Effortlessly annoying nitpicky artsnobs 28 years on, this film is still achieving its primary aim. It's no more than a fairly precise picture of the sleazy portion of the punk scene in 1977, glued into a sparkly scrapbook for posterity. It's not an attempt to make a great artistic statement about the mythical punk movement so beloved of merchandising vampires. It's an exposition of the low expectations and "up yours" attitude that brought forth the grotty music and trashy DIY fashions in the first place. Dump intellectual baggage, remove head from posterior, and watch it as the fine trashy low budget comedy it is. And be grateful for small mercies. Toyah Wilcox didn't get to sing.