The contrast reveals a lot about our respective nations’ attitudes to pop. Spears offered an all-dancing and miming hi-tech, Vegas-style soft-porn extravaganza, plastic perfection without an ounce of heart.

Despite being, if anything, even more technologically spectacular, the Take That show contrives to retain an endearingly amateurish warmth. It is pure British big top, the stadium version of an end-of-the-pier show, all red-nosed clowns and balloons. It is the difference between lap dancing and tap dancing. When the aging sex symbols drop their (stripy, baggy) trousers, it is as part of a clown’s slapstick routine, delivered with all the eroticism of a Carry On film.

Take That’s enormous and continuing popularity certainly lies, in part, with their pop craftsmanship. There are plenty of memorable tunes for the family audience to sing along to.

The quartet boldly establish their musical maturity in a centre section where they take over instrumental duties, delivering a sweet folk rock sound with Gary Barlow on piano, Mark Owen on bass, Howard Donald on drums and Jason Orange on guitar.

Their singing, however, is at times so barely adequate, that it makes you wonder how they ever passed themselves off as a vocal group, let alone survived decades of public scrutiny. Harmony covers a multitude of sins, but only Barlow has the tone and control to convince in a lead role. Of course, he is the least pop star like of them all. No amount of buffing up in the gym can shake the impression that the band is led by its business manager. In top hat and frock coat for the finale, he looks uncannily like the Fat Controller.

There is none of the edginess or unpredictability that makes their old compadre Robbie Williams such a compelling pop star, but it says something about their cheerful unity that his ghost has been completely exorcised, leaving not a trace on the show, or a remorseful sigh from the crowd. They are doing just fine without him.

Donald and Orange still have the looks of catalogue models and impress with a physical grace that sees them riding unicycles into the middle of the stadium. The once boyish Owen is turning into a kind of cheeky-chappie comic, with air of slightly gormless enthusiasm. Much sport is made of his wobbly attempts to follow his bandmates’ unicycling stunts.

The Fat Controller, meanwhile, rolls out on a child’s tricycle. Oh, what larks! For all the mechanised elephants, giant inflatable puppets, fireworks, stunts and artfully integrated video, it is this cheesy showmanship that holds them close to the hearts of their audience, locked together in celebratory choruses everyone can sing. Even (just about) the band themselves.
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