I remember this piece of garbage like it was yesterday. It was our anniversary, and I told Martha to figure out what she wanted to do. Well she stuck a pin into me like mounting a butterfly on a board and stated that we are going to Notting Hill.

I sat through this insipid piece of trash with all the women sobbing around me, and afterwards I was fit to be tied. Martha finally fessed up that she too thought it stunk, so we went to the club and had a few to get the bad taste out of our mouth.

Then we had dinner and forgot this junky chick flick with a scene situation that would never happen in a million years. I guess though, that there is a certain number of women who will swallow this type of tripe no matter what.

Beware.  Don't eat before you see this tripe.  Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts interacting are enough to sour any normal stomache.

Notting Hill is an effective diet supplement as it will cause the viewer to voluntarily forego food for the next 36 hours. This movie is all the more difficult to watch when one is surrounded by members of a small and fiercely loyal group of fans of the film (invariably females) who think it is a beautiful love story. It is not a beautiful love story. It is a good reason to stock up on Tums antacids. The makers of this flick went out of their way to show you how quirky and loveable Grant's pals are in this little corner of the UK where Julia Roberts is promoting a film. It was contrived to the Nth degree. The circumstances under which they meet are intellectually insulting as is the writer's expectation that the audience will buy into the concept that these two, given their positions in life, could ever achieve anything more substantive than a weekend of sex at an upscale hotel. My strongest memory of Notting Hill the moment where Robert's character looks weepily at Grant and says something along the lines of "Can't you just forget for a minute that blah blah blah blah blah and realize that I'm just a girl asking you to love me." BLEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!