Oh. More films. Perhaps this is my life now.

Human Centipede 2 was available on DVD before it hit London cinemas (or rather, one London cinema). Nevertheless I felt the need to see it on the big screen, and hurried to the Apollo Piccadilly Circus from the Soho Curzon, where I'd just seen The Future. This is a film by Miranda July, which the critic in Time Out said made him want to gouge his own eyes out with a melon baller. He still gave it three stars. I fear for his safety should he ever see Human Centipede 2.

The designated problem with The Future was that it was too 'kooky', but - although I could never bring myself to watch an episode of Ally McBeal - I didn't have that problem here. You don't have to look far beneath the whimsy in Miranda July's work to find real sadness and vulnerability. OK, so it's narrated by a cat. But it's a dead cat.

I probably should have written SPOILER ALERT there.

Human Centipede 2 has a great idea for a sequel: demented fan of the original movie (named Martin) decides to create his own human centipede using staple gun and gaffer tape (and hysterical victims, obviously). If only Jaws 2 had gone down that route. However, whereas the original successfully balances nastiness with campy humour, this goes astray somewhere. After all, there are only so many things you do with a human centipede. You can make it bigger, you can inject it with laxative, and you can have the sole survivor run away naked while giving birth. All these boxes are ticked, in glorious black and white, but the fun has gone out of it somehow. I wish I liked it more, since nobody else does, but sheer perversity just won't stretch that far. And in terms of apocalyptic horror, the new Muller yoghurt ad easily outdoes it. Still, I'll never do the conga again. Not naked, anyway.