“Here we are, the second time round…”

Jettison your cool. Embrace your inner child. Just get on the rollercoaster. And see where it takes you.

Take That are – and were – a social pheonomenon. The floods of tears last seen in the tragic aftermath of their split a decade ago return. The weird banshee wails and screams. But this time no longer the squeals of youth, camping outside hotels and rummaging through bins, these are the grown women.

SCREEEEEEEEEEAM! GASP! SWOON!

As a social experiment in anthropology, seeing Take That is fascinating. With an average of ten women for every man (the handful or so I see are either bored husbands and boyfriends, or with their boyfriend, apart from me of course), it’s a curious, almost frightening sight. Never have I seen so many pink cowboy hats, flashing devil horns, or glowsticks. And the tour is sponsored by a vodka alcopop : exactly the type of drink a twenty/thirty something suburban girl-woman would quaff on a girly night out. Cyncial? Moi?

And in an astute move, the venue has rebranded 80% of the men’s toilet cubicles with a picture of someone wearing a dress. In fact, during the bloated “Love Ain’t Here Anymore”, when I try to find a men’s toilet, I actually walk behind the stage before I find one.

By the time they come on stage (at 8.30, prompt, like a BBC Christmas Movie), the cavernous Wembley Arena is flooded with so much estrogen I feel that I’m starting to turn. (I may indeed, if I spend long enough, synchronise my menstrual cycles with the rest of crowd). Or, as women of a certain age like to call it, going through the change. I may possibly be turning into an honourary woman for the night. On the row of twelve I’m certainly the only male there. And no woman would have eyes for any male but the adrodgynous girly-men themselves.

Still, as the stage darkens, everything is drowned out by a cacophony of enthusiastic wails and screams. In fact, the screams for the animated versions of the band on the video screen are louder than when they actually appear : the chorus they sang at oblivious fans back in the heyday of “You’re In Love With An Image! You’re In Love With An Image!” (during the revealing documentary ‘For The Record’) is still true.

But this time, with the darkly humourous, semi-musical setting, that sees the band cast as nothing more than factory-cloned stereotypes resurrected by a Frankenstein mastermind of an Evil Manager (they appear on stage through a door labelled “BoyBand Manufacturing Room”, in identical uniforms, copying the moves that their onscreen robot CGI counterparts have been programmed to perform) , the joke is simple. We’re older, and wiser. We know this game – the artifice of pop – and we’re being asked to suspend our disbelief, whilst also acknowledging that this is fantasy. The same fantasy that sells itself in a collection of possibly the most anodyne, yet memorable, love songs ever written. Baby I Love You / Baby Don’t Go seem to be the only two lyrical themes of the night.

In fact, given the fact that every song seems to be about falling in love with someone elses girl, tasting love, finding heaven, sleeping with others that don’t mean a thing, you could almost convincingly suggest that perhaps it’s time for this hyperactive bundle of immortal and ageless boymen to admit they are Sexaholics and succumb to the twelve step plan. Later on in the show, (during one of innumberable breaks for percussion solos, extended intros and outros, saxophone solos, and so, to enable hasty costume changes), the band themselves recite the Evil Plan from the Dastdardly Manager : The Ten Rules of Boybands,  which sounds just like the Twelve Step Plan.

The whole conceit of the tour, is that the band have been resurrected by their greedy manager who wants to make a ton of money, and being willing robot slaves, the band have been switched back on for that purpose alone

The theme aside – one that would Westlife and Boyzone would never have the imagination to concieve – it’s easy to forget why we’re here, because, in many ways, the music itself is absolutely irrelevant. There’s moving stages, a lighting rig that turns into a stage that propels out into the audience, a presidential moment of ‘touching flesh’ as they cure the sick and the lame, a fake thunderstorm for a re-enactment of their most famous video, a catwalk that goes halfway into the crowd, a stage that descends from the ceiling, a wall of fire, breakdancing, tapdancing, a salsa section, singalongs. Everything, barring Bon Jovi on a wire. It’s fantastic in it’s arch, knowing stupidity, the shameless invocation of the rituals of old (complete with a knowing wink), and big dumb stupid/clever fun.

And a minor commotion when someone from Hollyoaks walks through the crowd and gets his photograph taken.

Oh yes. I forgot. The songs. Every one of their hit singles is here, including 8 UK number ones. (the only real mis-step is that they open with mere number#47 hit). My companion said “But I don’t know any of the songs!”. As soon as the music started they, like everyone else, without even thinking about it, had reverted to muscle memory. Despite not having heard some of these songs for years, the entire room was acting as one. In some kind of trance. Even down to the hand-clappy Radio Gaga bits.

And they don’t even miss Robbie. Whilst vocally the most talented member of the group, his absence is barely detectable. Bar for a short pre-recorded appearance in front of one song, it’s almost as if he were never there. Not quite at the level of airbrushing him out of photographs, but Trotsky may indeed be proud. As indeed would Orwell, for Take That peddle a brilliant contemporary version of and Gary barlow is probably the premier versificator in the country.

“The Ministry of Truth, whose primary job was to supply the citizens of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, telescreen programmes, plays, novels .. and to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat. … here were produced sentimental songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind of kaleidoscope known as a versificator.” – George Orwell

“A million love songs later….” – Gary Barlow

Gary Barlow is akin to a bland, generic brand version of Morrissey : mastering the art of the loving/loveless kitchen sink drama (less the alienation), and with the same ambigious sexuality thrown in for good measure. The band around him – in effect three talented dancing backing singers – create a uniform wave of pop choreography. And whilst The Fat One Who Can’t Dance is mercilessly lampooned as such, he gamely pockets the cash and plays the game. As indeed we all do.

And "Back For Good" would bring a tear to eye of a dead man.

During the final moments, as everything seems to reach an impossible crescendo, as 21 people join the four on stage, every hand is waving in the air (even, sad to say, mine), and “Never Forget” is pounding in our ears, the crowd seem to release themselves, and cheer as, on the screens behind them, snapshots of the boys meeting all manner of heroes of past and present – The Spice Girls, Lenny Henry, et al – on the crest of a euphoric wave.