Entourage

If you think you have died and gone to hell as a brain dead, middle-aged, chauvinist swinger you may not be mistaken.

Entourage was a TV series for eight seasons which makes you wonder what is happening to the human race. As a satirical swipe at Hollywood it lacks the finesse of The Player, or the wit of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, and appears incapable of breaking through the boobs and banter barrier.

Vincent Chase (Adrian Grenier), the pretty boy amongst this group of potential losers, has become a star and is in the process of shooting a modern take on Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde, which resembles a mix of Ibiza rave and street riot, with himself as director.

So far, so what?

His mates, who have become his manager, driver and support actor, cannot think further than the next hot chick. His agent (Jeremy Piven) has moved above his skills level and is running a studio, while Vincent's movie is already way over budget, requiring another million-and-a-half to complete.

The plot sinks without trace after the agent/studio boss flies south ("Do you know what they do to Jews in Texas?") to sweet talk his billionaire backer (Billy Bob Thornton) to fork out another hunk of money to save Vincent's vanity project.

The sales pitch goes on - five guys in a sea of naked tottie - where bling is the thing and California a wet dream compared to Queens where they started.

Will they rise from the embers of last night's after party? No way, Jose! This is babelicious.

Feminists strap up and fight for the right to burn such rubbish.