“If you want to do this job, you have to take your clothes off.”

If there’s one thing you can say about The Playbirds (and don’t worry, I’ve got plenty to say here), it certainly starts as it means to go on.

If you’ve come here for the gratuitous nudity, look no further. If you’ve come here for literally anything else - a plot, something vaguely horrific, Windsor Davies’ dignity, an understanding of how police in the 1970s investigated crimes, etc - you might as well look somewhere else. Because the (play) bird we first see as the credits roll sums up exactly what we’re going to see for the the next 80-or-so minutes. Basically, women with no clothes on.

And fully-clothed men looking at women with no clothes on, whilst describing them as “smashing birds”.

To be honest, given recent reports of porn-obsessed young men developing misogynistic attitudes as a result of their hairy-handed shenanigans, the government might want to start showing The Playbirds in school classrooms. Seeing just how pathetic men actually could be in your average unsexy 1970s soft-core film could be just the bucket of cold water needed to quell all this toxic masculinity we hear so much about.

So anyway, there’s a killer on the loose, murdering young models and numbering the corpses in lipstick on their foreheads. The body of the latest dead “smashing bird” is found, but the police seem more interested in checking out the horse racing results (more of this later. A lot more).

Would sir be interested in a bit more plot? Well, bad luck - because that is literally it. From this point onwards things seem to happen for no reason whatsoever. Said unrelated shenanigans punctuated by the occasional blood-free, boobs-ahoy murder.

A photographer is taking photos of an orgy for a magazine spread themed on the antics of the Hellfire Club. Which looks, if anything, even less sexy than the film we’re watching.

We’re not-really introduced to porn impresario Harry Dougan (Alan Lake), whose character is clearly modelled on real-lifer owner of Playbirds magazine and bankroller of this piece of cinematic dreadfulness, David Sullivan.

There’s a lot of footage of horse racing, and people getting excited about horses in general.

And police inspectors Holbourne (Glyn “Dave the barman” Edwards) and Morgan (Gavin “Gavin from That’s Life” Campbell) are investigating the murder spree with a singular lack of interest and/or success.

As is often the case with these 1970s films, either intentionally or unintentionally every male character in it looks and acts like the kind of shifty pervert who would happily strangle a lingerie-clad young lady to death before she can turn the kettle off. So there’s a parade of potential suspects wheeled out in front of us, all instantly forgettable, as the body count rises.

It is worth noting at this point that the film makers were very happy to shoehorn in as many un-enhanced chests, hirsute tuppences and footage of horses racing as possible, but neglected even to show the third murder. Which pretty much sums up the intent of the film.

Holbourne and Morgan are reporting to Assistant Police Commissioner “Couldn’t be bothered to give this character a name, apparently” (Windsor “lovely boys” Davies), who informs them (and us) that the only thing that turns him on is “horses” (each to their own, I suppose). And Lake, who appears to be making his lines up on the spot, is told by the police that “The only thing that connects these murders is that all the girls worked for you.”

Audience: Aaaah…

(This is the first we've heard of it)

As more girls are killed (one murder happening despite the victim being under police protection - something which appears to bother police not one jot) we are told that what we are dealing with here is, of course, "Sex, witchcraft and horses, the unholy Trinity”.

So, there’s only one thing modern police methods can do. Send in an undercover female officer. And how do we choose said mole? Why, by making the entire female contingent of the police force strip off in front of their superiors, of course!

Jiggle forward WPC Lucy (Mary Millington). With a singular lack of any emotion, she performs a deadpan strip-tease for Messrs Holbourne and Morgan that seems as bad as all the previous ones they’ve sat through, but she still somehow gets the job.

Which appears to be (drum roll) - having full sex with random men in a massage parlour.

I mean, I know there was a bit of work to do on worker rights in the 1970s, but this seems like a bit of a stretch, even for then.

Before you can say “#MeToo” Lucy is having a torrid affair with Dougan. Once again, the modern viewer asks - is this in her job description as a WPC?

And apropos of nothing else, the police bring in religious nutter Dudley Sutton as prime suspect.

No idea why. I’d kind of lost any understanding of what was going on at this point, whilst being painfully aware that in reality not much had happened at all apart from a lot of women had answered their front door to complete strangers in their underwear.

As the killer is finally unveiled no thanks to anything we’ve seen happen for the previous 80 minutes (um, hooray?), we actually get some horror as an unsuspecting model is accidentally burned alive during the ongoing photoshoots.

To say this film stretches the definition of a horror film would be somewhat of an understatement. However, it is watched now, and I can’t help that.

But should you watch it, gentle soul in the year 2026?

No. No-one else should ever be subjected to its utter dreadfulness. Apart from all those 15 year old INCELS, obviously.