The Point is jammers, packs of nubiles squealing with delight, mums with their eight to ten-year-olds, hardly any young fellas. Just the odd sheepish teenage boyfriend dragged along by the mot and not wanting to be seen. The musical ante upped steadily as zero hour arrives. Pump, pump, pump! The stage in the round looks like a flying saucer landed in a sea of waving fairy lights winking through the gloom. Five black modules sit up there, pregnant, waiting to deliver the Gods. Barely suppressed hysteria. It’s infectious. Seriously exciting.

Boom, bang, modules away, we’re off. First out are the Batman suits. The lads strut around the cat-walk and gradually the logic of the set reveals itself. Various levels and moving platforms all designed to introduce or make our heroes vanish at a moment’s notice. At each of the four corners a kind of jutting-out ship’s prow affair, from song to song ingeniously employed as …pulpit to preach from, back porch to coyly wrap a leg around, …‘you can’t touch me’ grille… pedestal on top of the world from whence to proclaim undying love or heartbreak, each sensation indistinguishable from the other. Smart! Someone has their symbolism sussed.

The girl dancers arrive from the depths, black leather, fishnets. You can almost feel the change in the audience as they deal with this new introduction, new challenge. Will they be too sexy, too beautiful, too interesting to the lads, can we ever match up to them? Too sexy, definitely not… and, hey, that’s ok, even planned. Nothing in your face here, not a hint of tabloid S&M obsessions. Just some pretty slick, anodyne, well-executed throwing of shapes in time. Again, good theatre. Perfect for ten-year-olds and especially their mums. Only thing oddly missing is a blonde. ‘Will Westlife not like me ’cos I’m blonde?’ Horror of Horrors!

We’ve never been naturally good on the visuals/theatrics in Ireland. Innately musical, yes, but it’s amazing to see how a really talented producer/choreographer team can bring it to a whole other level. Show business this is and good too. Each song gets a completely different production, lighting, costumes. The wee dark-haired fella suffers a bit from the Batman suit. I sympathise, with the same stubby Irish legs myself. Baggy trousers are a no-no when you’re 5’ 7”. But they get it mostly right from then on. Except, guys, tell the clothes designer the Irish flag is green, white and orange, OK? If I see one more green white and yella flag in Dublin I’ll scream. Are we the laughing stock of the World Cup or what? “Them Irish, they don’t even know what colour their own flag is.” Hey! Don’t go there, Paul…

We’re on to the ‘boys in green’ now. “Hello Dublin!! Aren’t we great in Japan?” White suits, with one green sleeve and one yella sleeve, Olé Olé Olé! Bursts of phallic fireworks punctuate the music. It’s hard to hear the intros and catch the names of the songs. Are they really singing? Does it matter? There is a pretty useful band down in the engine room, MD is the drummer. It’s like all the songs are a combo of pre-recorded sequence and live drums, backing tapes with live voices. Yes, they’re really singing, but the sound is really a bit of a mess and it’s unclear who’s singing what. Like I said, it doesn’t matter. It’s the show that counts. Nit pickers, go home.

We’re on a romp through a compendium of music over the past thirty years, all souped up for the millennium… a bit of Latin (works well), some Euro Balladry, a Country cross-over thing, a Caledonian ‘Queen Of My Heart’, some Princely funk with walking sticks – and all the time the screams and screams. Then it’s the Irish football jerseys and leather biker look. For the first time tonight they look their age (younger, that is), look like regular Irish meat and potato young lads like you’d see in any pub at the weekend and again it works. “Our own Westlife, wha? Come on you boys in green!”

A slew of classic songs, ‘Jailhouse Rock’, ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’, the monster hit ‘Uptown Girl’ with the lads in some seriously natty suits. I mean if you’re out for a night’s crack and a squeal, isn’t it great to hear some great songs too? For the most part, the choice of songs and arrangements is what gives the show substance. Some of the purpose-written new stuff lacks the sublime quality of the classics. That one about “How am I supposed to leave you now you’re looking like that?”… Hello??… Another earlier one that sounds like a take on Gordon Lightfoot’s ‘If I Could Read your Mind’… just OK… But some of the big ones are good… something about ‘Flying Without Wings’, another, ‘But If I Let You Go’, good big tunes. Warm and cuddly.

Then it’s audience participation time. 8-year-old Michael from Abbey Park Road is hoisted on stage, draped in one of the lad’s Russian Hussar greatcoats and plopped on a stool to howls of excitement from the crowd. Huge close-up of Michael on the video screens. Will he handle it? Is it all pre-arranged? It doesn’t seem to be. “Would you like to sing, Michael?” says one of our heroes. Michael is dumbstruck. Again, “Would you like to sing, Michael?”…you can almost imagine, “You little git, say something!”. The song is off, Michael’s lips are moving. Super close-up on screen. He seems to be saying the words but we can’t hear anything. On it goes. We’re all willing Michael to find his voice and when he does it’s one of the most thrilling things all night, spiritual even…this little cherubic bleat that gathers in strength till by the climax he’s roaring his head off and the crowd is mad with excitement and emotion. A once in a lifetime moment, then he’s deposited back with his mum. Anyone who can’t enjoy this needs to let a bit of light into his life.

It’s the girls again. A kind of Barry Lyndonesque minuet with the lads to some Euro baroque-funk thing. It’s sweet and dignified and, well, classy, even. Then the by now obligatory trapeze cables appear, dangling the lads over the adoring hordes and before we know it, it’s “Goodnight Dublin” as they descend from on high to disappear into the belly of the spaceship, hands waving over the parapet to the end. The shortest hour and 40 minutes I’ve spent at a gig in a good while.

Everyone blissed out and twittering, heading home waving their fairy lights. In about ten minutes max, the place is empty. Backstage in the bar where you normally expect some serious shape throwing, power posing and excess, it’s quiet and polite, a few young wans with the mammies and the quiet pint or two being consumed in the corner. Not a hint of aggro or negativity. So what’s your problem, mate?