ABOUT 10 minutes into Louis Leterrier’s film of a screenplay by Sacha Baron Cohen, I found myself wondering whether I had the intestinal fortitude to see it through. I chickened out. I saw it to the closing credits.

It’s rude, crude, irrational, silly rather than funny, irreverent toward the Humberside trawler fishery port, once the biggest of its kind in Europe, stupid in a style and a manner that doesn’t come easy when you’re deliberately setting out to produce witty satire, and jam-packed with references to body parts, their functions and their products within and peripheral to the pelvis, biped, quadruped, it doesn’t matter.

If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably formed an opinion about making your see/avoid decision. In that process, the plot of “Grimsby” exerts but scant influence.

Two brothers of a family, Nobby (Baron Cohen) and Sebastian (Mark Strong) are separated when very young. Twenty-eight years later, living in Grimsby (actually, the exteriors were filmed in Essex) Nobby, a layabout lout funded by social security benefits for his 11 children born out of Dawn (Rebel Wilson) is obsessed, along with beer, football and Dawn’s body, with searching for Sebastian whom a middle-class couple adopted. Little does Nobby know that Sebastian is now MI6’s top agent.

Then one day, Nobby finds out. It’s a life changer!

What follows is a mix of referential gags embedded in arrant plagiarism, some clever, others obvious, still others neither of those, too numerous to list, all coarse, many quite unsuitable for delicately-raised sensitivities. But heck, nowadays people like that hang out in the foyers of cinemas discussing all sorts of movies. Which is a Good Thing.

At all cinemas