Lock up your daughters (especially if Colin Firth is moping around with some loose papers), and keep an eye on that randy PM, as we immerse ourselves in the Christmas overindulgence that is Richard Curtis’s Love Actually. Can we please stop calling totally normally proportioned Martine McCutcheon chubby? Did Mark, aka the Cue Card Guy, deserve the hate he got for his visual proclamation? And are the porn couple the only healthy relationship in this whole film? Or is it Bill Nighy’s aging rockstar and his manager? We’re too busy tearing up over the actual people welcoming each other home at Heathrow to come up with any answers.