So Sarah and I wanted a mindless girly night out film.
In the absence of anything better we somewhat reluctantly went for Wimbledon, despite the rather dodgy reviews. At least it’s cheap on a Monday night.
Well I have to say we had a good laugh.
Not sadly due to the comedy on screen, but rather at each other miming ways in which we would like to kill ourselves to end the torture. By the time we get to the painfully bad father–son bonding scene, Sarah is quite graphically hanging herself by a noose.
This is not the way to do Brit rom-com and Bernard ‘gissa job’ Hill should be ashamed to have had anything to do with it.
My advice – spare yourself the ordeal.
Or take cyanide capsule in with you.
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