Mark and I went out in the evening. We suffered mild guilt pangs about going because we wanted to be with the children: but we work on Saturdays; and he goes back to Aberdeen on Sunday, so it was the only opportunity, and an unusual one at that, because mostly he isn’t home on Friday night: and of course you can’t possibly go and see Fifty Shades of Grey on your own.
This, for anybody who hasn’t heard of it, is not a Lake District weather report but a film in which the hero distinguishes himself by wishing to tie the heroine to a bed and smack her bottom. This sounded to us like an entertaining evening, so we overcame our parental scruples and off we went.
It looked as though it might be an ace night. Bowness Cinema has not changed since about nineteen forty and indeed still has a Wurlitzer organ that comes up through the floor on occasion, but thankfully it was nowhere to be seen and the cinema was packed. Mark said the last time it had been like that had been when he went there to see Grease in his youth. He insisted on purchasing a large popcorn and a bag of jelly babies; which I felt was somehow not in the spirit of erotic ambiance, and we had a minor disagreement about it on the way in, but since the lady on the sweet stall couldn’t offer any kind of themed alternative I had to put up with it.
In the event we ate them anyway. Let me say now to those who think it might be a nice way to spend an evening together, don’t bother. You will have more fun trimming each other’s corns. When we came out we were silent for a few minutes whilst we digested what we had just seen, and then am sorry to say that we laughed all the way home.
Far be it from me to be rude or critical about somebody else’s colossal artistic efforts: at least they have got their act together and made a film, which is more than I ever have, but it really was mind boggling drivel. For those who don’t know anything about it, it is about a billionaire businessman who by the age of twenty seven has not only built up a massive financial empire, but has also learned to fly helicopters and gliders, read all the classics and can drive at high speed, all whilst spending six years being somebody’s sex slave. He had an amazing tidy wardrobe with all his clothes in immaculate order, which I envied him very much because mine is overfull and everything gets creased. We thought all of this was improbably impressive, so no wonder the scruffy student thought she might be in love with him, despite overwhelming evidence that he was actually a bit of a pillock. She was fairly irritating herself, actually: before the film had been running for ten minutes I quite liked the idea of smacking her as well. Anyway, he insisted on spanking her, all the while wearing this agonised expression so that we, the audience, would know that he was a nice chap really and just had unfortunate Issues from which true love would no doubt save him in the end. At least by the end of the third film, anyway.
“Would you like me to smack your bottom?” Mark asked doubtfully over a glass of wine afterwards. We both contemplated this concept for a moment or two before I politely declined, which I thought he might have accepted with an air of relief. It is all right for teenage billionaires, perhaps, but would look completely ridiculous when you are fifty, no to mention all the creaky knee and back difficulties you might encounter in the process.
In any case, it would upset the dog.
