We walked down to our local pretentious art-house cinema on Saturday.
"2 for The Iron Lady", I said to the guy with the aggressive piercings behind the counter.
"How often do you come here?", he asked, oblivious that he had used the most popular chat-up line of the 1970s
We go every other month, so obviously we took up his offer to shell out $200 on cut-price pre-purchased tickets.
I hope Anne reads this blog at some point, because it will remind her that we have $200 worth of tickets in her handbag. I know she reads the blog because after a few pints of Guinness on Friday night she told me that she actually did like Diablo Cody, referring to a mildly libelous comment I wrote a few weeks ago on this forum.
Back to the Iron Lady. It soon dawned on me that the audience were watching this vaguely biopic movie with little knowledge of what happened to Thatcher in the 70s and 80s.
So when Airey Neave drove past Maggie I held back from shouting "Boom" 5 seconds before the audience jumped.
Likewise as Dennis brushed his teeth in a Brighton hotel at 3 in the morning, I did not spoil the surprise by making an explosion shape with my cupped hands.
But when they showed Maggie considering whether to torpedo the General Belgrano as it sailed away from the war zone I turned to Anne and said "Don't worry, she blows it up".
Of course our most popular newspaper celebrated this war crime with this.
All I learned from this movie was that my childhood was full of awful incidents of rioting, violence and bombings. Oh, and that Carol Thatcher is a short-tongued fuck-up.
By the way, Streep was the bomb ... but not an IRA one thankfully.