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.
“Yes”
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?
