe-murderer Jenny Dead came second with his manure-and-felt-tip Thatcher's Palestine, held aloft by yodelling Tibetan monks.
But many are now asking "Must a conceptual work exist? Is it necessary for an artist to actually do anything?" Mz Imperialism gave us a clue last year, when having accepted £100 billion from the Arts Council to create "a triptych of wood, fried eggs and Tory manifestos" depicting the half-eaten victims of cannibal Christian bankers floating down the Ganges in fifteenth century Moghul India, she did precisely nothing. Which perhaps speaks for itself.