"There was this big-jawed yank in a suit, right, waving a gun around – in the middle of the street! – bawling at this preening, cocky little wide boy about whose fault it was that stuff had gone wrong. How messed is that?" This is a sentence I have never heard uttered by a single person. Why, then, is it a scenario I have come across in every British film of the last ten years? Sigh.

It is not a trend The All Together seeks to buck. Derivative and comfortable like metaphors about slippers, the film manages to be a pastiche of every Britcom caper you've seen and is remarkable mostly for two things: a dead squirrel with an erection and male characters spending their time on the toilet.

Martin Freeman (you know – Tim, Office, etc) hates television. Ergo, he is a TV producer and depressed. His flatmate makes pornographic taxidermy under the ostensible aegis of Art while freeloading off him. Naturally, this status quo cannot remain. Two drawn-out set pieces later, they are the hostages of the aforementioned Noo Yoik mobster and preening young English wannabe desperate to appease him (Danny Dyer, with weird second chin uncredited).

Writer-Director Gavin Claxton is an odd man. Never have I, nor (please Lord) will I ever again see the naked, pasty thighs of so many men as they strain to squeeze one out. I also doubt I shall ever see two stuffed foxes in the missionary position again.

Which all adds up to classic DVD fayre: several men in a room on sofas scratching their balls and guffawing as their free hand reaches for beer or pizza. And that, I’m sure you'll agree, has its moments. Much like The All Together.