The hangover ran it's course. I felt insane. Where better to get some reconcilliation than another pit of despair Plymouth cinema sunday!
This time I had spent the day playing football and drinking beers on the steps of my friend's house. He had broken his collar bone at football but didn't want to go to the hospital for some odd reason. We came up with a plan to see True Grit without paying. We were going to check all the fire escapes and failing that - bum rush the entrance. It was sure fire and half cocked.
At that moment as we were just about to leave, my friend's step dad came and picked him up and carted him off to hospital at such a spanking pace that I hardly had time to realise I was alone again. Nevermind, I thought. I still wanted to go to the cinema.
By the time I got there I had sobered up a little and felt exhausted, I knew how this was going to turn out. True Grit wasn't on so I asked the kid on the desk about sci fi; he recommended Battlefield: Los Angeles. I paid my £8 and entered the screen, I had tried in vain to get in through the back of the cinema but only managed to get into the bowling alley next door, so gave up.
I watched 10 minutes of the most generic alien invasion bullshit and then fell asleep for the rest of the film. I awoke with a wet crotch and heard someone behind me say, "Well I guess that was the Alien's Achillies Heel." I can explain the wet crotch as I had dropped my drink in my lap whilst I slept, but for the life of me I don't know what the heck happened in that film.