It's all faintly sad. If Gilbert and George's earlier work toyed with ideas of sex and death, these latest ones seem to admit to the death of sex. The duo are getting on, after all. Gilbert will be 60 next year: escorts may well be on their minds. So, too, may the fact the days of being (and I quote) 'toned, muscular, masculine, genuinely horny' like Clay and his cohorts are long behind them. Ah, me: all very Death In Venice. Cue the Mahler.