Commentary Track of the Pensionable
We went to the cinema to see the sporadically amusing Britcom Confetti.
As the opening titles scrolled up the screen, a tiny, ancient old lady entered the cinema and began to slowly mount the central stairs.
"Oh I can't see a thing!" she proclaimed loudly.
"Come on Mum it's started! There are jokes in the first bit!" shouted her massively-haired daughter, pulling her along.
Naturally, they chose the seats next to me. I squeezed myself down the back of my seat to give them room to pass, trying desperately not to tut loudly as is my wont when people arrive late for a film. But the old lady was not convinced by the mile of space I had created for her to get by, "Tch! You've got legs haven't you?" she said accusingly.
Eventually her daughter sort of shoved her forward and they sat down, and for the next 100 minutes I was treated to a running commentary from the old lady, which rivalled Scorsese or Spielberg in terms of cinematic insight and knowledge.
"Daft," she said, when Stephen Mangan started fighting on a tennis court.
"Pff. Daft," she decided, when Robert Webb and Olivia Coleman appeared nude.
Two gay wedding planners? "Daft." Bad singing? "Daft." Bad nose jobs? "Daft."
The old lady's daughter, who was quite possibly some sort of mentalist and kept rushing in and out of the cinema (well, she did it once, and that was enough in my book), turned to her mother halfway through and shouted "You'll love this bit Mum it's very funny!"
The bit happened and the daughter, who previously had been breathing loudly rather than actually laughing, burst out with a sound like someone trying to push a turkey down a pipe. "Good eh?" she said.
Her mother paused, considered, then croaked her verdict in my direction out of the side of her mouth, "Huh. It's too daft to laugh."
As the opening titles scrolled up the screen, a tiny, ancient old lady entered the cinema and began to slowly mount the central stairs.
"Oh I can't see a thing!" she proclaimed loudly.
"Come on Mum it's started! There are jokes in the first bit!" shouted her massively-haired daughter, pulling her along.
Naturally, they chose the seats next to me. I squeezed myself down the back of my seat to give them room to pass, trying desperately not to tut loudly as is my wont when people arrive late for a film. But the old lady was not convinced by the mile of space I had created for her to get by, "Tch! You've got legs haven't you?" she said accusingly.
Eventually her daughter sort of shoved her forward and they sat down, and for the next 100 minutes I was treated to a running commentary from the old lady, which rivalled Scorsese or Spielberg in terms of cinematic insight and knowledge.
"Daft," she said, when Stephen Mangan started fighting on a tennis court.
"Pff. Daft," she decided, when Robert Webb and Olivia Coleman appeared nude.
Two gay wedding planners? "Daft." Bad singing? "Daft." Bad nose jobs? "Daft."
The old lady's daughter, who was quite possibly some sort of mentalist and kept rushing in and out of the cinema (well, she did it once, and that was enough in my book), turned to her mother halfway through and shouted "You'll love this bit Mum it's very funny!"
The bit happened and the daughter, who previously had been breathing loudly rather than actually laughing, burst out with a sound like someone trying to push a turkey down a pipe. "Good eh?" she said.
Her mother paused, considered, then croaked her verdict in my direction out of the side of her mouth, "Huh. It's too daft to laugh."
posted by Nick at 5:45 AM
2 Comments:
I'd swear that was my nan, if she hadn't died ten years ago, bless her.
Bless indeed. It would have been rather scary if it had been her.
Post a Comment
<< Home