Slate grey skies brood above the industrial nightmare of my town. Rain beats against the window and into my very soul as I contemplate the prospect of watching a film about a pony. A little pony.
I walk to the multiplex. A dead badger has been thrown into a bin.
The pimple faced cretin at the cinema counter thrusts a box of popcorn the size of a barn at me. It has edible glitter sprinkled on top.
‘It’s sparkly,’ says the cretin, ‘like the ponies,’ I begin to silently weep and the cretin ushers me into the auditorium.
The lights dim and a cavalcade of sparkly commercialism vomits forth from the screen. The migraine it causes is a cold metal spike into my brain. I like it. The pain is life. The little ponies are death. Death ponies.
There is a child sat next to me who insists on mewling her chillingly avaricious desire to own the various creatures appearing on screen in the poorly animated toy advert masquerading as a film.
I begin to feel disorientated. The ponies. The sparkliness. Is this real? Are there little ponies? Why are they so little? Why?
The film judders to a halt. The lights come up. A hideous scream fills the cinema. People are looking it me. A child sobs.
It is me. I am screaming.
The pimple faced cretin ejects me from the cinema into the rain. The water on my face soothes me.
I walk home.
Screen Idle star rating ** Pinkie Pie was really cute. I love him.
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