It’s Monday, the Olympics are officially open, public transport is hell on earth between the hours of “all the time” and “even at 3.42am”; taking all that into account, you’ve rung into work sick because women’s beach volleyball kicks off this afternoon and Tom Daley will be in Speedos in HD at some point – who wants to miss that? YOU, that’s who. Because the BFI has nice things for you to look at in the way of Alfred Hitchcock; that’s way better than some poxy diving. We hope Daley wees in the pool, so that they postpone it and you HAVE to go.

Gollum’s back and out for hairy-footed hobbit blood.

RED RUM returns?

In which Bond is at least half as cool as in the Olympic opening ceremony.

“Football is 80% mental and 40% physical.” Erroneous mathematics is just one of the highlights of that hallowed cornerstone of the film industry; the sports movie. Other than sex, the only other thing which has the power to absolutely unite the sexes is a good sports film; everyone’s equal in the stadium, you know? Dudes put on makeup and call it “warpaint”, women start bottling people in the stands, everyone wears skintight Lycra – sports movies bring out the pikey banter-lad in us all. It’s hot, the Olympics are nigh – let’s get rowdy.

We pledge allegiance to the flag, and to the United States of Will Ferrell.

We would have watched the shit out of Twilight if this was the plot.

Lazy performances, ugly babies and false sincerity abound in the third film adaptation of Jeff Kinney’s hideously successful series of children’s tales. Though oddly proficient in the realm of physical slapstick, Dog Days falls flat even in the eyes of tiny humans addled with sugar; one shining musical interlude, however, rescues this film from joining the ranks of insults to child-IQ such as Ice Age: Continental Drift.

While our Edward gently weeps.

And we jizzed. In. Our pants.