<$BlogRSDUrl$>

Sunday, March 28, 2004

The Passion Bashing of the Christ

Last night the BF and I went to our local popcorn emporium, elaborate hotdog stand, purveyor of overpriced nachos, dwelling place of the dregs of society, multiplex cinema - namely the Greenwich filmworks. No, I'm not going to link to it because I urge you, with all my heart, in the strongest terms not to go there. Even if the alternative is to watch a film in a stinking bog surrounded by crocodiles thirsty for human blood, believe me, stick with that option, because this place is an abomination. Trouble is, BF wanted to see this film and it wasn't on at Bromley, Bexleyheath is too close to where his pupils hang out (and would also be of a similar ilk to Greenwich, if the quality of clientèle of its shopping centre is anything to go by...), so we thought we'd brave Greenwich... o Southampton, with your nice little picturehouse, I do miss you so....

Anyway, after paying £1.80 for a bottle of water, we proceeded into the auditorium. Well, we attempted to, but as we approached the "ticket boy" (for want of a better name) he informed us that we weren't allowed to go up yet - no reason was cited for this. It was twenty minutes before the film was due to start - the exact time we were advised to arrive when purchasing the tickets over the phone. So, hordes of filmgoers, standing around for about a quarter of an hour, none of us knowing why, blocking the access of people wishing to view other films. All in all, a shambles. Meaningless, mindless, petty jobsworth rules - something of which, you can probably tell, I'm not a fan...

The film

After sitting around watching endless adverts for the University of Greenwich, various popcorn/sweets/drinks combos available from the "kiosk" (err, you mean most of the ground floor surface area - hardly a kiosk, is it?) and answering the multiple choice quiz question "Uma Thurman is married to which Hollywood actor?" for the nth time (where n=lots), we settled down to watch the film. Well, I can only talk about the first half of the film (that was a good hour and a half, to be fair) - I had to leave at this point. It was grim, very grim. Just when you thought it couldn't get any grimmer, it sure as hell did. I suppose I didn't know what I was letting myself in for, but my reaction surprised even myself. I just couldn't bear the violence, cruelty and brutality - I suppose because it seemed so real. I started to reflect on the kind of world we live in, and was overcome with sadness. Basically, after crying solidly for about half an hour and shielding my eyes from the screen (with the able assistance of the Big Fella's shoulder), I realised that I just couldn't watch any more. What was surprising to me was that no-one else bailed out before us...

It was a deeply upsetting film - which, I imagine, it's supposed to be. I just couldn't deal with it... What I liked about it (I'm not saying it was a bad film, just one that I couldn't watch...) was the fact that the characters spoke in the languages of the time (Aramaic I think, and Latin - one of the reasons BF was keen to watch it) with subtitles - rather than them speaking in English with dodgy accents, something which is highly annoying to a Witho.

On a lighter note...

May I present...

.... Fanny Frog!



Let me explain. Fanny Frog is basically a hot water bottle of sorts. It contains a gel substance which retains heat, so you stick it in the microwave for a bit, lob it out and "use" it as per a hot water bottle. Now, in common with other ladies, my use of hot water bottles is generally a monthly thing. Applying a hot water bottle to the lower abdomen at certain times of the month can help ease the pain. This one is quite a compact size, such that I can stuff it down the front of my trousers at such times when schlepping around the flat, providing hands-free functionality. BF, on witnessing this phenomenon, decided to name the hot water bottle "Fanny Frog". (Americans, if reading this, "fanny" here means "front bottom", as per British usage...). So there you go...

Gargle

Yesterday, I was sitting here blogging away, and heard what I thought was the sound of a horse-racing commentator, and assumed that the racing was on the television. It turned out to be the BF gargling...



This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?