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How far have you gone to maintain a lie? That's the key question here. I know someone who, when he was in secondary school, bought a second phone purely so he could text himself from it and make all his mates believe he had a girlfriend. That's commitment. That's dedication. That's a teenage boy looking at the situation and thinking, "The only reasonable solution here is to create a second fucking identity." Is yours worse than that? Well, it certainly can't be as bad as Taylor Parker's. Because what she does to maintain her lie is absolutely fucking insane. She doesn't just tell a few little fibs and hope nobody notices. Oh no. She creates an entire fictional pregnancy, complete with fake scans, fake social media posts, a fake baby shower, a fake name and enough elaborate bullshit to make you wonder why she didn't run for President of the USA instead. And then, when the whole thing starts to unravel, rather than admitting that she's been caught in a massive web of lies, she essentially doubles down and goes, "No, no, you've got it all wrong." So kudos to her, I guess? The unwavering commitment to the lie is impressive. The rest? Not so much.

Let's say you're proper into confectionery and hear about this delicious cake that has all your favourite ingredients. Well, in this case, the cake is this film, and the ingredients are serial killers, missing children, creepy houses, mysterious tapes, sinister nursery rhymes, imaginary friends and, of course, Robert De Niro. Who doesn't love a bit of Robert De Niro on their cake? Even if he has been sitting in the back of the cupboard since the first Covid lockdown and has developed a worrying green tinge. The problem here is in the baking. All the ingredients are there, but somehow the cake comes out a bit undercooked, bland and lacking that final bit of magic. You can see what it should have been, and every now and then you get a mouthful that's genuinely tasty, but for the most part you're just chewing through a slightly disappointing mess, wondering where it all went wrong and whether the toddler who applied the icing washed their hands beforehand.... And you know what's worse? I bet you're hungry now too, aren't you? You greedy little cunt.

Louis Theroux ventures into the manosphere, a place where apparently every problem in life can be blamed on women, feminism, or the fact that nobody will sleep with you. It’s an absolutely toxic, depressing collection of angry little men desperately trying to convince themselves that being horrible is actually a personality. The whole thing is fascinating in the same way watching a car crash is fascinating, although at least the car crash doesn't have a podcast. The best bit comes when one of the massive pricks starts talking directly to the camera rather than Louis, prompting Louis to brilliantly ask, “Who are you talking to?” It’s probably the most accurate summary of the entire movement: a man shouting into the void, convinced the world is listening. Louis, of course, is excellent again and, as usual, asks the perfect questions to give these arseholes enough rope to make monumental tits of themselves.

This is basically a two-hour metaphor for men chasing attractive women. Charlize Theron - who could still have me walking around on all fours on a leash, even at 51 - spends most of this film being chased through a jungle by an absolute nutcase. We've all seen an attractive woman on a night out and immediately lost all common sense and decency in some doomed attempt to pursue her. Well, this film is basically that. In my experience, it generally ends badly for the fella, and, sure enough, it does here too. I'm glad I watched it though, because the memes that have come from the Chemical Brothers dancing scene have been funny as fuck.

A brutally bleak film about two Senegalese teenagers making the dangerous journey from Africa to Europe. I can relate becuase I've been on plenty of lads' holidays. The risks here are less about losing your mates at 3am or accidentally shagging an underage girl who definitely claimed to be 19, and instead are more about getting shot in the head by people smugglers or drowning in the Med. Maybe not entirely the same vibe but then again, you haven't met my mates. Really powerful film, though. However, I did spend most of it thinking: lads, honestly, just stay in Senegal. You’ve no idea how shit the weather is over here.

This is basically the ancient Greek version of trying to find your way home after a massive bender. You set off thinking you know exactly where you are, encounter several increasingly baffling obstacles, lose all sense of time and eventually arrive home without your phone, looking like absolute fucking shit. The only thing missing is spending three hours talking about Star Wars to someone you don’t recognise, in a kitchen you’ve never seen before, while drinking a spirit someone swears they brought back from Tenerife. Having said that, this mad twat somehow ends up living on a deserted beach with Charlize Theron and decides things could be better. Fuck off, mate. I’d sign up to that life in a second.

Netflix has done it again: taken a case that could've been told in 60 minutes and lovingly inflated it into a feature-length documentary using dramatic music, lingering pauses, and enough drone shots to qualify for an FAA licence. I've said this before and I'll say it again, "Bitches be crazy". Sadly, as we discover here, that's not a legal defence. The evidence is compelling and will keep you interested. All the drone shots are less so. If you enjoy true crime, it's an engaging watch and provides ample opportunity to keep you 'til 3am Googling more about the case, convincing yourself that you've spotted something the jury missed. The moral of the story here, fellas, is do not let your woman drive. Especially if she's high and especially if she thinks you're one more hair pin on the floor away from dumping her.

I watched this for one reason and one reason only. Sydney Sweeney's tits. OK, maybe two reasons. And yes I mean both of her tits. I think there was a plot somwhere in there but, to be honest, my attention was on them titties. They really are magnificent. Although, and I can't quite put my finger on it, there is something a bit odd about her face. I think it's her eyes. They seem to have, I don't know, some sort of permanently sleepy expression, like the wind changed right as she was waking up from a nap. Them tits though. 10/10. The film, markedly less. I probably would have given it a 4 but the number 3 looks a like a pair of tits on the side so there you go.

When your friend says, "Why don't you come and meet my family in rural Sweden?", you picture gorgeous blondes dancing around to ABBA while feeding you meatballs. How could you possibly say no? Turns out it's actually the worst European experience since somehow ending up on an 18–30 holiday with your mum. It's weirdly compelling and I'd definitely recommend it, especially if relationship tension is your thing. It does go a bit off the rails but of course it does; it's Ari Aster.

This is another horror that was meant to be quite decent. To be fair, it wasn't terrible but that's about as much praise as I'm willing to give it. It has plenty of classic horror tropes; foster homes, VHS tapes and, of course, weird little mute kids. It deals with grief and asks to what lengths would you go to bring back a loved one? On a scale of 1 to Pet Sematary, it's on the heavier end but, to be honest, if that's the vibe you're after, just fucking watching Pet Sematary. The original, of course, because fuck remakes.