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Miley Cyrus: Why did no one get my video tribute to 19th century physicist Leon Foucault?

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Just look at how shocked people were by his performances at the time.

It is a shaming indictment of today’s youth that few among them will have been astute enough to notice that the 18th of September was the 194th birthday of French physicist Leon Foucault. Even fewer, it seems, have understood that my recent music video (in which I ride my naked ass atop the bob of a massive wrecking-ball) was intended to act as a tribute to this very occasion.

Leon Foucault is best remembered for his experiment in which a large pendulum, hung from the ceiling at the meridian of the Paris observatory, was used to prove the rotation of the earth. My nude oscillations, aside from the obvious pendulum reference, were to symbolise the momentousness (pun intended) of that event.

The sphere of the great pendulum upon which I perch, crashes through the walls of orthodoxy, my naked form is free from pants, those fetters of old, pre-enlightenment conservatism. My muff is at last able to breathe the cool, clear air of intellectual renaissance. The sledgehammer I then take directly to what remains of the walls is redolent of the hammer and sickle: a reminder of the radical new ideas that would accompany this new age of rationalism. When I then begin my erotic licking of the hammer I am of course hinting at Marx’s fetishisation of the working class.

I fear similar misunderstandings may have plagued my recent performance at the Video Music Awards. Those of you capable of understanding subtext will of course have garnered that the elaborate routine was a tribute to the late novelist Vladimir Nabokov. I began my appearance by exiting from the stomach of a gigantic bear, symbolizing the young writer’s exit from his Russian homeland. The small ‘horns’ I wore were supposed to suggest antennae: a tribute to Nabokov’s love of lepidoptery (the study of moths and butterflies). The unusual sticking-out of my tongue, as if to ‘taste’ the music, was supposed to hint at Nabokov’s synaesthesia. Of course the suggestive shaking (twerking) of my ass and scantily clad, on-stage molestation of Robin Thicke was a choreographic interpretation of Nabokov’s most famous novel, Lolita.

Nevertheless, I do of course remain ever the optimist. I’m sure my next performance in which I plan to dry hump a man dressed as a gigantic stag beetle as a tribute to Kafka’s existentialist masterwork The Metamorphosis will finally be properly interpreted by the audience.

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