On life being a piece of shit, when you look at it
"One for Life of Brian, please"
The morbidly obese woman in the box office looks at me accusingly: "Are you over fourteen?" she asks.
"Yes. Yes I am," I reply confidently, this being my first AA Certificate movie, and I had the paperwork to back up my claim.
"Prove it!" the man-mountain of a doorman barks at me as my friends cower in terror.
I unfold my birth certificate and hand the precious piece of paper to the uniformed guardian of the silver screen, whose lips move as he takes in my details.
"Mmmm... Young Mr Scary Duck. That's an unusual name, isn't it?"
"No it's not. Loads of people have two middle names."
"Cut your cheek. You're in."
And the next one, please...
"One for Life of Brian."
"Are you over fourteen?"
"Yes. Yes I am. In fact, it's my birthday today, and this is my birthday outing."
Poor Steven, for his "I am 14" lapel badge cut no ice with the Door Nazi, and our gang is on the horns of a dilemma.
Five of us are clutching tickets and are eyeing up the girl behind the popcorn counter. Steve - whose day out this is - finds himself alone in the foyer, his dreams of cinematic blasphemy hanging by a thread.
What - I ask - to do?
Ninety minutes later: "Naaah, mate. You would've hated it. Utter shit."
His little face lit up. "Really?"
"Biggus Dickus" etc etc etc, forever.
Life, eh? It really is a piece of...