The Manchester Odeon played The Breakfast Club as their Flashback movie on Monday 1st October.
Note that Paul Gleason plays Principal Richard Vernon, who also played Deputy Police Chief Dwayne T. Robinson in Die Hard, a film that the Odeon also played on 23rd April. Gleason is a bit of a CODOR (Can Only Do One Role), but he does it very well.
I have the feeling that people who know me might compare me to to the trenchcoat-wearing John Bender (Judd Nelson), an awkward, anti-social, well… twat. I always thought of myself as the dorky, ginger science nerd Brian Johnson (Anthony Michael Hall). The fact that I think of myself this way, it has recently occurred to me, is possibly the only reason other people may perceive me that way too.
But there’s no reason for anyone to think these things. People will perceive you the wat you perceive yourself, for better or worse. So in that case, I’d prefer to resemble Andrew Clark, Emelio Estavez’s character. He’s an archetypal hero: brave, strong, a protector of the weak and a challenger of bullies and bad attitudes.
Bravery is the willingness to take a fall, to risk a beating or public humiliation. Andy takes those risks, and comes out on top at the end of the film.
After the film T and I went to Tiger Tiger, a pimp Manchester club, and one that’s been standing for decades. I went when I was at uni ten years ago, and it was full of hot girls. When I went last week it was still pussy galore, albeit that I’m now a full decade older than most of them.
And yet, like ten years ago, I can’t approach them. All I’ve ever done is be approached- normally on dancefloors. They just watch me dancing, and they come and kiss me. (Or they did. Doesn’t seem to happen as much these days- partly because I’m not doing bar work any more. That is one method of getting the upper hand with women. But still, bar work aside, the dance floor was my pulling arena.) As a result, I’m now in my thirties and I don’t know how to approach a woman.
Brian would shit a brick if he had to approach a girl at a party, just like I do whenever I actually make myself approach a woman in a club. Andy would time it right and just fucking do it.
But in the end, that last bus was calling my name. I didn’t even throw in one last bid, being so ridiculously meek.
Just to fuck up my night further, I got to the bus stop a minute too late. There was no sign of a bus- just two mosher kids who’d been in Grand Central on Oxford Road all night.They were reading the timetable. The last bus, they reckoned, had just gone.
A further meek moment- I had a stamp on my hand from Tiger Tiger, and I could have gone straight back to the club and stayed at Toby’s. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to make the moshers’ fare more expensive. As it happened, I didn’t make it particularly cheap for them. The far was estimated at £30, and when the moshers got out they handed over a tenner each. I got out a little walk away from my flat, which isn’t as far on from there’s as I’d have guessed. So I ended up only shelling out £6 of my own money!
T is now struggling to find work, so won’t be going out much. Everybody else has mortgages or babies or hideously expensive foreign weddings to finance, so I need to think of something radical with which to change my life. Otherwise, I’ll end up with a social life like that of The Breakfast Club.