Being the hard-core tough guy man’s man that I am, instead of watching the big game yesterday, I went and saw Mrs. Henderson Presents with my mommy. And no, this is not a convoluted attempt at another ‘your mother’ joke. And no, I was not dragged along. Not only was going to a movie with my mommy my idea, I had picked the movie as well. I had dragged her along.

You see, I’m a huge Judi Dench fan. And no, that is not another convoluted attempt at another ‘your mother’ joke. That was last week. I am done with your mom. I’ve got such a big stiff lump in my throat for that old Dame that I even briefly considered suffering through The Chronicles of Riddick. I have absolutely no interest in either justifying or defending my adoration of Judi Dench and I don’t have the time. As Time Goes By is on in a few minutes.

I had assumed, quite incorrectly, that a late matinee marketed towards geriatrics on Super Bowl Sunday would be relatively empty. A perfect opportunity to get both some moms time in and my Dench on. Oh boy was I wrong. The line in front of the theatre looked exactly how I had imagine the one in front of Heaven’s gate, or an Atlantic City buffet. “Jesus” my mother exclaimed, “we’re the only two people going to see this that weren’t actually involved in the war effort. What the hell are you taking me to?”

Personally, I enjoyed standing in that line. I cannot think of a more entertaining way to spend a Sunday afternoon than watching hundreds of walker wielding octogenarians trying to jaywalk across York Avenue Road (avenue? what the hell was I thinking?). It was like Frogger, but with old people. The theatre itself was packed like a Floridian dinner theatre, and smelled like Ben Gay and soiled underpants, but I didn’t care. My Judi was about to come on the screen.

Like I’ve said in the past, I am not going to try to pretend to be some sort of a qualified film critic, or that my vision and powers of reason mean that my opinion about a movie is worth much of anything. But consider the variables. Stephen Friars directing, the Blitz as a backdrop, Judi Dench acting, and beautiful fresh ripe young lady bits bouncing all over the screen for two hours. It is impossible to fuck up a formula like that.

Granted, if I could do it all over again, I would probably choose not to watch with all that supple soft boobiege while sitting next to my mother, but otherwise I’m more than happy that I don’t have the first clue as to who won that damn football game.