Their exploits are diverting in a frivolous kind of way, but McMahon can’t quite manage the gear change from comedy to pathos. His characters feel like one-joke punchlines (the crap lawyer, the dogmatic Marxist) rather than real people, too cartoonish to be taken seriously. As with many first novels, these characters seem to matter a great deal to McMahon, but we lack the context to share his affection. It is a book about a circle of friends written for a circle of friends.

For all the book’s other flaws, McMahon does deliver some marvellous prose. He is at his best when he imbues a personal moment with universal appeal, most notably when he conveys the giddy invincibility of finally asking out Ms Right. Sections like this bubble with infectious enthusiasm, and are expressed in such a manner that only a novel could really do them justice. It is a shame that this kind of writing is so fleeting, but it may point the way to the future. The Single Gentleman’s Dining Club is ultimately a book for Tony McMahon. If he writes for all of us next time, it could be special.