The ‘Circus’ has rolled into town, bringing with it a vast array of trapeze artists, dwarves and gymnasts, whose job would appear to be to obscure what is, despite the delivery of a handful of genius pop records, a rather uncharismatic pop star with a modest talent working her way through a bizarrely uninvolving set.
Of course she doesn’t sing. But she will ascend and descend between the rigging and three circular stages in a flying picture frame. She will cavort with scantily-clad male dancers. And she will writhe around on any piece of furniture that comes to hand. So who really cares?
The dance routines don’t exactly demand the greatest agility, and mostly seem to consist of;
1. Stride confidently across the stage and pause when cries of exultation reach climax.
2. Employ much gyrating of hips, vigorous tossing of hair and unnecessary crotch-grabbing.
3. Perform this with all the natural elegance of an overweight pole dancer.
4. Repeat the above until song ends.
The show is played ‘in the round’, meaning that you are forced to spend an inordinate amount of time confronted with the lower half of Britney’s arse cheeks rather than her face, although which of the two pulls off the more skilled performance causes some debate.
She also spends a ridiculous amount of time off stage. There are five-minute gaps in between songs where pre-recorded videos are played out and yet more circus personnel are wheeled out to mask the movement of stage apparatus and the changing of Britters into yet another selection from a seemingly endless supply of sequined bikinis. Still, it’s a chance to throw back another of those 5 quid beers which taste like they’ve been urinated into. All of this does little to tame the whooping masses, least of all the arm-flailing enthusiastic female sitting in front of me, who on several occasions comes infuriatingly close to elbowing me in the bollocks.
The encore sees a truncheon-brandishing Britney return for ‘Womanizer’, which she follows by setting fire to herself and racing through a raucous cover of ‘Nazi Punks Fuck Off’ by the Dead Kennedys. Huh? She doesn’t? Who knows? By now we’re fleeing towards the exits like rats down a sewer. There are 20,000 of us in here and only one number 188 outside. So, see ya.
A young fan informs me on the way home that apparently there was a point in tonight’s show when Britney Spears acknowledged the audience by using her own voice, but the Jubilee line which offers the only sensible route to the O2 is closed and ensures we don’t arrive on time to witness this.
“What’s up, London?” she allegedly improvised.
And that’s it. Well, at least you know where you are with Britney don’t you?
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