This Hangover facsimile — ‘Eat, Pray, Shag’, if you like — is an insult to the female audience it is targeting. Even the hen do crowds will be unimpressed.

In execution, the hijinks feel awfully tame, the emotion shallow, the stars underserved.

Sometimes the only appropriate response to a film is a primal howl of despair. Sometimes you want to curl up, whimpering quietly, in a foetal position just to make it stop.

Spa Weekend has every ingredient for an easy, funny comedy, yet somehow manages to waste them all, leaving you with nothing but a painfully dull weekend.