Slick, literate naughtiness from the land of No Sex Please, We're British, with larfs down at the pub about farts, erections, and the taking of semen samples (requiring the ""practised skills of a masturbating darts champion""), the sample-giver being 31-year-old launderette manager Bobby Booth, whom vague Doc Grimshaw declares to be sterile. This is devastating news, since wife Caroline--who writes an English version of Dear Abby--demands a baby and refuses to consider adoption or even artificial insemination. Bobby stops fretting about the only other alternative when art student Josie livens up the launderette scene by washing everything she's wearing and raping Bobby in his tatty office. So, by the time he learns that the Doc must be wrong (Josie's thoroughly knocked up), goes home to give Caroline the glad tidings, and discovers her beneath the heaving bulk of his drinking mate ""Fatty"" Roland, Bobby's quite prepared to cut his losses and try life with Josie--whom, we now see, he deserves. The crotch-watching patter flows as freely and easily as the ale and whisky (""I'm in the last eight of the world celibacy championship. Meet the Pope in the quarter finals""), but the aftermath is at best a smile and a belch.