Why I'm the new Chris Pratt

So I've just got back from watching Jurassic World (one word: ermagherd) and while my adrenaline was still sky high after emerging from the frankly terrifying film (someone must have given the head of the British Board of Film Classification some serious sexual favours to get a 12a certificate on that film cos I'm REALLY old and I came THIS close to actually defecating in my pants) the most amazing thing happened.

Set the scene... I arrived at my seat before the film preposterously excited for a man of my very advanced age, and sat down with all the finesse of an actual geriatric (I have a bad back, ok, I can't help it that I make sex noises when I sit down) only to quickly discover that the seat was soaking wet. I'm 90% sure that despite my advancing years I hadn't wet myself with excitement and it was just a fizzy drink spilled by my predeseater (yes, autocorrect, it's called a coinage - Shakespeare did it all the time, deal with it).

Anyway, naturally I'd arrived early so I went straight to the steward to ask if there was anything she could do for me. She very politely began answering me but as she was explaining that she couldn't leave her post but... a woman approached her and, literally mid-sentence, interjected in one of the most ludicrous customer enquiries I have ever witnessed, to ask why she'd been given children's 3D glasses instead of adult ones. Yes, really.

The steward, slightly perplexed by this show of egocentrism, explained that she was sorry but it had been very busy and she could probably find her some more glasses. Instead of taking this perfectly reasonable response and waiting politely for her to do so the customer loudly exhaled and began an utterly unprovoked invective about how appalling it was that she had to put up with this kind of service and questioning how the steward could have given her the wrong specs - wasn't it her job to give out the right specs? At this point I think it's important that we all remember that PEOPLE ARE DYING IN AFRICA.

The steward, naturally a little taken aback by the staggeringly unnecessary rudeness of this woman, repeated that she would be happy to find some bigger glasses for her if she would just give her a moment to deal with my issue. I was so outraged on the steward's behalf that I added, by way of support, and because I thought she surely couldn't have noticed, "she was actually dealing with me before you arrived". The woman, perhaps having a momentary realisation of how ridiculous she was being, grimaced and gave the steward permission to go ahead and finish serving me. "Sorry, would it be easier if I went downstairs and spoke to someone down there?" I asked. The steward smiled gratefully, and said "yes, if you don't mind. Thank you for being so polite" - a perfectly fair bit of passive aggression, given the circumstances I felt. "No problem," I said and began to try to get past The Rudest Woman in the World and her entourage.

At this point, I kid you not, one of her group - a larger male - quite deliberately, and very much in the manner of a rugby jock in key stage three of his education, ACTUALLY SHOULDER BARGED ME and walked in. I was so stunned I didn't have chance to react at all, but simply stood there like a Jurassic World security head who's just learned there's been a containment anomaly in Sector 9.

I went downstairs, got offered another seat but turned it down in favour of a plastic bag. I nearly said, "I'm from Yorkshire, babes" but wasn't sure the Hackney Picturehouse was ready for that level of hilarious sass right now.

As an amusing aside, when I got back to my seat in what must have been a 300-seat auditorium, guess who was sat right next to us? I mean really, what are the chances? (Possibly slightly higher than the chances that *SPOILER ALERT* the Head of Operations's nephews happened to be in the one gyrosphere that got caught up in the Igdominus Rex's hunting ground, but this is real life and, good as this story is, it's not being directed by Colon Trevorrow. Yet.)

Aaaaanyway, when I finally emerged from the film I decided to go and try my luck for a free ticket in compensation for my bum-soaking incident. The manager on duty was exceedingly friendly and surprisingly quick to agree to the request, even offering me compensation for any "damages" I might have incurred. Tempted as I was to claim that my shirt and trousers were hand-stitched by Vivienne Westwood and Alexander McQueen's love child I'd chosen today of all days to wear all-black (I mean when was the last time you saw me wearing less than 12 colours in one outfit) so I 'fessed up that there was no possible damage and thanked her for being so understanding.

"That's ok," she said, "thank you for being so lovely about it... and by the way, I think you might be a bit of a hero. Are you the guy who stood up for my colleague against the really rude customer?"
"Oh," I said, fanning myself with false modesty "it was nothing, she was being VERY rude". But in my head of course, I was all like "That's me: Samuel Jones. Hero. Righting injustices since 1985. You can just call me Chris Pratt".

Obviously this post is mainly a vehicle for me to boast about this accolade. (HERO, bitchez: read it and weep.) But I'd also like to say that the fantastically polite staff and exemplary customer services serve to me as proof, as if it were ever needed, that independent cinemas (even ones that have admittedly recently been taken over by other evil corporations) are, like a gazillion times better than a faceless Vue or Odeon. I mean when was the last time anyone in the Odeon called you a hero? Did I mention that she called me a hero? Yeah, she called me a hero.

I'm not gonna lie, when she said that word I did very nearly actually kiss her. But this post still isn't being directed by Colin Treverrow, and  *SPOILER ALERT* for that kind of cheesy ending you'll have to go and watch Jurassic World.