Maximum Pleasure Guaranteed -Pleasure Guaranteed, Sanity Optional

Maximum Pleasure Guaranteed sounds less like a television series and more like something scribbled on the side of a van that has definitely been parked behind a nightclub since 2008. Yet somehow, against all odds and common sense, it turns out to be a cracking little thriller — all blackmail, murder, moral panic, and the sort of suburban chaos that makes you think every school gate conversation should come with a warning label.

At its heart, the show is about a newly divorced mother who stumbles into a nightmare involving a cam boy, a suspiciously large amount of bad decisions, and youth soccer, which is apparently now one of the world’s most dangerous criminal ecosystems. I don’t know who came up with that premise, but they deserve either a medal or a very long sit down with a therapist. It’s the sort of plot that starts as “just one tiny mistake” and rapidly becomes “oh no, the entire police force, a couple of corpses, and everyone’s dignity are involved now.”

Tatiana Maslany is terrific in it, which is annoying, because she makes everyone else look like they’ve been assembled from spare parts in a budget drama warehouse. She has the rare ability to look like she’s thinking ten steps ahead while also appearing one badly timed phone notification away from hurling herself into the sea. That kind of performance is gold. She keeps the whole thing moving, even when the plot decides to put on a fake moustache and sneak off in a completely different direction.

And what a direction it is. This show is gloriously indecent about the whole business of human weakness. Nobody is morally upright for long. Everybody is lying, bluffing, panicking, or wearing the expression of someone who has just discovered that their life insurance policy might not cover this particular level of stupidity. It has the pace of a dog that has just seen a squirrel and the tone of a dinner party where someone has accidentally said the quiet part out loud.

The humour is especially effective because it never quite behaves itself. It lurks in the corners, grinning like it knows something you don’t. One moment you’re dealing with menace and betrayal, and the next you’re watching a character make a choice so catastrophically poor that you have to admire the commitment. It’s not the kind of comedy that asks politely for your attention. It grabs you by the shirt collar, pours a drink, and says, “You’ll laugh later, once the bodies are sorted out.”

That said, it is not perfect. Occasionally the series becomes so pleased with its own cleverness that it starts juggling subplots like a magician who’s had far too much espresso. There are moments when you think, “This is excellent,” followed immediately by, “Oh for heaven’s sake, now what?” But that’s part of the pleasure, really. It’s messy in the way a good cocktail is messy: strong, a little dangerous, and guaranteed to leave a stain if you’re not careful.

The style helps too. It has the slick confidence of a show that knows exactly how attractive it is and is deeply unashamed about it. The dialogue snaps, the tension coils, and the whole thing feels like it was designed by people who understand that if you’re going to make a moral catastrophe, it might as well look expensive. Even the ugliest behaviour is presented with a kind of perverse elegance, which is rather unsettling, but also rather fun.

If I have to summarise it, it’s the televisual equivalent of buying a sports car, discovering the boot is full of stolen jewellery, and deciding that, actually, this has improved the journey. It’s fast, stylish, slightly absurd, and just rude enough to keep you awake. In other words, excellent nonsense.

So yes, I loved it too. It’s clever without being smug, filthy without being lazy, and funny in that deliciously cruel way that makes you snort at the exact moment you feel you probably shouldn’t. In the grand tradition of television about terrible people making terrible choices, it is a very fine specimen indeed.