Everything you didn't want to know about theatre squabbles, and an unusual heirloom Backache is the closest thing we have to an heirloom in our family. There was an antique pair of scissors my grandmother used to shear sheep with, but that has long disappeared. <img alt="" src="/imagedata/2010/apr/3DMAIN.jpg" border="5" /> My grandfather was proud of his back problem. "It's an ache," he said, "from the time we built Persepolis," -- the capital of the Persian Empire. Iran's collective backache is rivalled by that of the Egyptians, who are fortunate to have pyramids to show for their labour -- Persia's palaces were razed by various invaders, including Alexander the Great. He was the sort who'd burn a library down rather than pay the fine. In the English county of Wiltshire, however, we do have Stonehenge, where pagan druids gather each year to celebrate the Spring Equinox -- the start of the Persian New Year. Stonehenge was originally intended as an Iranian restaurant, the location picked for the quality of lamb in neighbouring fields. My own back pain was triggered by a simple yoga move. Everyone else in class continued their asanas as I reeled in pain. In the changing room, I had difficulty putting my shoes and socks on and was too proud ask for help. So for the past ten days I've been bed-bound and not able to turn up to work as a film extra. Last summer I worked as an extra on Clash Of The Titans, and yesterday, after months of anticipation, I went to see the film, coaxed out of my restorative slumber by my friend Andrew, fellow extra and former schoolmate, who clearly got grades similar to me. Two or three rows back a man was talking loudly to his companion. A good 15 minutes in, and with his commentary in full flow, I asked if he wouldn't mind keeping the noise down as it had obviously escaped his notice that a film was showing. Only with my backache, my usual politeness was absent. "Would you mind shutting up?" I said. "Why don't you shut the ***k up?" the man replied. Unbelievably, he then proceeded to climb over the seat in front of him, cursing both me and, I think, the Gods. This was 3D gone mad, a mini-Kraken on the rampage. Fearing he might snap my spine with his two IQ digits, I exercised the first rule of martial arts and ran away, or rather hobbled, hand to back. A skinny manager offered to speak to the Kraken but I advised him not to do so alone. Within minutes he was flanked by four or five burly security men. In a perfect world they would approach the monster and, as punishment, point the head of Medusa at him. As it was, they asked him to step outside (there was some pleasure in watching this happen). Within a few minutes, though, he was back in his seat. He whispered: "When this is finished, so are you." It was better than any line the film had offered until then. I considered lunging for my agitator with the agility of Sam Worthington on screen but the pain in my back and the fact that I had taken my shoes off to relieve my feet, like an old man, made me think twice. Andrew and I got a refund and left. Removing our 3D glasses was a relief, we were no longer popcorn and synthetic-cheese munching consumers who pay to watch a regurgitated fairytale, so etched in their psyche they can go to the loo, talk, climb over seats and punch someone with no fear of missing out on the story. I can only thank the Gods that El Krakeno didn't feel strongly enough about 'finishing' me off to quit his enjoyment of the 3D THX digital sound experience and to quit the auditorium. The ancestral ache is enough.

Everything you didn't want to know about theatre squabbles, and an unusual heirloom

Clash of the backaches

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Clash of the backaches

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