To be frank, I am unsure upon whom to foist the blame for a plethora of comedy-horror movies that seem to have hit DVD shelves in recent months. Believe me, there are plenty of them, of varying qualities, or varying contents and not all of them can raise even the merest hint of a snigger, even sarcastically. Doghouse almost manages to break the cycle, employing, as it does, the irrepressible and hugely likeable Danny Dyer in the lead role of ‘Neil’. However, this film is not about Mr Dyer, although ‘dire’ might be a more apposite description.

The story-line, which unusually this film does possess, hangs around a group of chums, each of whom has endured an argument or disagreement with their wives, girlfriends or last night’s date, thus placing themselves quite firmly in the doghouse of the movie’s title. Meeting up in a pub, they all agree to have a ‘lads’ weekend’ to get over their various issues and help ‘Vince’ (Stephen Graham) to get over his divorce. What ensues is a ‘Shaun Of The Dead’…aha! That is what to blame, while Simon Pegg is the ‘who’!… series of moments, in which the supporting cast of such luminaries as the intense-eyed Noel Clarke (‘Mikey’), nasally-Northern Lee Ingleby (‘Matt’, better known recently for his TV appearances alongside Martin Shaw in ‘Inspector George Gently’), Keith-Lee Castle (‘Patrick’), Emil Marwa (‘Graham’) and Neil Maskell (‘Banksy’) are attacked by hordes of rabid, hormonally-challenged, periodically-pained and mainly irate men-haters, all of whom have been turned into flesh-eating zombies.

The location for these incidents is known rather aptly as ‘Moodley’. Perhaps I should highlight at this juncture that the aforementioned Mr Pegg has had nothing to do with this film’s appearance, which might be considered a pity in many ways. At least a hearty chuckle might have resulted. The make-up is not bad but the relentless waves of seriously ugly ladies make you long for the end, except it never seems to arise and, when it does, it is with something approximating a major anti-climax (not that you would have been so close in any case). Personally, I feel that young Mr Dyer, whose prolific filmography must surely keep him in clean white shirts, denims and his signature leather jacket, ought to attempt to break into other celluloid epics that might allow his rasping ‘Lahndon’ brogue to develop into something else. He is definitely wasting his time here.