On Spaceballs

On Spaceballs

Bored, one Tuesday afternoon, I took myself to see the Mel Brooks turkey Spaceballs at the old, sadly demolished Odeon in Reading.

There must have been other - more exciting - ways to pass the time in Reading that afternoon, for, as the lights went down, I noticed I was the only person in the auditorium.

Fair play to the management, they played all the adverts, all the trailers, and eventually the film itself.

But, God. I could see why I was the only person to part with my money that day. Brooks is a sporadic genius, and Spaceballs WAS as bad as the critics suggested. But - partially because I'd invested cold, hard cash in seeing thisw film, and partially through some sort of loyalty to the projectionist, I decided to watch it to the end.

Alas, midway through the film, the catering-sized fizzy drink caught up with mee, and I felt the urge to go to the toilet.

So, I crept out during a particularly unfunny set of gags, strained my onions, and sneaked back.

I returned barely a minute later, but the auditorium was completely dark. THEY HAD STOPPED THE FILM.

"OI! I shouted up to the projectionist's booth. What's going on?"

"Sorry mate," came a disembodied voice, "I thought you'd gone. And I didn't blame you, to be honest."

Having already started rewinding the film back onto its spool, it was too late to pick up where I left off, so they offered me free tickets to a later screening. I politely declined - I'd seen enough.

Later, that evening:

Mrs Duck: "We haven't been to the cinema together for ages. Why don't we go see that Mel Brooks film?"

Me: "I ...err... I... OK, then"

Inside, I die.