Before I go on, I should clarify something: I love Britney Spears.
I gave her last album a sycophantically glowing review, I can do the talky bit in Oops! I Did It Again even better than Jedward (“but I thought the old lady dropped it into the ocean in the end” etc. Classic) and I even, get this, own her critically-panned movie Crossroads on DVD.
However. And it’s a big however.
Britney’s first night at The O2, on the Femme Fatale tour that’s been wearily trundling across the world since June, left me feeling disappointed and a little bit sad.
As the crowd – many of them dressed up as previous incarnations of Britney – screamed and squealed and her gaggle of dancers grinded and flipped all over the place, Britney herself looked more like she’d been reluctantly dragged along to a Zumba class by a well-meaning but ultimately annoying mate.
We all know Britney can sing, and yet she appeared to be miming for some of the show, and we all know Britney can dance, and yet her half-hearted hand-jiving and jogging on the spot suggested otherwise.
Still, the production employed plenty of elaborate techniques to distract us from the undeniable fact that there wasn’t a glimmer of life in Britney’s eyes – we saw pole-dancing, we saw angel wings, we saw confetti, and at several points throughout the show, we very nearly saw Britney’s boobs as they jiggled around precariously in a succession of skimpy costumes.
