While enduring an inexplicably popular film, mainly because my butt was welded to the sofa by drugs, booze and craven etiquette, I had a revelation.
This epiphany could unite both hard-bitten cops and hand-wringing libertarians in support of universal DNA-profiling, provided they could agree that a movie should be more than a random selection of karaoke numbers linked by a lazy and vacuous excuse for a plot.
Put simply, had the producers of Mama Mia watched an episode or two of The Jeremy Kyle Show, they'd have known that paternity tests are pretty easy in the 21st century, and science is a better way of proving who begat who than a lot of pointless pouting, prancing and pretending to sing to old Swedish pop songs.
Come to think of it, we could have just had a compressed and hyper-violent version set before a baying studio-audience in Norwich and starring the likes of Ray Winstone and Kathy Burke. Working title: 'Billy Jean' or 'Mother's Little Helper'.
To give Mama Mia its due, I did enjoy Pierce Brosnan's singing; now that's entertainment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZrccOX4fGs
