No time to…go to the toilet

I’ve just been to the pictures for the first time since 1970; if I’d have known the film was going to last two and a half hours, I’d have taken a couple of empty Lucozade bottles (if it’s good enough for Sir Alex Ferguson…).

The cinema was much smaller than I remember (although I was much smaller in 1970) – it was like being in my lounge only with more flock wallpaper and fewer abandoned copies of Woman’s Weekly (I get it for the cricket coverage).

The seat wasn’t as sticky as it had been in 1970 in the Tooting Granada watching Tora! Tora! Tora! with two other people and an ice-cream girl, who looked a bit like Admiral Tojo – this was more like being in a DFS commercial!

There was no intermission – I could have murdered a tub halfway through.  The upside was that I was, during the entire film, neither pelted by either a full carton of Kia-Ora nor a Jubbly.

I was disappointed not to have seen Ursula Andress or, before the main film started, a travelogue; a documentary about splitting the atom or an episode of Emil and the Detectives (I’d willingly pay the best part of £10 to see groups of people chasing one another through 1930s Berlin).

In the cinema there were no usherettes – people have torches on their phones these days, I assume?

But I did get out before the National Anthem and Reginald Dixon started up again.

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