Sign this 7-point contract before watching ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’

BEFORE you go to see Fifty Shades of Grey, you must enter into a contract. The contract is between the film dominating cinemas everywhere, and the audience submitting two hours and five minutes of their lives which they will never get back.

1. Fifty Shades of Grey is not a Farrow & Ball paint catalogue, although perusing one would be more pleasurable, and decidedly more exciting.

The only money shots involve helicopters, gliders and flash cars, like an overlong advert for premium vehicle insurance.

You could reasonably expect Jeremy Clarkson to make a cameo appearance. Now THAT would be abuse.

2. When the male lead has got wood, it does not mean we get to see his unclothed glory – it means his acting is more wooden than a Scandanavian pine forest.

In this instance, BDSM stands of Badly Done Stupid Movie, rather than the exploration of erotic boundaries and the consensual exchange of power.

To call it mommy porn is an insult to both mommies and porn. Stop it. Or you will be sent to the dungeon. Forever.

3. All aspects of disbelief will be suspended, although not from the ceiling, despite promises of such by the movie’s “dominant” male lead.

We are told, moments before she is introduced to a BDSM playroom, that the movie’s “submissive” female lead – and yes, those quote marks are dripping sarcasm - has no sexual experience.

This is the equivalent of someone whose big toe has never even been in a garden paddling pool being slathered in Vaseline and told to swim the Channel.

Blindfolded.

4. Dominants are not dominants because their mothers were crack-heads or abused by gorillas or whatever.

Dominants are dominants because, in the words of our current Mother Teresa of sexual diversity, Lady Gaga, they were born that way.

You know, like straight people and gay people. Kinky people are not abused people – they are kinky people.

Like vanilla people are vanilla people.

5. Dominants would rather eat their own handcuffs than enter into an erotic play situation with anyone not like-minded and reciprocal.

The abuse in this movie is its wilful inaccuracy and ridiculous premise.

The virgin and the helicopter. The ice cubes. Dear God, where are we, back in the Eighties watching Nine And A Half Weeks?

6. We will not blame Sam Taylor-Johnson for this preposterous turkey of a movie. Sam Taylor-Johnson could direct traffic and make it look beautiful.

Nor will we blame the screen writer, Kelly Marcel, who is said to have done her best with what she was presented.

No, the blame lies squarely with the original author, who refused to relinquish control.

And who, in the words of the New Yorker, writes “like English is her fourth language.” Clunk, clunk, cliché.

7. Those well meaning Facebook feminists branding the movie abuse are sadly mistaken; there is more abuse going on in tabloids and lad mags, but with smaller lighting budgets.

The only abuse in this movie is of audience expectation. Banging your own head off a helicopter door would be more erotic.