With this witless debacle kicking off at a soccer match, it occurred to me that Steve Martin and Diego Maradona have much in common.

Both parted company with their respective talents at around the same time and neither looks like reversing their subsequent decline.

But while Diego kept his dignity by transforming himself into a poster boy for coke-snorting pie-eaters, Steve has become an utter embarrassment.

And not only is he no longer funny, he's no longer funny in roles that rightfully belong to greater talents than himself.

So far, the jerk has trampled on the legacies of Spencer Tracy (Father Of The Bride), Phil Silvers (Sgt Bilko) and Jack Lemmon (The Out-Of-Towners).

Now it's Peter Sellers' turn as Martin reteams with the directing genius behind Cheaper By The Dozen (another remake) to destroy the comic icon that is Inspector Clouseau.

The good news is that they have kept Henry Mancini's catchy opening theme. Apt, really, since the rest of the film is dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb dumb-dumb dumb-dumb...

Kevin Kline joins the hall of shame as sneaky police chief Dreyfus who, for no logical reason, calls in Martin's clueless cop Clouseau to lead a high-profile investigation.

The French football coach, wearer of a ring bearing the Pink Panther diamond, has been murdered (a lucky early exit for Jason Statham) and the famous gem stolen. Clouseau is given the case. Let the groans begin.

He farts, he wears comedy spectacles, he knocks lots of cyclists off their bikes, he connects electrodes to his own testicles, he traps his finger in a door, he breaks furniture, he says things like "He's not pushing up daisies - he is dead" in a funny accent.

Be still my aching sides.

Others doing their careers no favours are Emily Mortimer, Jean Reno as an impassive sidekick who sidelines Clouseau's original manservant Cato, and the understandably nervous-looking Beyonce Knowles who merely puts a decorative cherry on this dog turd of a movie.

There is rumour of a sequel. Oh. Mon. Dieu.

Elliott Noble