I went to the cinema to see
The Judy Dench Show The Not Best Exotic Marigold Hackneyed Waste of Two Hours You’ll Never Get Back Formulaic Hotel yesterday. I was sat in front of a group of bus pass holders who smelt of gin and laughed long and hard at the occasional sex and drug references.
One of them took her dentures out and put them in her lap in order to give her her ketchup smothered Hot Nachos a right good sucking. They cost £6.50. £6.50. Daylight robbery and she didn’t get any discount for being a pensioner, you know. And there was no hand sanitiser in the toilets. And she was worried about the quality of the elastic in her BHS knickers (no-one does a gusset like M&S) and how next door’s cat keeps piddling on her daffodil heads.
I know all this because she repeated it seventeen times, loudly, to her friend Marge who was sat in the seat to her right. Marge fell asleep during the advertisements and didn’t wake up until the film was over. “Wasn’t Judy Dench very good” were Marge’s first words when she came to. I think it was a question not a statement.