As if the current proliferation of bad movies isn't enough, a trip to the cinema these days is something akin to taking your life in your hands. At the very least, your enjoyment will almost certainly be marred by some form of invasion of personal space or errant noise. Unfortunately, modern movie going is plagued by various types of delinquents who, once in the darkened confines of the cinema, gleefully throw acceptable behaviour to the wind.

Inconsiderate chatting is a favourite of selfish cinema spoilers. Inevitably every screening will be attended by wannabe comedians who make sarcastic comments throughout the film in the mistaken belief that they are the cast of cult TV show Mystery Science Theater 3000. Strangely, although they profess to be a fountain of knowledge, these people regularly announce to the rest of the audience that they haven't a clue what is going on.

Even worse are those particular pensioners who are compelled to say very loudly every single thing that crosses their mind as if they are sitting in their own front room. They point out actors they remember as if it was the kid from next door ("Look! It's what's-his-name! He was in such-and-such! Do you remember? The one where blah-blah-blah!"). They reiterate key lines of dialogue ("He said he's his father!"). They flag up obvious plot points ("He had escaped, you see?"). And they "tut" at every swear word, often adding damning comments ("There's no need for that type of language!"). Then they make you feel like the villain when you turn around and holler, in George Costanza out of Seinfeld style, "We're trying to live in a society here!"

And then there are the mobile phone junkies who believe that installing an ironic 70s children's TV show theme tune as their ring tone is a good idea. Until it goes off in the middle of a packed cinema, and is revealed as an idea equivalent to attaching a large flashing neon sign onto their head bearing the word "TWAT". The latest weapon of the mobile phone owning cinema disturber is the polyphonic ring tone. This fantastical technological development enables one's mobile to make a multi layered noise like a giggling Furby. Thus the annoyance stakes are upped considerably. Even checking text messages in the cinema is a big no-no, as the fascia's deceptively bright backlight will blaze like some sort of supercharged headlamp, illuminating the entire cinema with its eerie green glow.

Food is another sore point. Long have cinema goers had to put up with pie men crunching boiled sweets and spilling popcorn all over the floor. But now some are eschewing the foyer's selection of hotdogs and nachos in favour of more substantial meals. On a recent cinema visit I found one well-proportioned couple dishing out the contents of an entire Chinese takeaway. Cue roughly fifteen noisy minutes worth of pots and packages being opened, followed by various unpleasant slurping noises and a smell that will surely have lingered for some days.

Then there are the ignoramuses who, in an empty cinema, choose to sit in the seat directly in front of you, often wearing a comedy-sized hat, or, in one case, a foot-high turban. Wary after the turban incident, on another occasion, and in a cinema that sat 800 but contained only 15 people, I carefully chose a seat where the row in front was 'blocked off' by a couple of folk. Nevertheless, a pair of old women squeezed past, with one of them taking up the very seat in front of me. Imagine my surprise when, before sitting down, she reached into her bag and produced what I can only suppose was some sort of huge orthopaedic cushion. After sitting on this very uncomfortable looking thing she towered above all other cinemagoers like she was sitting in one of those high chairs used by lifeguards at swimming pools.

And, of course, there are the young lovers. Granted, it's dark in the cinema, but it's not that dark. They should get a room, or prepare to be hosed down courtesy of one of the cinema's handily placed fire extinguishers.

So what exactly does it take to get thrown out of a cinema? My enquiries to various spotty teenage multiplex employees drew only befuddled looks, so I was forced to take investigative action. Targeting several of the UK's biggest cinema chains, I decided to find out how far they would allow their rules to be bent. In the interests of fair play, I very responsibly chose early afternoon screenings so as to upset as few cinemagoers as possible.

First up was Minority Report at UCI. Spielberg's sci-fi blockbuster is 145 minutes long. Sustenance was required, so I stopped off at the local kebab shop and purchased a pepperoni pizza and a large donner. Full marks, then, to the UCI staffer who politely stopped me as I made my way into the cinema. He pointed out a sign reading, "Hot food may not be brought into the cinema." I dumped my greasy payload into a waste bin and sat in silence for the duration of the movie.

Next was Resident Evil at Odeon. I had procured for the occasion an oversized felt hat, of the kind favoured by Crusties at outdoor pop festivals. Proudly bestowing the headgear upon my cranium, I purchased my ticket and headed into the cinema without so much as a curious glance. Taking up my position in the middle of the theatre I was amazed to find that no-one took offence. I was even able to crack a few "funnies" without the merest threat of violence. Disappointing.

Then it was on to Scooby Doo at Warners, which I'd - zoiks! - had the misfortune of seeing before only a few days previously. I came armed with a mobile phone and a list of friends who were to ring me at ten minute intervals throughout the movie. Unfortunately, after approximately eight minutes, I forcibly ejected myself upon realising I was unable to sit through the wacky dog-fest again. The phone rang several times on the way home. I ignored it.

Finally, I headed to a UGC cinema for Stuart Little 2. The full works were planned - eating, talking, expansive headgear, and mobile phone swankage. However, I was to be upstaged. Within minutes of taking my seat I became aware that the gentleman in the seat behind me was making a loud whistling-stroke-snorting noise as he breathed. A noise which grew steadily louder, and louder, completely obliterating the onscreen antics of the friendly animated mouse. Finally, I snapped. "Breathe through your sodding mouth!" I cried. I was escorted from the building by a teenage usher named Shawn.