So last night my better half Pixie and I descended upon Cineworld in Dublin to go see this much hyped and seemingly positively reviewed movie “The Conjuring.”
However, upon arriving I went to the machine that dispenses my pre-booked tickets, the idea being I get to avoid the queue, a pet hate of mine at the best of times; much to my utmost expectations the bloody machine didn’t work, despite having bought the tickets, online, the night before and being told all I needed was the booking credit card then hey presto the machine tells me (on screen text not voices in my head) that the card cannot be read and so off to the queue I grudgingly go.
Small mercy the queue was actually moving at a consistent pace while I suffocate under the intensive breathe of congested humanoid existentialism that is the formation of said queue I find myself at a server’s desk whom greets me with a fraudulent beaming customer service type smile adjacent to daisy the cow style false eye lashes, rainbow dyed hair with half a bucket of bleach and makeup from the bottom of the creosote tin her Dad threw away after painting the spider infested garden shed, I wondered if she had ever accused her boyfriend of being disingenuous.
Low and behold her computer couldn’t find my booked tickets either reliably informing me that the only data available was tickets I booked back in October, (No I don’t come here often), so thus I conclude the only thing I require now is a time machine and spontaneous memory loss in the seeking of Friday night entertainment; so it wrapped up with truly going back in time when the good lady consulted her manager, cue intervention by what looked like Hagrid’s wife, the tickets were, **drum roll** written out by hand, well fuck me is the pen mightier than the sword this very evening.
Got to screen 11 and the display outside, digital of course, yes leprechaun land does have data display, instructs customers await in the foyer, so proceeded to a seating area and consumed the product and probable cause of my prostate cancer for when I hit 60. Soon enough we were into screen 11, ascended the stairs two steps at a time as I am man who refuses to wear skinny jeans and to the back Pixie and I go forth, for me to now vocally poke fun at every other unsuspecting patron that make the back seats look like a movie buffs commodity, the outer edges for teenager lovers who spend the entire movie with one hand on their smart phones & the other down the knickers of the partner they came with and the centre aisle look like the Gaza strip which always seem to be preceded with a cautious debate of where the most appropriate seats are as to belong to their respective derrières shall commit to be seated.
So thus I escape momentarily as a call of nature on line one is persisting sooner than expected, must be my age or else the prostate cancer has already started, and to the jacks by the grace of god go I to the temple of male urine stink and luckily enough for once, the hand dryer is working, there is no queue and the toilets also have been signed as to the declaration of utmost cleanliness sworn by pen of the signature applied by acne inflicted work experience student that the holy temple of male urine stink is hereby cleansed this day, trust me it wasn’t.
Returning to my seat, two steps at a time Pixie’s mobile goes off and outside she travels only to have the three seats next to her, that were reassuringly still free now become occupied by the Neanderthal couple fulfilling the legend of the missing link greet their arrival with himself enquiring,
“Is dat your bird’s seat?” Or so I could translate of the mostly indecipherable grunt, perhaps a cave painting would suffice for this communicatively challenged individual,
“No good sir, that is my girlfriend’s seat, the parrot is at home in its cage!” Is the pondered repatriation of his unfortunate inquisitiveness however I felt metaphors would be somewhat lost on this most intellectually deprived humanoid so much so I just simply replied.
Pixie returns, sees them, sits down and looks at me as to enquire as to the origin of our newest barely house trained guests; I felt it more accurate and speak the truth which would have been, “Government test tube in genetic ape to human splicing experiment unfortunately gone wrong and thus released unto the world”
However, the yappy snappy fire breathing Cocker Spaniel of his girlfriend seemed to be somewhat within earshot and this is for an easy life so remained silent.
Three young teenage girls sit just in front to the left hand side, luckily I’ve got the aisle in front of my seat so stretching of legs isn’t a problem, yet as with all teenagers their custom duty to update their facebook profiles every 30 seconds is a call of honour to which life and reputation depends on it so I am consistently distracted by glowing smart phones; smart phones stupid people?
So the lights dim, the first of many advertisements begin, several late comers arrive again to stand on the steps, debate the gaza strip and piss off the already seated persons by the irritating and repetitive whispered...
“Excuse me, so sorry, excuse me please, awfully sorry, excuse me.” As said late comers navigate over toes, bags and already dropped popcorn until finding adequate spacing for their shapely derrières.
The adverts end, there is a public service announcement of information pertaining to cinema etiquette which involves a polite request to turn your mobile off, which the teenagers in the row to the left refuse to do cos their just so well ‘ard and rebel and now the movie begins.
As the cinema quietens down the cave dwellers to the left proceed to dig out their packets of sweets; you know the sound, that audible nightmare of the fellow audience member’s right hand seemingly going into a spontaneous epileptic fit every time they reach inside to pull out a crisp, a biscuit flavoured goat turd or the such like to the extent I was to beginning to believe that momentary Parkinson’s Disease was benign only to crisp and multi-mix sweet picketers.
If this was bad enough, anytime text appeared on the screen the Spaniel was reading it out loud for her lobotomised boyfriend; yes, he was actually illiterate as well.
Then the unthinkable happens, you guessed it, a smartly dressed, suited banker and his blonde piece turn up and expect Pixie and I move over so he can sit next to his blowjob of the evening.
Which results in, remember the geography? Yep, we’re even closer to the Government laboratory born primate escapee and his Cocker Spaniel girlfriend. It was then I noticed the whiff coming from the aforementioned primate; that kind of, I’ve been sleeping in the same bed sheets for six months kinda whiff.
Again more late comers arrive, again they stand in the aisle utterly dumfounded by the complexity of having founded a newly equipped skill of observation and decision making, the type of skill I surely will not be endorsing you for if it appeared on your Linkedin profile; but after much profound bewilderment located their space upon the Gaza Strip and journeyed to their chosen location,
“Excuse me, so sorry, excuse me please, awfully sorry, excuse me.”
Most of the way through the movie you now have the picture that had thus befallen upon me, the cave dwellers Spaniel couldn’t stop screaming at every jumpy scene, the teenagers Facebook profiles knew of their every pinnacle emotion, thought, opinion and the process to which they obtain the all of the above every thirty seconds, the banker was whispering to his blonde piece - possibly having now lost the power of true speech through countless hours of begging; mid way through involuntary wee-wee’s ensued from the Gaza Strip and the movie was about as exciting as train spotting and to cap it all, back to the monkey human hybrid, I came to the realisation that they were, how can I put this? Up to something.
The movie being typical of the demonic possession ghost story that starts off well enough with subdued plot, all sinister and foreboding yet arrives upon its conclusion utterly OTT, melodramatic, predictable and having completely lost the plot.
The movie ended, the lights came up and to the left I look to evidence of the ‘what has been seen cannot be unseen’ the chimpman was struggling to pull up his trousers, yes my friends, this actually was happening. I tutted my disapproval which was replied by the Cocker Spaniel,
“Tut, yourself!” So she said. I thought to myself of the situation of her being the only female of the specie left on Earth, I would probably kill myself, left alone tut myself.
Pixie and I arose to leave and I headed back to the holy temple of urine stink to relieve the 2nd call of nature on line one readily about to leave a voicemail down my leg; once relieved it was back out onto Dublin Friday night streets where further intoxicated Government experiments were doing the Tarzan thing on every street corner and the shouts of abuse I endure as I was wearing a t-shirt with a peace sign on it, something that at this stage was symbolic of wishful thinking.
To home I arrive and finally to bed with the tinnitus abundant in my ears and thoughts of genocide matching it; wasn’t a bad evening I guess overall, I wonder if banker boy got his blowjob?