Planet Sad At The Movies – Exclusive!

So, there we were, slumped in front of Police Stop! when we heard the clatter of our letterbox. As ever, we hoped against hope that it might be a Lakeland catalogue, but those only seem to happen to nice people, so we trudged to to the door, expecting yet another red bill.

However, what had actually plopped on to our doormat was a grubby postcard, inviting us to an exclusive preview screening of a new movie.

Needing to venture out for Mini Cheddars in any case, we thought what the hell, why not? Only to discover that the film was this one:

We found ourselves in a dingy private viewing room in the heart of Soho, and were ushered into the back row. With the lights down, it was difficult to see anything other than the screen, but we distinctly heard the question "Will a short intermission really be long enough for a go?" being posed.

As for the film itself… We're not going to review it beyond saying, please don't dignify the chuffing thing by going to see it. Seriously, we're begging you.

And please don't be fooled by this "Smug Gigolo Squaddie" look either. Even if you love a man in uniform, you need to realise that he has at least one "matching accessory":

You can't pull the wool over our eyes, George Clooney. We know full well, as do you, that all the camouflage fabric in the world won't disguise the fact that your sex ramp is RIDDLED. Our last vestigial shred of common decency prevents us from saying with what, but we will reveal that we suspect you drugged our popcorn at the screening. Not with Rohypnol but laxative, to which we say, "Making us go is the closest you're going to get to 'a go'. Hah!" And thanks – we needed a good clear-out after polishing off that haul of sponge fingers we got out of the bins round the back of Budgens the other night.

We think George must have realised he was on a hiding to nothing. The opening credits had barely finished when the projector whirred to a halt – then we heard footsteps leaving and a door slam shut. We stared at the image on the screen – a close-up freeze-frame of his liquescent brown eyes, gazing straight at us. Then the heat of the projector lamp burned through it, melting a hole in it outward from the centre and jolting us back down to earth. We headed home and, as we stood in the supper queue at the Chicken Cottage near the bus stop, we agreed that, once again, we had made the right decision.