Gaysploitation cinema has its cake and eats it. Embracing tired stereotypes in order, allegedly, to defy them, the film parades stock comic characters from the fantasy nightmares of a repressed right-winger in order to inflame them. Going in blind, viewers might wonder if the film-makers are witless homophobes or witless homophiles. Two non-dead and avowedly non-gay guys, Irish lads Byron (Mackey) and Kenny (Mulhern), preserve their sloth-and-Guinness lifestyle by servicing clients at an opulent queer pub in London. Overlapping social circles ripple out from this decadent milieu. Sex-mad clerics, sex-literate old ladies and a sex-starved dwarf screech and claw for screen space alongside the boys' amply displayed hardbodies, hugely endowed Africans, a Capote queen and terrifying matriarch, the Iron Lady, who sports lethal smothering breasts. When they're not erratically pursuing the titular murder trail, the room-mates spend a great deal of time discussing blowjobs and the fact that they're not gay with a scatological aggro-fury oddly reminiscent of heteros like Guy Ritchie and Kevin Smith. Byron and Kenny share their callow, hair trigger insecurity with the film itself, a strange, grisly collision of snide self-congratulation and ugly self-loathing. JWin.