In Hastings, at the back end of the decade of poor taste, the 1970s, a trip to the pictures was a frequent occurrence. It was so much less clinical then: we would park up in a yellow DAF outside the cinema safe in the knowledge the car was not going to get plastered in tickets by a commission-based parking enforcement ‘operative’ who patronisingly insisted on calling you ‘sir’ as you called him anything but. A quick trip into the local discount store, ESK, would culminate in bags of crisps and the square drinks where you have to punch the straw through the lid as you boldly wander into the picture house finishing off a jam sandwich mother had ‘made for the car’, just in case you got peckish on the six-minute car journey. If you arrived early enough you could do the dust test: slapping the big brown cushioned seats and watching the debris come spewing out across the dim light of the projector. Strangely it felt hygienic compared to the dust emanation that you had stirred up the previous week within the carriage of the old British rail rolling stock.

The toilets, much as now, were dimly lit and explained why the seat was sticky to the touch. If you timed it right, such as during Star Wars, which boomed through the walls in the days before sound proofing, you could add an element of excitement and an orchestral ensemble to any passing of a motion.

Pre smoking ban, everything reeked of tobacco, including the visiting ice cream seller who would have a B&H dangling from her lips as she gave you the choice of vanilla, chocolate or strawberry, which you then attempted to dig into with an unaesthetically pleasing lump of wood purporting to be a spoon. Throwing foodstuffs was acceptable in those days, safe in the knowledge that you were not going to get a knife in the back for such misdemeanour.

It was, for many, a flirtation aid. Not being experienced in the intricacies of teenage courting, if with mates, we would be under the misapprehension that throwing pieces of popcorn across a few aisles to hit a girl we fancied on the head was going to attract her toward her potential mate. In truth, thanks to the advent of the perm, she would be none the wiser and no doubt wonder how she had managed to gather 26 pieces of corn on top of her head.

The advent of ‘Dolby stereo’ and the bababababababababababa-babababababababa-ba! Pearl and Dean intro music would signify the opening of the blockbuster, despite no one having a clue what or who Pearl and Dean signified. Local adverts for Carls Carpets and "Westlers hotdogs…available from the foyer NOW" would lead you into Skywalker battling the Imperial might in the forest of Endor.

On the way out it was like you had been drugged into believing that you could jump off the multi-storey and fly like Christopher Reeve or use a Jedi mind trick to trick the girl with popcorn in her hair into believing you were, despite appearances, Sussex’s answer to Fonzarelli. The DAF was still there and seatbelts weren’t a thing then, which gave the occupants carte blanche to roll around and give their siblings a beating as mother threw her weight behind the steering wheel as she attempted to turn left and smash it in first gear up the West Hill.

Nowadays, cinemas are billed as ‘experiences’ with a price tag to match. Bringing in a tube of Pringles and cans of lukewarm Diet Coke brought from home are frowned upon by others, despite spending £60 to watch a film that you could have downloaded for free on the Kodi box at home. The seats are more comfortable, which has led to my drifting to sleep on occasion before being awoken from my slumber by the narky middle-class woman who takes her opportunity to evict your arm from the shared rest.

Despite the changes, I will be visiting with my daughter to watch The Rise of Skywalker’ as I take the opportunity to catch up on some Zs and demolish the six-pack of Twiglets extracted from the pantry that are veering perilously toward their sell by date. Despite minor changes, the picture house is still a big draw and the force remains strong with that one, young Jedi.

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher