Most of the charm and tenderness that occasionally illuminated Charles Dyer’s successful play has been lost in this coarsened, fatuous film. Only a lively, vivid performance by Diane Cilento in a contrived role holds much interest, though a sound cast does spartan work in juggling the sparse material. Dyer, has broadened his intimate little play for the benefit of the screen and has heaved most of its values into the trash can.
A bunch of football fans from the North of England, characteristically drawn as noisy, boozing, lecherous nitwits, comes to London for the Cup Final and a night out among the sleazy bright lights. One of them (Harry H. Corbett), a particuarly gormless, repressed, mother-ridden oaf, is conned into a bet with his pals. He wagers his motorbike that he’ll have an affair with a goodlooking, blonde tart that he picks up in Soho drinking club.
The bedroom rendezvous is a pitiable farce in which he fails to take the opportunities cheerfuly flung at him by the goodtime girl. Instead he weaves dreams of real love about the goldenhearted little prostie.