My Kingdom for a Restraining Order....

Excuse me, cuntface... yes, that's right. I am talking to you. Look, I can live with the fact that even though I had to queue up for 15 minutes for my cinema ticket you deem it perfectly acceptable to cut in line because your friend just happened to be nearer the front. But little do I realise that you being in front of me is going to have farther-reaching implications...

So now I join the equally monotonous queue for snacks to discover that you are right in front of me again. I ignore your nasally whine as you chat to your companion about all kinds of shit you clearly know nothing about as I figure, "what the hell - she might be thick enough to fall for your smarm, and everyone deserves a chance at love". Yes, even a cynic like me can have a romantic side... More difficult to ignore, however, is the overpowering stench of your fucking awful cheap aftershave which hits the back of my throat so hard that the wait for a measly bottle of overpriced water is almost unbearable... But I keep quiet. After all, who am I to pick on you for your personal choices... and maybe the girl has a deeply impaired sense of smell that you are trying to penetrate as a display of your affection.

However, you shit-for-brains little fuckwit, 5 minutes queueing is ample time to work out what size popcorn and flavour drink you want. You, of course, have now reached the counter and turned around whining "oh, I don't even know" whilst your companion compliments this display with the obligatory "oh, you choose" and twenty people behind me start grinding their teeth. We are all acutely aware that the film (not the programme, the actual film) is due to start in 2 minutes and your dithering, you wankstain, is fucking monumentally unacceptable. So we wait, impatiently, as you eventually empty your wallet to pay for your own bodyweight in popcorn, sweets, drinks and nachos. Now, finally, it's my turn - watch and learn whilst I quickly order my "combo number 2, cola and salted please" and pay with the correct change that I had already taken from my wallet, even though it is now sweaty in my palm having waited so long for you. Thirty seconds later, I'm out...

...of the frying pan and right back into the fire. Because, as fate would have it, I am once more behind you heading into Screen 1. And of course the clever little man you are, armed with such foresight, you have decided to keep your tickets in your wallet, in a pocket that is damn near inaccesible to you because you are now so laden down with several years supply of snacks. This is getting all too much, I think as I hear the last of the adverts die away and notice that the lights inside are begining to dim. I offer to hold something for you... you look at me like I am some kind of serial child rapist. Well, fuck you, that's it, get out of my motherfucking way. No, I will not apologise for the six pieces of popcorn that fall to the ground as I brush past you, since they will be perfectly happy to join the dozens of other pieces that you had managed to drop whilst I was still several feet away.

At last, to my seat, getting comfy, studio logo slowly appearing on the screen... and your by now familiar head bobbing around as you also take your seat... right in front of me. If this had ever been even vaguely amusing it certainly isn't fucking funny anymore. STOP FUCKING TALKING! It's started, you twat! "What, no commercials? I like the commercials" you say to your friend. A desperate struggle erupts deep inside me as the beast within attempts to scream the words "GET HERE FUCKING EARLIER, THEN, AND SAVE US ALL THE HASSLE" into your ear. But this anger quickly gives way to sheer incredulity as out comes the mobile 'phone. I start to pray...

Okay, you are decent enough not to actually talk into it, and the ringtone is on silent... I will credit you with that level of intelligence. But when you text the light comes on - a light usually fairly unobtrusive in the sunshine or under fluorescent tubes but blindingly and distractingly obvious in a darkened cinema. Come on, for fucks sake! You're on a date watching a film that you've paid good money for... who is it that important to text? Or are you gleefully telling your friends that your date hasn't bolted yet!? And are they texting back telling you to stick your knob through the bottom of the popcorn box?

All told you have made this cinema experience one of the most miserable I have ever had. In fact, your one saving grace is that you aren't the woman five rows back who has decided to bring her crying two year old to see X-Men 3. And to her I have only one thing to say. GET A BABYSITTER, BITCH!

Cheers m'dears!