The Wham-O Frisbee: the next six toys I'd like to portray on film, by Margot Robbie

BARBIE star Margot Robbie doesn’t want to stop at the iconic doll. Ahead of the movies release, she details the next five plastic toys she longs to portray: 

The mouse from Mouse Trap

You’ve seen the Saw movies? Imagine that, but I’m a mouse. A sexy mouse. As with the game, the movie would spend the majority of its runtime painstakingly assembling the over-elaborate trap with the promise of fun to come, then skip the game entirely and just trigger the trap. Honestly, so fucking hot as the mouse.


This cult British toy, remembered by everyone who almost collected the full 50 in packets of Quavers in 1997, is ripe for an arthouse revival. Because toy movies don’t have to be for kids. Tazos are discs with cut edges you can link to make large constructions, so I’m thinking a shot-for-shot remake of The Bridge On the River Kwai, but darker.


Returning to that endless well of late 90s toy creativity, and Florence fucking Pugh having bought up the Beanie Baby option already, I’m guiding this to a $300m greenlight. Gosling’s in, Pacino’s in, Millie Bobbie Brown’s our owner. I’m the lead Tamogotchi trying to escape my digital prison to the real world. Pacino dies when they forget to let him shit.

The Wham-O Frisbee

Very much my passion project. My agent said ‘How do you make a plastic disc emote? How do you make it love? Make it weep?’ I said, fucking watch me. Essentially, I feel that playing a Wham-O Frisbee is the furthest I could take myself out of my comfort zone. Oh sure, I could portray a lump of Play Doh or star in Bop-It! with no trouble at all. But deep down I want the simplicity and raw challenge of playing a disc with curved edges.

Sophie la girafe

France’s most popular chewable toy for babies, six million sold every year, and how did my career get here? What happened? Harley Quinn was bad enough. Remember when I played that mad ice skater and was in the bit your husband goes quiet for in The Wolf of Wall Street? That was a Scorsese movie. How did I end up in this fucking mess?

The Space Hopper

I’ve always wanted to be in sci-fi, and I’ve never been one to hide behind my genetically-perfect looks. So this is very much my version of when Charlize Theron got an Oscar for uglying up as a serial killer. I imagine I’m an alien, initially mistrusted, then saving the world, laser beams, doomsday devices, all that. It’ll make millions. Billions.

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Let's move to the UK's first garden city and the home of its first fucking roundabout! This week: Letchworth

What’s it about?

What is a Garden City? A town not big enough to be a city, founded by people with unrealistically high hopes of creating a better world, beginning in Hertfordshire. No surprise it failed.

But there is a fair amount of garden, especially behind the houses of the London-commuting banker wankers. And at the golf clubs thronged by the aforementioned London-commuting banker wankers.

There’s also a cracking fountain slap-bang in the centre, and the UK’s first roundabout. Before this there were only crossroads, where the Devil had a pop-up offering a lifetime of musical talent for your soul.

The nice areas have always been expensive; the cheap areas have always been rough. Edgar Wright’s The World’s End was filmed here  but it doesn’t seem to have had the Notting Hill effect. Then again, nobody saw The World’s End. 

Any good points?

It is quite green and leafy with some decent early 20th century buildings, but that’s hardly unusual around here. It does have black squirrels. If the thought of a black squirrel excites you unduly, then rush here.

There’s a half-decent art deco cinema, but these days it’s only open Wednesday to Sunday. Once every three months, the town hosts a stand-up show there with three C-listers doing the trip up from London, hoping to get funny stories about the yokel audience in Letchworth to relate to proper audiences.

In the summer there’s the fair at Willian, on Letchworth’s outskirts. Splat a rat, throw coconuts at the coconut shy, be ripped off, repeat. Less a fair, more an assortment of retro games on a cramped patch of grass. It’s hard not to wonder what the point is.

Beautiful landscapes?

Sure. If you like long, tree-lined streets that look like someone put a British twist on the suburban Americana evoked by a Lana Del Rey track.

Hang out at:

Cafes and restaurants are as numerous as trees, to give the commuters’ partners something to fucking do with their long childcaring days. Get an expensive and delicious mocktail from Cultivo Lounge, and then realise that you can’t really follow it up with an alcoholic beverage because there’s only two pubs and one of them’s Wetherspoons.

You could go to the new craft beer joint. But everything costs shitloads and it serves marshmallow stout, so it attracts the kind of wanker who’ll try to identify the secondary and tertiary aromas in a pint of Adnams Ghost Ship.

The restaurants are decent though. Head to L’Artista if you like your four-cheese gnocchi to be four parts cheese to one part gnocchi. Not for the lactose intolerant.

Where to buy?

Keep catchment areas in mind. There are two state secondary schools, and one was in special measures for a good few years. There are private schools too but they’re weird and for hippie parents. One of them is a ‘vegetarian school’ where teachers are referred to by their first names. Warning: your child will emerge believing in their own talent.

The nice neighbourhoods are nice, in a wankery way, and the grim neighbourhoods are grim in a ‘depressing reflection of modern Britain way’. You’re all set if you’re moneyed. If not, keep going north until you reach a hovel you can afford.

From the streets:

Julian Cook, aged 51: “It’s a shame that delivery drivers have trouble finding us on our private road where the houses have names instead of numbers.”

Jordan Gardner, aged 18: [Jordan was unavailable for comment, because he’s gone to the neighbouring town of Hitchin where there are actually places for young people to hang out.]