AS A nation, there's very little that the British do well or convincingly. Alright, we're pretty impressive when it comes to making up words for rain, and no one can touch us in the queuing department.

But generally speaking, we tend to specialise in the second-rate and half-baked. We've perhaps always been a bit on the rubbish side (Rome's got its Coliseum, Egypt its Pyramids. We've got the Blue Peter sunken garden) but in the past we compensated for it with an enormous ego.

These days, that's looking rather like a saggy, month-old balloon too. Which is how, presumably, a film like Johnny English - which shows what would happen if the average bumbling Englishman was put in charge of the nation's security - comes to be made.

The incompetent secret agent is hardly a novel concept, but it's probably the only sort we'd attempt these days. (James Bond doesn't really count, being more of a global brand. All that peacock posturing is looking increasingly camp, though.)

No one does incompetence quite like Rowan Atkinson, of course. With a set of facial features that seems to be getting more Bean-ishly exaggerated with age, Atkinson is a nerdish everyman with a natural facility for bemusement, inarticulateness and almost defiant stupidity.

A lot of people will hate this film for its silliness and predictability. Jokes that are so old they're probably entitled to a winter fuel allowance can be heard shunting into position like a fleet of lorries reversing. Atkinson is good value, but hardly pushes himself to the limits (although he and Natalie Imbruglia do make a nice couple - something I never thought I'd hear myself say).

Despite all this, or perhaps because of this, I did enjoy the film. It's lightweight, unpretentious, throwaway nonsense with more than its fair share in common with Carry On Spying. Rubbish, but in a good way.

Rating: 7/10