Such was the opprobrium heaped on Sex Lives when first released, you'd think director (and one-time Mastermind winner) Andy Humphries had committed atrocities on a par with Harold Shipman's, or the Mai Lai massacre. Much column inches were generated devoted to this supposed 'worst film ever made', and there were questions raised in Parliament. It's quite mystifying actually as even those hand-wringing broadsheets were forced to admit after cornering happy punters emerging from the theaters. Not many of them, granted; certainly, there were only two other audience members in attendance when this reviewer caught a screening one of whom was covertly pleasuring himself throughout. (It seemed fitting, somehow.) The plot's simplicity itself: Vegas and Crook, the titular potato deliverers, attempt to get their end away with all and sundry. In truth, it's less sordid than surreal, featuring bonkers flights of fancy bordering on genius: Vegas's musing that all insects produce sugar-based substances, being a particular highlight. It's also slightly funny (ish). Essentially, an honest depiction of working class sex, and the inherent ridiculousness of the sex act itself.
