Just two stars in Time Out – ‘one wrong-headed jaw-dropper follows another’ – while The Guardian gives it one measly star – ‘misjudged and quite incredibly boring’.
Can it be, just as we have an outfit picked out for the prem, that it’s a clunker? Do we even care? Did we not say it was a clunker quite some time ago around about the time we were saying if we heard one more Grazia-reading rat-cunt say, ‘Oh, I’m addicted to shoes, me’, thinking that she was kicky and sophist like Carrie B, we would roll up a copy of Stylist and ram it up her sorry back bottom until all you could see was the headline ‘How I dropped a dress size while sleeping and eating as much fudge as I could get in my greedy, stupid, ugly, lip-lined mouth’?
We are still determined to enjoy. Even if it means taking poppers to the prem (which we think might actually be just a preview screening but we’re going to pretend it’s a prem and give interviews to anyone standing around as we walk in).