I approach the man at the counter. “Three for “IT”, 3:45 showing, please”. My two teenage sons flank me, like youthful bodyguards. We are buying tickets for a newly released horror film based on the Stephen King novel about a demonic clown. I know that the film has been given an “18” certificate: my sons fall just a few years short in age, although in height they could pass muster.
“Sir, this film is an 18 certificate” says the man quietly, obviously having clocked my silent personal security detail.
I look him straight in the eye and say, with a straight face: “It’s ok, I’m 42”.
He replies, with an equally straight face: “No sir, them”, gesturing with his eyes towards my sons.
So, Plan A has failed. Plan A, in case you’re wondering, was to distract the man with my word-class deadpan humour and be granted access to the cinema as a quid pro quo for having bestowed upon him a fleeting moment of levity in an otherwise dull shift at work. To my dismay, the humour has gone over his head faster than a coulrophobic running from a circus, so I immediately rotate to Plan B: bewilderment.
I turn to one of my sons with a look as if I’m surprised to see him standing there. My son stares back at me intently, still silent, obviously hoping that I’m about to reveal the killer plan for getting them into the cinema, that I’m about to apply the coup de grace!
I turn back to the man. “Ah, you know”, I say, “they’re nearly there [in age], and I’m their father, I’m ok with it”. I don’t look back at my sons to avoid the bewilderment in their faces as they come to terms with the fact that their father’s master plan amounts to no more than “oh, go on, please”.
The subtext here is that I’m in the Middle East where culturally the enforcement of age admissions has been pretty lax: I’ve been astonished plenty of times to see young kids watching films where limb dismemberment is par for the course, so I feel I’m being nickel-and-dimed over a borderline case and, in any event, North Korea has just fired a test missile over a Japanese island, so there are more important things going in the world that civilised people should be arguing about, no?
The man is unmoved by my careful exercise of parental discretion and my assessment on the balance of probabilities of the affect of the film on my sons….
He suggests another movie: it’s a worthy family drama that I and my teenage sons would have no business in seeing. The man clearly assumes we don’t care what we see, and that our key purpose is to sit together in a dark room eating popcorn. He also suggests the anniversary re-release of Terminator 2 in 3D format, showing much later in the evening. I briefly consider taking up residence for four hours in the nearby food court, at Falafel Land or Subway, waiting to see a 25-year old movie with some 3D slapped on top. It doesn’t appeal.
We retreat from the cinema, defeated.
We enter McDonalds and order some consolatory Ice Cream sundaes. I pay and am asked to take a seat and wait to be called up. The place is empty and the staff stand around stiffly, staring into space or at each other. About three minutes later, as if suddenly remembering that a customer has actually ordered something, one of them breaks the ranks of the rest of the mannequins and bustles off to dispense the ice cream. There’s an advert for booking kids’ parties in the restaurant. For some reason, I think of Ronald McDonald, playing with kids. All under-18 of course.