No Popcorn Please, I'm British

Who loves films? I do! In fact, I can't think of a single genre I've not had a thoroughly jolly time watching. Be it high octane action, shit-your-pants torture porn or even experimental German skin flicks, I just can't get enough of movies and don't remember a time when I didn't feel this way. One of my earliest memories is going to see ET with the old man and I was so blown away by, not just the film, but the reaction from all the rest of the blubbing audience I rewarded the little brown poo-monster by immortalising my feelings for him in felt tip on my bedroom wall, earning myself a justified clip round the ear. In later years I went on to scribble the lyrics to Ray Parker Junior's seminal theme tune on my door - but being so painfully middle class it read, 'who are you going to call…?', something that still makes me cringe today - and buy a skateboard just because McFly made it look so effortlessly cool - that's Marty rather than the ugly Northern boy band. These days I pay through the ring-piece for lobby cards and memorabilia for my most beloved features, fork out a small fortune for DVDs and magazines and spend most of my 'downtime' at work looking up nerdy info on the internet to arm myself for the inevitable geeky fact-off battles with other losers. You know who you are. Yep, I sure do love films. Cinemas, on the other hand, I don't care for much - something I clearly forgot when ordering a 10 ticket booklet for this year's Toronto International Film Festival.

If you hadn't guessed by now, I'm intolerant. Ask anyone and they'll tell you the same - a trip to the cinema with me is not usually a pleasant experience. There are certain rules you need to adhere to, which go as follows:

1) No food (it's two hours - no rations required, Porky)

2) No explanation of plot (keep up, Thicky)

3) No getting up for the toilet (cross your legs, Pissy)

4) Absolutely no talking (button it, Speaky)

Unfortunately these rules can only be strictly enforced with members of my own party and it would seem others don't have a similar system. There has to be a system, people, or it ends up in chaos. This chaos manifests itself in several ways - all of which raise my blood pressure and I would estimate that every trip I've made to the pictures has probably taken about six months off my life expectancy. Every film is not only remembered for clever plot twists or fine acting, but also for the selfish antics of the bastards (and they are all bastards) sat around me. For instance, since I've been in Canada here are some of the films I've seen at the cinema and how I best remember them:

Hostel 2: Teenager actually chatting openly on his phone. I told him to stop - he didn't comply. Six months.

Rescue Dawn: Chair kicked so regularly it felt as though I was on Space bastard Mountain. Turning to stare sporadically didn't help the cause either. Six months.

Die Hard 4: New level of selfishness reached by father bringing baby (baby?!) into film. Whole cinema turns on him and calls of 'asshole' and 'selfish prick' (mine) are spat as said baby screams throughout. Unforeseen kinship with fellow cinema-goers soon dissipates upon realisation Fatty next to me has brought his own nine-course meal in a plastic bag which is scooped at greedily throughout the film. Plus he stank of feet. Six months.

Transformers: Actual tramps come and sit down next to us for a discussion (or rant) They get kicked out though and faint arousal occurs. Stress + arousal + shittest film of all time = ten months.

That is merely a potted history of my cinema-going life in Canada. There have been far more films and therefore many more years lost, but I should get on with this posting. All I can conclude from the evidence is that I must be a glutton for punishment.

So far I've been to three films. The first was an unmitigated disaster. I thought I was going to a horror, but it turned out to be a kid's film - which is actually like a personal hell for me, but not the kind of horror I was expecting. There were kids everywhere - crying, shouting and all making a beeline for my perimeter - and even though I tried moving several times I couldn't get away from them. The film was from Sweden, so if the slurping, kicking and laughing (I ask you, is there anything worse than the sound of a child laughing?) wasn't bad enough, the subtitles were being read out by Mary bleedin' Poppins who had taken it upon herself to ascribe each character their own voice. Plus the film was all about love. Appalling. Since then, however, my experience has much improved. I went to see the world premiere (oh, yes) of George A Romero's new zombie flick, Diary of the Dead on Saturday night and even asked the old maestro a question at the Q&A session afterwards. I had to think quickly, you understand, so it wasn't exactly earth shattering. I asked, 'what would be your personal weapon of choice to dispatch the undead with?' and he said, 'I guess it'd have to be the shotgun.' Classic. Needless to say I got all girly after that and laughed too loudly - but this was George A Romero, people! Before the film some nerds dressed up as zombies made me laugh with a little routine they'd worked out. Someone shouted, 'what do we want?!' and the creatures moaned, 'Brains!', then the same someone shouted, 'when do we want them?!' and they moaned, 'Brains!' again. Pretty funny, don't you think? I did. Brains. The film was good, but I preferred the blood-fest that was French horror film, Frontieres, which I saw next. Man, that was just messed up. A veritable orgy of gore. A gorgy, if you like. I was meant to see Simon Pegg's new film, Run, Fat Boy, Run yesterday, but Rob came down from New York and we got pissed instead. And I won $20 off him at pool. Brains.

So that brings us up to date and what have we learned? I'd say practically nothing, except that I'm irascible beyond even my own imaginings, enjoy horror films and the word gorgy and am better at pool than Rob. That is all.

Thanks to Glen again, becoming quite a regular on the comments front now. Keep it up, even if they are all mostly insulting. Also thanks to Matt for his glowing praise - is that you, Parratt? As you were.