Why would you go to the movies and talk all the way through?
I dreamed a dream in times gone by.
When hope was high
and life worth living.
I dreamed I could go to the cinema.
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And not have some chump's incessant blather ...
Yes, that's right, I, like the rest of the country, went to see Les Misérables last weekend.
I couldn't work out which one was called Les, or why he was miserable, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
Apart from one thing. The idiot sitting next to me who wouldn't shut up.
I'm not sure why, but for some reason the gawky- looking numpty with the big nose, corduroy slacks and what I assume were ironic NHS glasses, thought he was more entertaining than the assembled throng of Hollywood superstars and multi-million pound movie production that has taken months to create on the big screen in front of us.
He must have done. Why else would he have kept giving us the benefits of his opinions and hilar- ious quips throughout?
That was when he and his gormless girlfriend were rummaging loudly through the ginornmous bucket of popcorn or slurping repulsively out of the clearly empty Coke carton between them.
I was getting more and more irate throughout the movie – to the point where the wife, noting the warning signs – had to tell me to calm down before I gave him the tongue lashing of his life.
Seriously though, why would you go to the movies and talk all the way through?
Surely it's easier to wait for the DVD and be a moron at home?
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