Twice last week I was given coffee by clients whilst out and about doing what I do (its top secret, cant talk about it) On each of those both twice occasions (Its my blog, hence my grammar rules) the coffee came with the caveat that

“Its only instant, sorry about that”

It is from these two twice suggested situations that I find myself feeling slightly superior to the folks who drink instant coffee; they obviously regarded me as a chap with impeccable tastes and after a more wholesome tasteworthy coffee rather than a means to warm my hands up as we defend into another bloody miserable British winter, rather more wet than normal. Let’s dig for coal!! The second reason for feeling substantially more superior than most, in my mind, was the less than rigorous research into the film Gladiator 2 or  “GLAD’II’ATOR” which I saw last night. The rumour mill and various Radio 2 reviews have been stupendous, a smash hit, etc etc. And after watching the film as the furthest man from the screen, in the top right hand corner of the back row, the man who will undoubtably need to have a piss about 40 minutes from the end, just as it’s all winding up for a stupendous crechendo, the man whose back is hurting and forgot to take a couple more co-codamol swilled down with a pint of IPA so ended up thinking if:

a) he was going to have to piss, and make his way to the toilet past all these sitting down cinema people

b) wondering how long this was going to go on for as his back was sore and how many times must he shift in order to maintain a relative tolerable discomfort.

Turns out the film passed without me having to pass Urine whilst the cinema seemed to pass off a load of Horse Shit on myself in the guise of a sequel bleeding the original concept for all its got, but without using every tenuous link to the Rome story so a further sequel can be shovelled out, men in togas instead of superheroes in lycra. Watch this space as the future of cinema  continues to be sucked off down the drain. Pun intended.

In my cinematic malaise I should probably change my life choices and  shove in some sort of narrative shim to make me fit into the standard mould, and just accept mediocrity with multi million pound special effects and wooden acting which ignores the very corrupt and shambolic state of Rome that I witnessed on a rainy Saturday night in Worcester. The only feel of anarchy and corruption was an emperor with a monkey and archers pointing their bows into the crowd. But due to a fire drill previous to the film, the adverts were cut and we had time to visit the pub across the road for a pint and to watch Strictly in silence, prior to the main event, the lack of adverts was good, the proliferation of mediocrity was evident.

But then maybe I’m not the target audience.