Sometimes during this the only thing you can do to take your mind off the horror is raise your arms and do a comedy dance for the privilege of the folks sat at home watching the charade on some bootleg CAM-TS version of the flick. Maybe you even got a wee routine about Vietnamese Mosh Pits or wanking.

Maybe you might get noticed by some high-flying talent scout who ended up with this on account of a maliciously uploaded file purporting to be War Of The Worlds 2005.

Any the fuck way, when the fella with the torch leads me to the seat (B-O1, I believe, which subtly hints that maybe one of your overweight comedy Star Wars fans should be sat there, and also, I just realized, is almost O-B1, which would've been much better, given the circumstances), I find it is indeed the last one on the row, but, as luck would have it, the seat is next to the bastard wall.

So, in conclusion, I couldn't have picked a seat on this row further from the aisle unless I got all Woody Allen in Zelig and sat my arsehole up vertically on the fucking paint.

Still, fuck it. I had a couple pisses a while back. More important is who has the seats next to me? A couple parents and their children? One parent and his / her children? One vagrant and a couple children he helped get in since it was 12a? A romantic couple of some kind, who'll keep looking over and thinking about "Hmm. Not really surprised he's sat on his own, to be honest."

Or, sweet God, my ex and her new fella? How wretched a scene this would be.

No way they'd be here, though, tonight of all nights.

And yet what better night for a date-flick than Friday? And what better date-flick than a film about the dehumanizing voyage of degradation endured by a young fella with hope in his eyes and a couple sprogs on the way?

Before long, it stood to reason that it could ONLY be my ex and her fella who had booked these seats. It all made sense. They'd come in, there'd be an awkward smile and then I'd be subjected to all manner of soul-scarring slurping, or worse, and all throughout this virgin airing of Revenge Of The Sith. I was about to demand a change of seat, but then three fellas sat down. I'm fairly sure none of them was my ex, but who knows? In this light, and with a fellas thoughts driving him all shadesa psychedelic, Trotsky himself could sit his arse down to my right and I wouldn't notice for a second.

Any the hell how.

Soon as the adverts appeared onscreen, I knew this was to be a glorious occasion.

A sense of community was being instilled in us from the motherfucking get-go is the facts of the truth of it all, every advert being about some event that was bringing all sortsa disparate people together. There was the beer one with the Franz Ferdinand performance. There was the one with folks going to work on giant space-hoppers, which I wished to the heavens would be an advert for giant space-hoppers, but no, turns out it was about phones or something. Over and over, loads of people in these adverts find themselves as part of something greater, and smiles are passed to folks the smilee ain't ever seen, and smiles returned. I figured I should look round and smile at the really rather attractive lady sat behind me, but no doubt her partner would interpret this as something other than a flicker of solidarity amidst this space-hopping adventure, and so I figured no, fuck it.