The Secret Diary of Emmy the Great

Five and a half hours until the first showing of my film. As I'd planned, waking someone up early was enough to extract a firm promise of a date on Valentine's day, but I hadn't thought of what I'd do to fill my time until it started. Walking down the Travelodge steps, I make my way into the car park. It's a beautiful Glasgow morning. The sky is filled with a layer of unbroken cloud, its pure shade of grey all the more authentic with the motorway exhaust fumes.

This is the most romantic time of day, I think to myself, coughing a little. A loud explosion echoes in the distance, maybe a car tyre or a gunshot, and then the sunrise begins. For a minute it looks as though a weak ray is about to break through the cloud layer, but, in the end, it’s just a car with one headlight. Watching as it swerves between the hard shoulder and the outside lane, and as it disappears into the distance, I decide it’s about time to get down to that cinema and start queuing for tickets.

You can never be too careful on a special occasion, as either my mother or a greeting card I’d read one time used to say. I make my way across the industrial estate and down towards the gleaming dome of the Paisley Road Odeon. I’ve had my eye on it since we arrived yesterday. The whole band were aware that it was Valentine’s day tomorrow, and as soon as we touched down in the car park had made their excuses and ran, but Ric was caught up in the hook of his seatbelt and didn’t make it.
“There’s a cinema here,” I’d said to him. With meaning.
“No hable Ingles,” he’d replied.
Now I had him in my grip. In a few hours, he’ll be receiving a bouquet of roses with a note detailing the colour scheme of what I’m wearing, the pickup point, and the exact tone of voice with which to hand me my flowers.
Nobody is getting in the way of my perfect day.

Paisley Road Odeon – 7am

When I get to the Odeon, there is a sign on the poster for ‘He’s Just Not That into You’. ‘Sold Out’, it says. I stop dead in my tracks.
Then I run up to the glass doors and start pounding.
“No! no! it can’t be! Not again! This is just like the time I couldn’t get a table at Pizza Express!”

A man in a cleaner’s uniform comes to the door.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“I need to get tickets to see He’s Just not that into you,” I tell him, “I need to do this, I need them for my date.”
“They’ve sold out,” he says, looking up at the sign, “it says so here.”
“But there must be something I can do,” I plead, “something you can help me with?”
He shakes his head. “You should have planned ahead,” he says, “people have been calling in all week trying to find a film with Jennifer Aniston in it.”
It’s as though someone has thrust their hand in icy water and wrapped it around my heart. Distraught, I sink down onto the pavement, sobbing, ”It’s because she’s such a fine comic actress.”
“Yes,” he says, “it’s true. She was very good in Along Came Polly.”

I continue to cry. The cleaner kneels down beside me, and hands me a towel-sized tissue from his box. “Don’t cry,” he says, “There’s plenty of other cinemas in town.” “Will they be showing my film?” I ask him, sniffing. He smiles, “They might well be.”
“Are there any nearby?”
“There’s one in George’s Square, just up the road.”

I blow my nose with his tissue. Then I get onto my feet and stand very straight.
“I will not give up on my dream.” I say, making my way towards the road.
“That’s the spirit,” says the cleaner, “but next time remember, you can never be too careful on a special occasion.”
“You have excellent taste in greeting cards, sir,” I cry, running.

Odeon George’s Square – 8:30 am

By the time I hail a cab, it’s already close to eight. The taxi driver seems unsympathetic to my plight and refuses to let me have the lift for free.
“But I only have enough money for the cinema tickets,” I tell him, “which I need for my special Valentine’s day out.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you got in the cab,” he says, “You can never be too careful on a special occasion.”
And I always thought people from Glasgow to be so friendly. Handing him what’s left of my money, I say, “I hope you have all your hopes shattered one day.”
“Not likely,” he says, driving away, “I’ve had tickets to ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ for over a week.”

What a rude man, I think. But it is strange to hear that saying again. Making my way towards the cinema, I try and remember exactly where it is that I heard it first. Was it somewhere around the time I became obsessed with the perfect Valentine’s day out?
Just before I have a chance to give it some proper thought, my attention is caught with the sound of women screaming. A huge queue has formed at the cinema box office, and the women at the front are clawing at each other and beating each other with handbags.

“They’re my tickets!” screams one of the women, “I’ve been standing here since last night.”
“You give them to me!” shrieks the other one, “Nothing is getting in the way of my perfect day!”

For a moment I am surprised to hear a phrase I’ve so recently repeated myself, but then I realise what is going on. Those women are fighting over the last tickets to ‘He’s Just Not that Into you’! There are still tickets left! I join in with the screaming and throw myself into the middle of the scrum.
“MINE!” I yell in unison with the others, “THOSE TICKETS ARE MINE!”

A frightened looking cinema attendant runs out from the box office. 
“Ladies!” he says, “Ladies please!”
The fight is paused for a minute, as we all look at the owner of the voice. He’s a young boy, maybe about 17, skinny, with a face full of acne and a set of late in life braces. 
“He’s gorgeous,” yelps one of the ladies. 
“Be my Valentine!” cries another, launching herself at him.

Without knowing why, I follow her move. All of a sudden all my desires are focused on this terrified adolescent with his destiny of a lifetime of facial scarring, and if I don’t have him immediately, somebody will die. ”Did you get me flowers?” I scream at him, as he crumbles under the weight of fifteen crazed females, ”Where are my chocolate covered cherries!”

By now a crowd has gathered around the fight, but instead of trying to break it up like I would have expected, they are stood in circles clapping and chanting ”JENNIFER! ANISTON! JENNIFER! ANISTON!” they scream, stamping their feet in time with the chant, “YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO CAREFUL ON A SPECIAL OCCASION!”
This is so strange, I think, as I rip off the boy’s shirt. Before I can have my way with him, however, my phone rings. It’s Ric.
“What do you want?” I growl, my mouth full of shirt.
“I got your fucking instructions and I’m not going to bloody do any of it.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask him, confused.
“I am not going to take you dancing. I am not going to hire a tuxedo. And I am not going to tell you that you are the light of my life shimmering like so many Aurora Borealas,” he shouts down the phone, “I’m not going to do any of it.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, “I don’t know who you are. I am with my Valentine at the cinema. We are going to watch ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’.” Trying to hang up, I find that I have forgotten how to use my phone. Trying to say something else to the person on the other end, I find I have forgotten how to speak full sentences. “Jennifer Aniston is a fine comic actress,” I croak into the receiver as it disappears behind my love. By now I have his attention fully, as the other ladies have started squabbling over a homeless man who was sleeping on the step of McDonalds. Putting my hand over his mouth, I hit him soundly on the head and knock him out, so he can’t run away, a phrase repeating in the back of my mind about never being too careful. From a strange rectangular device on the side of the road, I hear a voice coming as if from nowhere.

”Emma, it’s Ric. Which cinema are you at? What’s wrong with you? Answer me!”

George’s Square Odeon – 6:30pm

By the time my band arrive, most of the frenzy is over. There is some dried blood on the road from when one of the women bit the homeless man, but other than that the only sign of what happened is the ambulances shuttling shell-shocked male victims to hospital from various different parts of Glasgow.
“Post traumatic stress,” says the paramedic here to pick up my love, “he’ll be all right in a year or two.”
Someone tells me that this cinema was not the only place where this happened. Apparently there were similar mass assaults of men outside Odeons all across the country.

‘They all wanted to see ‘He’s Just Not That into You’,” says the paramedic, “Probably because Jennifer Aniston is such a fine comic actress.”
“She was wonderful in Picture Perfect…” I mumble, in a daze.
A van parks across the street, and Ric comes running out. “What happened here?” he asks, “We’ve been at every cinema in Glasgow looking for you.”
“I – I – can’t remember,” I say, “I think I was watching a film.”
“But there are bodies all over the streets,” he says, “and…underpants.”

Our Tour Manager Kyle steps out towards us, “I’ve just seen a group of naked women suckling a teenage boy,” he says, his face white, “and I think they had animal blood on them.”
“Sounds like a perfect Valentine,” I say mournfully; I hate it when the holidays are over.
They put a blanket around me and lead me back to the van, “Come on,” says Ric, “let’s get out of here while we can.”
By the time we get to the Travelodge, I am feeling better. Kyle comes in to say that the show has been cancelled, because the promoter was attacked by a group of frenzied barmaids.
“I have to say,” says Kyle, “it does seem a little strange.”
“Probably just a coincidence,” says Ric, sipping on his tea and reaching for the television remote, “but let’s just stay in tonight just in case.” He flicks through the channels and lands on E4, “Here,” he says, “A nice relaxing episode of Friends.”
Suddenly, there is an ad break. There are flashing lights emanating from shampoo bottles, and then Jennifer Aniston comes on to the screen.
“This Valentine’s,” she smiles, flicking her hair, “remember – you can never be too careful on a special occasion…” The flashing lights continue, and I could swear that her eyes flicker from blue to red. She’s such a fine actress, I think, becoming mesmerised in her gaze.
“…don’t let anyone spoil your perfect day…” she winks.
I look over at Ric and Kyle, who’s eyes have become strangely glazed.
“I want to go to the cinema,” they say, blankly.

Posted Thu, April 02, 2009

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Comments on The Secret Diary of Emmy the Great

There is no odeon in George Square in Glasgow

(ed: Does it matter? Define: fiction)

Posted by: kitten | 11/04/2009 at 16:04

ahahha I watched that movie on valentine’s day!

This is excellent. Love you Emma.

Posted by: houseboat | 24/04/2009 at 04:22