No Way Home: a spoiler-free review

On Sunday, I was released from COVID captivity and took my godsons (8 and 10 (I know, shit names)) to see Spider-Man: No Way Home with their dad. It sometimes helps to have the pair of us there to wrangle them. The vast majority of the time, it is like herding cats.

Now, NWH (as nobody is calling it) was a very special film for the boys as it was the first time they had seen a Marvel film in the cinema. Some of the previous ones have been a bit choice and they’ve still not seen Deadpool, Venom, Logan and the othes that are only ever going to be a direct portal to misbehaviour.
Being their godfather, it’s on me to ensure that they get all the sugary snacks they need to make it through and it’s also a way of safeguarding a carer when I’m no longer able to climb up into my loft office or wipe my own arse. I’ll say, “get round here now, I bought you a Fruit Shoot and a medium popcorn in December 2021” and they’ll be obliged to.

We were amongst the first into the screening because their dad is very organised and had three children to deal with. I was on nil by mouth because the run time for NWH is two and a half hours and I have a bladder like a walnut. 10 was taking no such instructions and downed half a of bottle of Fanta Fruit Twist before the trailers started. He also hammered a bag of Munchies so quickly that I only got one.
“But these aren’t vegan,” he said.
“Shut up,” I replied.

As the film started, 8 asked if he could sit on my lap to see the screen better. I offered him a booster seat, which many of the other children about to have their lives changed forever had taken from the front of the room, but he refused.
I know that these boys are only going to be adorable for a finite amount of time. Give it a couple of years and they’ll be as tall as me and almost as awkward. I cherish any opportunity I get where they want us to spend time together. I let 8 sit on my lap for the whole film, only having to push his head out of the way a couple of times when he got too excited and forgot our very specific instructions not to block the screen with his bonce.
Right now, 8 and 10 think I’m cool. They want to hold my hand when we’re out shopping together. They’re desperate to tell me about their football matches or school plays. Some deluded part of their infant minds doesn’t know that I am a bad role model.

It feels to me like such an amazing and brief period of time. I know I’ll pine for these days when they’re gone. The only hope I have is that I’ve made enough of an impression now that when we come out the other side of their teens, they’ll want to come to the pub with their crazy Uncle Paul.






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