The Freebird Fighting Firth

Okay, not long home from the cinema.  No, I didn't see 'Fifty Shades of Shit'.  I promise you will suffer through watch it soon - probably on DVD to save my money - and give you my informed views.  Tell you what, I am completely over the 'domestic violence disguised as erotica' argument that's choking my newsfeed of late.  Sure, the relationship between the two protagonists is not what I'd call healthy, but a consensual act between adults, no matter how seemingly fucked up, is not domestic violence.  The genuine BDSM community are immensely PO'd with it, and I do have some acquaintances who occasionally act out sub and dom roles, so next time I'm talking with them, I will be keen to get their say.

No, today I took my almost fourteen-year-old to see 'The Kingsman: Secret Service'.  He was keen to see it, and owing to its MA+ rating, well, you get the picture.  Before you read any further, I will warn this post has potential SPOILER ALERTS.  Okay?  You've been warned.  As a woman who prides herself on her cerebral tastes and love of Oscar Wilde, and enjoys nothing more than bitingly good dialogue, I was surprised to find I really got into this film.  Admittedly, there was some good dialogue, but it often seems good when delivered with upper crust pommy accents. The last time I saw Colin Firth having a fight scene was in the nausea-inducing 'Bridget Jones' Diary' (the nausea was brought to you the fat-faced Ms Jones - she's seriously one of the most annoying protagonists to grace celluloid), and he was fighting the equally yummy Hugh Grant, and it was to the sound of Geri Halliwell's cover of  'It's Raining Men', a song that is being added to my growing list of Shit Covers.  I was astonished that silly bint Bridget Jones would have those two hotties fighting over her, but I guess when it's a film you occasionally must suspend belief.  But in the flick I saw today, Colin Firth was again fighting, but this time it was a crowd in a church with 'Freebird' in the background, and my friends, I thought 'twas most effective, and had to quell an almost insurmountable urge to play an air guitar.  And the delicious Mr Firth kicked all kinds of butt all over the place in it.

 In a later scene, owing to craftily and dastardly implanted thingies, there was a series of exploding heads as 'Pomp and Circumstance' played as background music.  That should have been grotesque, but I must admit, I was laughing like a hyena that's been sucking on nitrous oxide.  In fact, I do believe I embarrassed my son, who is now as tall as me, and appears to be developing down over his top lip.  'God, Mum!' he hissed at me, although he was also laughing.  But I am one of the many who lived through the Eighties, and had chance to laugh themselves stupid over 'The Toxic Avenger' with its special effects.

I did squirm a little uncomfortably in my chair when the Scandinavian princess offered to give the young hero anal if he rescued her.  This is because my son was with me.  I do believe my youngster looked a tad embarrassed, too.  I suppose there are some things young folk just don't like discussed when a parent is present.

We argued over the credits, because I like to watch them and he just wanted to leave.  Given we had to negotiate our way up the stairs before any kind of guide lights were switched on in the auditorium, and were groping like kids playing Marco Polo until we found the back row, I say what goes.  I'm the mum.  It had to be well up the back.  I always sit up the back.  I sat up the back when I was younger, when I was dating, and now.  I have never sat up the back in the hope of making out with my date.  My motivation is far less tawdry: I am long-sighted.

But yeah, I had a good time.  Now I'm going to read my library book before I go to work this afternoon.