In spite of the original Charlie’s Angels shoot having apparently been one gigantic catfight, they somehow managed to keep all three Angels on board (Bill Murray ran away screaming) for instalment two, an exact replica of the first with a mildly increased quotient of action set-pieces. Evidently not scripted with Oscar glory in mind, Full Throttle is a frivolous, harmless and profoundly lightweight piece of work chiefly recommended to horny 15-year-old boys, thanks mainly to the generous helpings of cleavage on display.

What nominal excuse Full Throttle possesses for a plot sees (again) Drew Barrymore, Lucy Liu and Cameron Diaz assigned to rescue a stolen list of Witness Protection Programme identities and stop them falling into the hands of dastardly Oirish villains – but in the main, as you might expect, it’s all a flimsy pretext for more inane, brainless ‘fun’, with a truly mindblowing quotient of excruciatingly cheesy double-entendre gags straight out of Viz magazine’s Finbarr Saunders.

In fairness, there’s slightly more by way of proper action sequences, with a mildly entertaning bike chase and a helicopter plunge providing the apparent centrepieces, but little to keep boredom at bay for long, in any but the most undemanding viewer.

The more thin-skinned Irish viewers, it’s true, might be forgiven for seething at the atrocious accents of the film’s bad guys. Demi Moore’s brief appearance in skimpy black swimwear, too, is a truly terrifying event, making one wonder if they should have cast someone slightly easier to look at – Godzilla, say, or The Sunday Game’s Pat Spillane. The three leading ladies, though, display acceptable comic timing and gymnastic prowess, and while the film is undeniably dumb and nonsensical, it clearly has no pretensions otherwise.

As such, Full Throttle just about justifies its existence. Who can wait for episode three?