Ever since Liza Minnelli screamed her knickers off under that Berlin bridge, I’ve been a fan of Christopher Isherwood and his deliciously decadent tales of homo angst. So I went to see A Single Man. It was one big after-shave advert, featuring tonnes of moody close-ups, mostly involving eyebrows and teeth, interspersed with some rather pleasing revolving buttocks and a lot of brown furniture and 60s nicky nacky noos. I particularly liked Mr Single’s bathroom, which had a strategically placed window through which he could gaze at his neighbours while having a morning poo. This was a man who kept a very tidy knicker drawer, which cleverly disguised the fact that inside he was mentally deranged and about to shoot himself into the hereafter where he could snog his younger, recently deceased lover to billio and back. Thankfully, fearful of splashing his Egyptian cotton bed linen with brain, he decided instead to go for a midnight swim and mull things over with a man in a mohair sweater. Cue more buttocks. Very pleasing in an Alan Bates/Oliver Reed dingly, dangly romp-athon sort of a way.