We’re under attack from an aggressive downpour of orders to be quiet from the folk behind. Precision missiles narrowly miss our ears before ricocheting off Natalie Portman’s breathy Jackie to land on their intended target. She’s not a day under 80, alone; with an accent so rooted in the Gaeltacht, I fear for the state of her Vs. Her hearing can’t be much younger since she retaliates with a decade of God Blesses before thanking the caller profusely. She hangs up just as Jackie knocks back another wodka, as she would probably say herself. There is no contest between Jackie’s manicured vowels and the life-soaked North Western afternoon chorus of God sanctioned greetings. But we only paid to hear one of them, which entitles the rest of us to an elevated sense of rage as we pneumatically chop down on our popcorn. Equal opportunity rage, mind. Right on, right on.
Do you want me to sort her out?
Go in soft. Hands behind her back, confiscate her phone, stomp on it til it’s in tiny pieces, then chain her to the pic ‘n’ mix stand. Nothing too aggressive.
You won’t let me have any fun.
Fascist! Oh, sorry, wrong post.
Age and deafness are no excuse for such flagrant breaching of cinema etiquette. This old girl might have been used to silent-picture houses where someone banged on a piano whilst everyone roared at one another and passed around snuff, but she must have noticed that something changed around 1930. A night in the cells for affray!
This has just conjured up that scene in Shrek when Fiona’s Da is in the cavern with the he-males & the she-males and Tom Waits scuttling across the ivories *stays lost in reverie* More gin. Your round, Morag…