I don't want my Mummy.

There was something that had me puzzled over Christmas - I don’t know what it is about The Mummy series of films that makes them so repeatable at festive times of year – they are the filmic equivalent of that bowl of peanuts and tin of Roses that sit on a coffee table near the telly at the same times of year.

Both are accessories to mindless chomping. I find myself trying to think of films that demonstrate how mindlessly forgettable Brendan Fraser’s career is...but I can’t think of any. What puzzles me with crap films is that people must spend a good 12 months at a time working on them – why do they do it? Is it simply a matter of paying the bills? Where is their self-respect?

That dreary film represents 1/40th of your working life, one of 40 chances you might get to impress history and earn a place on Wikipedia. It’s like spending four months going for a poo, or something. Although over a lifetime, we probably do.

But then what do I know? Brendan Fraser is rich, and I’m...not.