First things first, I’m the only one in this class allowed to fart. If any of you sods break wind, I’ll break your finger and ship you back to Pilates, where you bloody belong.
All right, fine print’s out the way, let’s dive in. Why don’t we start with a downward dog, yeah? Jesus! I said “downward,” not “put-down.” You want to make sort of an A shape, not fully fellate yourselves.
For the sake of my eyes, let’s move on. Standard forward fold. Just bend over and grab the backs of your knees, the way I do when I meet with the Director General. Brilliant.
Now how ’bout a mountain? Pretend you’ve got a spine, yeah, and stand up real straight and reach way up high—like there’s some actual human potential for you dangling from the ceiling. Fantastic.
Mm, this is a good ice cream cone. Tasty little treat, this.
Where was I? Right, step into a Warrior I. Steady! Looks like I’m not the only one who added a bit of Irish to his coffee this morning. I’m astonished that none of you broke an ankle executing that exceptionally simple maneuver. Bravo.
I’m afraid to ask, but try for a Warrior II. All right, not a total cluster. Maybe I won’t have to chloroform myself in the hallway.
Even you mindless husks can guess where this is going: Warrior III. Well, looks like we’ve got a studio full of pacifists! Can you hear me out there? I said “Warrior III,” not “coordination holocaust.” Best move into a triangle before I become physically ill.
Christ, that’s the worst triangle I’ve seen since Bermuda. What did your mats do to deserve this? And your breathing is all wrong. Do you all have COPD? Ghastly stuff.
I doubt you lot can do a half-moon without sharting into your spandex, so let’s try an extended side angle. Mind if I smoke? It was a rhetorical question, you twats. Now make like a bloody protractor and give me forty-five degrees.
I’ve got hemorrhoids more pliable than that. Is this yoga, or am I teaching remedial standing to a family of brain-damaged pandas? You sicken me, truly.
Right, let’s just run through these last few poses while I ponder what I did to deserve this. We’re gonna do chair, chaturanga, cobra, pigeon. Chair, chaturanga, cobra—shit on a stick, you call that a chaturanga? Maybe if you spell the middle bit W-R-O-N-G. Fuck me, this is bleak.
Forget the cobra and the pigeon, I’m not ready to puke up me ice cream cone yet. We’re gonna go straight into a corpse pose, then quit while we’re profoundly behind.
I cannot fathom how you’re mucking up lying flat on your backs, but that is absolute rubbish. I swear on this Chinese food menu, if one of you falls asleep, I will ash my cigarette directly into your mouth.
You want to see a proper corpse pose? Come on out behind the building in a tick, where I’ll have blown my bloody brains out.
Class dismissed! Namaste—and fuck off.