It’s almost annoyingly hard not to like this alcohol fuelled schoolboy narrative ode to, well, house parties. But sadly for Little Man Tate and all the good that the Sheffield explosion did, ‘House Party At Boothy’s’ is proof that the bubble has finally burst.
Although it’s liable to incite drunken group singing on a major scale it’s predictable, plotted, writes itself and unlike their peers (you know the ones) cant be forgiven on account of containing intelligent everyday observations because it just simply doesn’t.
And while Little Man Tate are having their little house party and drinking cheap cider, The Arctic Monkeys are probably quaffing champagne in a penthouse suite. It’s a case of trying too hard whilst at the same time not trying hard enough.
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