Monday night, 8:45 p.m. The foyer smells of nacho cheese and over-priced popcorn, and I’m wielding a ticket for a single seat in Row G seat 1. It has taken me forty years and three months to march into a cinema without a wingman, and my inner critic is yelling: People will think you’ve got no mates. Spoiler alert—nobody thought anything. In fact, I was the only person in the cinema! I slipped into the darkness, cracked open a tub of popcorn the size of a toddler, and realised that the loneliest person in the room is often the one trapped in a chattering crowd.
So why does “going to the cinema alone” still feel taboo? We’re conditioned to treat experiences like social currency: meals, concerts, holidays, even our daily mood need validation via company or Instagram. When a bloke turns up solo, it can look less like independence and more like a confession of friendlessness. That assumption is nonsense, of course, but it sits on top of a much grimmer truth: a lot of men are lonely, and many of us have no idea how to talk about it.
Loneliness isn’t just an awkward Friday night; it’s edging towards a national health crisis. Nearly half of UK adults—about 26 million people—say they feel lonely at least some of the time, and roughly 3.8 million experience chronic loneliness, meaning they feel lonely “often or always.” Dig a little deeper and you find that seven per cent of Britons report having no close friends whatsoever, and men are significantly more likely than women to admit they don’t have a single “best mate.” At the sharpest end of that isolation, three-quarters of suicides in England and Wales are male—a figure that has stubbornly refused to budge since the mid-1990s.
Numbers like those can feel abstract until you’re the guy refreshing a muted WhatsApp thread on a Monday afternoon, wondering who might fancy a spontaneous film. This week, every potential companion was apparently shampooing their hair or ironing novelty socks, so I bought a single ticket and went anyway. The result? Freedom. No whispered debates about plot holes, no negotiating snack etiquette, no guilt for picking the armrest. I laughed louder, noticed the soundtrack, and stayed through the credits just because I could.
That tiny act of defiance did something bigger than fill an evening; it loosened the straitjacket of “should.” I should wait for someone. I should pretend I’m busy. I should sweep loneliness under the rug because men who mention it risk looking needy. The truth is that solitude can be restorative and a gateway drug to connection. Once you prove to yourself that you can survive a film alone, it’s easier to try a solo coffee, a museum visit, or—heaven forbid—joining a club where strangers might become friends.
If the idea still makes you squirm, start small. Pick a screening at a weird hour when the auditorium is half-empty, or come to Northwich its nearly always empty, or choose a film you’re embarrassingly keen to see so the excitement drowns out the nerves. Give the ticket clerk a nod that says, “Yes, one for Inside Out 2, and no, I’m not waiting for anyone.” Sit in the middle, because the middle has the best sound, and remember that the lights will go down in five minutes and nobody will know or care how many people you came with.
Walking back to the car afterwards, I felt lighter—and not just because the popcorn tub was empty. I’d given myself permission to enjoy my own company, something my teenage self would have labelled tragic. Somewhere between the trailers and the end credits, tragic morphed into magic. If even one other bloke reading this decides to book a solo seat next week, that’s a win. And if you’re feeling more than a little isolated, text a mate tonight. Send a meme, suggest a pint, or just say, “Haven’t caught up in ages.” Worst-case scenario, you’ll still have that ticket in your pocket.
Loneliness thrives in silence; independence grows in the dark of a cinema. May your next film be as loud as your courage. Row F, Seat 7 is already calling my name—and whether the seat beside me is empty or not, I’ll be there, popcorn in hand, proving there’s nothing weird about a man who enjoys his own company.
Nobody Cares About Dad 
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