In the grounds of a huge house in Manchester, dozens of dejected-looking young men and women – none of them fully dressed – mill around supercars they do not own. Nearby, a young woman with a faraway stare touches her lips in a rough facsimile of sexual availability. Inside, a Twister board lurks next to a pile of discarded clothes. The whole setup is preposterously depressing, a kind of Requiem f...