As I keep telling my children, homework is important. And so, when asked to review the second series of Emily in Paris (Netflix), I felt duty bound to watch the first series, which I had managed to avoid until now. This review therefore comes to you after I have watched 20 back-to-back episodes of Emily in Paris, and my brain has turned to mush.

Did I enjoy it? Yes. Is it any good? No. I don’t know. Is it? The show has stripped me of my critical faculties. I feel as if I’ve been force-fed a hundredweight of macarons by Sacha Distel.

Lily Collins plays Emily, a perky American who moves to Paris and tells French people off for being rude, lazy, adulterous smokers. She meets the most handsome man in Paris, who falls in love with her charming American ways, which include not speaking French and being appalled by steak cooked rare. Paris is spotlessly clean and consists only of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, a sparkly bit of the Seine and an adorable bistro.

All of the above was roundly criticised in series one, not least by the French.

Creator Darren Star has decided to move things along in series two by annoying British audiences as well, with the introduction of a terrible new character. Emily has a British love interest, a banker called – inevitably – Alfie. He likes football, only eats in greasy spoons, calls everyone “mate” and hates Paris. Actor Lucien Laviscount (a name they really should have pilfered for the show) has been instructed to give him a Cockney accent, which he does with some effort.