Splattered Matter.

10 Jan

I came the closest to actually throwing up during a film today than ever before, to the point where I had scoped out a nearby empty popcorn box just in case things got too much.

The BBFC were not joking when they rated The Hateful Eight an 18, with a warning of “strong bloody violence”. They were not joking at all. 

Not sure why I’m complaining, what with it being a Tarantino film and all, but when you’re still gagging twenty minutes after walking back from the cinema, you know that certain pictures in your head are going to be lodged there for a long time. 

On the up side, watching a film long enough to warrant an interval (which was unexpected, and I was definitely not the only person in that room who thought the projector had broken) did mean that I missed the torrential hail so avoided being knocked out by getting a golf ball sized compacted piece of ice to the temple. A definite plus.


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