If Brexit was a yoga pose, it would be the eagle. (Garudasana)
Here is the eagle done correctly by a beautiful woman:
Here I enter the Brexit discourse by exploring Britain’s big political burp within eagle pose:
The world needs more punk, and it needs it now. Like many others I’m having serious issues with the current global political landscape, and the only way out WILL be an anti-establishment DIY movement. (Oh, hang on, Occupy has already had a go at that and failed.) How about a prog-punk auto-equality DIY revolution? I could sort out the United States of Inequality. (Kill the Poor!) I could save the eUropean bUnion. (Holidays in the Sun!) ISIS: on the naughty step you psychotic little shits. The refugee crisis and the coming famine and resource wars? I’d get Iggy Pop and his jar of peanut butter on to that. Or Johnny Rotten and a pat of butter.
But I’m the only blonde despot NOT poised to take power anywhere interesting anytime soon. I’ve disqualified myself by being a shit punk. I wasn’t actually celebrating its 40th anniversary when I took scissors to my head, I was ignorantly channeling the ethos of a movement I’ve always been married to. I spent a few weeks with my self-cut hair spiked straight up trying to make my knuckles bleed thrashing the axe but my guitar strings were plastic and I knew too many chords. However it’s not the lack of sweaty anger and idiocy that’s made me fail as a punk, it’s the hair.
In the last few months I’ve segued from “Trump-tyrant front-fop” to “bemused beau monde bastard” barnet in my attempts to become a world leader. I thought the punk look was the master stroke that would catapult my finger right onto the button. But the weather made my faux-hawk flatten and the baby kept chewing the spikes. I finally ended up in Cheryl’s Shoppe on Pier St and shelled out actual cash to get my head sorted. The moment punk died inside me? When I asked for “a Miley Cyrus shave, but with a lower maintenance quiff.”