Last week you may have noticed a thousand stiletto metaphors being sharpened and weaponised when Sarah Jessica Parker confirmed that after a long period of rumour and antipathy the third Sex and the City movie definitely wasn’t happening. “It’s over,” she said, doomily. “It’s not just disappointing that we don’t get to tell the story and have that experience, but more so for that audience that has been so vocal in wanting another movie.” To which, we must allow ourselves a sly eyebrow-lift to camera.

Why must women’s films always putter away into cul-de-sacs of cliché, and shout lines like, 'Lawrence of my labia'?

Were we? Were we vocal? Were we pleading for her to grab a spade and upturn its shallow grave in order to learn yet more about how hard life can be as a white millionaire in Manhattan? Was that us? Perhaps some, yes, wanted another, but purely to make up for the awfulness before, for the way they chewed up all that was important about the stories they’d told about modern women, and spat them into a dirty hand to remould into something that looks like it came out of a melted Kinder egg. Or was that noise she heard the sound of breath being expelled through nostrils and mouths loosened to give the effect of gas exiting a bum?

Because as I remember it, while the first film, its cinemas swollen with hen nights (my friend burst into tears as the titles began and his name is Jared) was “fine”, the second, a lobotomised offence lasting two and a half hours, was “not”.

After reports that Kim Cattrall was to blame for our future loss of a “threequel” (sassy), with the Mail quoting a source that said: “The fans would’ve loved the movie, but Warner Bros couldn’t give in to her ridiculous demands,” she granted an interview to Britain’s biggest shame, Piers Morgan. “This is really where I take to task the people from Sex and the City and specifically Sarah Jessica Parker in that I… really think she could have been nicer. I don’t know what her issue is, I never have.” Which is when the internet caught on fire and minor characters from the series (the guy, for instance, whose gay marriage in film two seemed written specifically to undermine marriage equality) started tweeting their fury.

Of course, there are certainly other factors, one being that Cynthia Nixon is being tipped as a possible candidate for governor in New York, which would presumably mess a little with the scene where, and I’m just guessing here, her character Miranda is tasked with extracting the semen from Hugh Hefner’s corpse or similar. Of course, they could go ahead without Cattrall, who, at 61, quite understandably fancies playing a role other than a Fleshlight with four feelings. They could, say, replace Samantha with a melon with a hole in it, warmed up in the microwave. They could replace her with a humping dog gif, or a Right Said Fred MP3, or half a pound of liver wrapped in a leaflet about the menopause. The limited possibilities are infinite.

Instead they’re canning the whole thing, and for that we must thank them. Otherwise we would have only spoiled it by hoping for something that didn’t make women look like vapid magpie babies and men like Playmobil figures cursed with a libido. It was after a half naked Samantha bombed a crowd of Muslim people in an Abu Dhabi market with condoms, thereby liberating all womankind, hooray, that I walked out of Sex and the City 2. But missing the end, I’ve found, means it will forever be playing in my head – I forfeited closure along with half a cone of popcorn.

If only the Sex and the City films could be allowed the glorious death of being celebrated as a mighty flop, rather than the dragged out shame of their grim attempts at relevance. I do hope the existing franchise finds, a satisfying home as a midnight movie, with the off-camera jousting (why are female co-stars always expected to be friends off camera?) dramatised by a lip-synching quartet.

When they are finally canonised for their cult camp awfulness it’ll be a chance for us, their vocal audience, to stand back enough that we can enjoy the memories of a series that stood for something, and consider why women’s films must always putter away into cul-de-sacs of cliché, and shout lines like, “Lawrence of my labia” back at the screen like a celebration. And then finally perhaps, we’ll be able to relax and enjoy the best worst movie ever made.

Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman