Yesterday morning, in fact. In central London. Like you do when it's raining.
My ticket cost £10.70.
I tried paying with a £20 note and the bloke behind the till had the cheek to ask if I had anything smaller. I was very tempted to say "well if you charged a sensible amount to sit in a dark room and watch flashing images, like under a tenner, you wouldn't be having this change problem would you?" And "I'm the fourth person through the door, how can you have run out of five pound notes already?" But I had nothing smaller, so I ended up with a pocket full of pound coins.
The bloke behind the till asked me where I wanted to sit, front or back? So I asked for middle. Then he printed my ticket. Seat J12.
I didn't actually sit in seat J12. It was a ridiculously empty auditorium, and I'm not having some till-monkey tell me which of the 300 empty seats I have to sit in. So I sat in seat J11 instead. Rebel.
I was very pleased with my seat. Slap bang in the middle of the cinema with absolutely nobody in front of me. Everybody else had chosen the back row, and then there was me all alone in the centre. Fab. Draw back those curtains and let's roll.
But it never lasts, does it, cinema seating perfection? Just before the adverts started another couple walked in. They looked around briefly, checked their ticket and then sat down in the two seats directly in front of me. Him in seat H11 and her in seat H12. 298 empty seats to choose from, and they plonked down directly in front of the only other person sat in the middle of the cinema. And why had they blocked my view? Because the idiot on the till had placed them there. There was absolutely no chance of the auditorium getting even 10% full, no chance whatsoever, and yet he still insisted on issuing seats from a tiny block in the middle of the cinema. Bloody Odeons, eh? Attempting to maximise profit at the expense of customer comfort, even when the place is nigh empty. I considered storming out in protest, but instead I just moved along the row to J8.
I watched the trailers for forthcoming films, and they all looked rubbish.
Why do film trailers now insist on telling you in which year the film will be released? They always kick off with a big bold American voice announcing something like "This year... romance becomes an adventure" or "In two thousand nine, death will stalk Manhattan". There's never a proper hint as to precisely when this year the film will be released. Will it be next week, or do we have to wait until Christmas? Why can't film companies actually give us a date, or at least an intended month, rather than forcing everybody worldwide to watch the same generic ambiguous teaser? They've spent millions on the film - why can't they spend a tiny bit more on the trailer?
As the film started, I got a packet of Minstrels out of my pocket.
Don't worry, I didn't buy the Minstrels in the foyer. I bought them in a real shop down the road where a small packet cost sensible money. And don't worry, I ate them really quietly too. Unlike the couple in the row in front who rustled their enormous crinkly packets at every opportunity.
Apart from the enormous plot holes, that is. And the insane premise. And the stilted dialogue. And the sudden change of direction two-thirds of the way through. And the two white rabbits. And the lunatic off-the-wall ending.
