Goodbye, Cinema Etiquette: The Clash of Mr Smelly Socks & the Popcorn Police…

I went to the cinema recently and had a serious sensory shock. However, it wasn’t due to the bright lights, explosions, or quick-witted dialogue: I was overcome by the brutal behaviour of those around me. Since when did people forget how to act at the movies?

We’d arrived just on time and went straight in. I slid into my seat, munching happily on the goodies brought from the garage down the road: life was sweet. There was a sigh of relief as the chair eased itself back and, feeling its cool leather, I entered a state of bliss.

But then the trouble started.

To my sheer disbelief and toe-curling horror, the gentleman beside me removed both of his shoes and was exposing his feet. Before I could steady myself, he began to pull and pluck at the sweaty, slinky sock-material in the crevices of his toes. I thought for a moment that I’d been transported to his sitting room.

Instead, we were in the sacred space of the cinema.

Before the film started, I ran to the loo, but had to squeeze past Smelly Socks first. His pointy toes were like spikes waiting to impale me. My wife and I were there to watch the new espionage thriller, Argylle, but this experience was fast becoming Stinker, Tailor, Solider, Cry.

Feeling that it was my duty to record the situation for posterity, like any good spy, I noted that: his socks were of a medium-thick wool, bluey grey, with navy pads at the toe and heel. The material seemed expensive, and suggested they’d come straight from the shop shelf, or had at least seldom seen the inside of a tumble dryer. Basically, his socks were in great shape. Whereas mine… In my rush to leave the house I’d thrown a different sock on each foot; one was longer than the other and, shamefully, one had a hole in the front, where a brutal toenail had sawn away the fabric. I could have been James Bond, reimagined: Dr. Toe.

The glamourous inhabitants of Hollywood must surely never suffer these ignominies. Although perhaps the world of the red carpet isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, either. In 2000, South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone infamously attended the Academy Awards under the influence, in drag and subsequently came down of an LSD Trip. They’ve since memorably stated that they struggled to sit through the Oscars ceremony itself, “which as anyone knows, ‘f**king sucks.”

And at the recent SAG Awards, Cillian Murphy was about to go atomic, struggling to maintain his best poker face as a paparazzo repeatedly yelled and mispronounced his name – “Sillian, Sillian, stand over here, please, Sillian!” What is it about some people (Americans), and their inability to pronounce Irish names correctly? At the Oscars on Sunday, Ryan Gosling will be performing ‘I’m just Ken’ on the back off the song’s roaring success with Barbie. So, we must ask: will Cillian Murphy be compelled to rush the stage and roar, “I’m just Cillian; C-I-L-L-I-A-N”?

However, there is something more sinful, more galling, and more enraging than bad drugs, dodgy names, or rogue feet at a film. It’s popcorn abuse. Loud munching, rabid rustling, and bag-scrunching hell. It’s no coincidence that Wittertainment cinema gurus Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo rate “No Eating” as their Number One rule of cinema etiquette.

Look, a bit of noisy rummaging in the popcorn is fine. No problem. But avoid doing it during the silent parts of the movie, please. A moment of quiet calm had descended in my screening of Argylle, with the fuzzing static from the speakers the only sound to be heard. Suddenly, my wife’s hand reached for the popcorn. I could feel my buttocks clench tighter with each rustle of the bag. On screen, the two characters stared at each other in silence. There might as well have been a cement mixer beside me as the search for the popcorn went on.

What if other people complained about the noise? My ultimate fear.

I gave my wife the Paddington Bear ‘hard stare’ as best I could.

This escalated the situation.

She responded by intentionally taking her phone out to check for updates from the babysitter: The glare of the phone screen seemed to illuminate the whole theatre so as to be visible from outer space. Sweat was forming under my armpits.

“Would you mind turning the brightness down, please?”, I asked her, pointedly.

Unbelievably, Smelly Socks turned, and shook his head at me.

“Ssssh!” he hissed.

My shoulders slumped in de feet. I sat there in my cargo shorts, long since shrunk in the wash, with my knees and their painful, flaking dry skin cementing my Misery.

From the whole experience I learnt that I often tend to act like an uptight stick in the mud. Or, as I was told, “a wee f**kin’ granda.”

The film was absolutely fine, but for some strange reason I just can’t remember what it was about. A night at the movies goes by in a flash, and it was a shame… because I’d really put my foot in it this time.