Cats is so silly!

In the olden days, after a wild animal was slaughtered, the tribe's shaman would wear the skin and re-enact the hunt. As he became one with the beast, the people slowly understood the ways of nature.

Cats is a similarly spiritual experience wherein we watch androgynous sylphs gyrate across the stage and believe (if only for a moment) that the human has become feline, all in service of better understanding the mysteries of our moggies.

Does there need to be so many sequins? So much dry ice? Such a quantity of pyrotechnics?

No, probably not. But it all adds up to a spectacular which will keep you grinning.

The deficiencies in Cats are somewhat inherent. The scrapbook story doesn't make a lick of sense. It is more like a variety show than musical theatre. The lyrics are, at times, utterly asinine. The music soars, until someone starts playing what sounds like a genuine 1980s Casio keyboard - and all you can hear is squelch.

But then Gary Wilmot (!!!) comes on as Gus and all is forgiven on a haze of metatextual glory.

The choreography and dancing are exemplary. The singing occasionally gets muddled but is mostly delightful. The stage is perfect - the wind blowing through the trees and the moon gently rising only helps to accentuate the atmosphere.

The pre-show is good. As well as a variety of food stalls, patrons are encouraged to bring their own food and drink for a picnic. There are plenty of tables and a couple of selfie points.

The programme isn’t horrendous at £6 but still feels like it contains more advertising than content. The queues for the loos were outrageously long and the stalls weren't particularly clean.

There's nothing to do post-show except trudge back through the park. The selfie point is still illuminated if you want to queue for that. Even the t-shirt sales stopped after the interval.

I first saw Cats in the West End some time in the 1980s as a child and loved it. Afterwards my parents asked if I wanted to see a ballet or an opera next. "Eurgh! No! Boring!" I said. They politely informed me that I'd just seen both in one show and my juvenile mind was blown.

A few decades later I saw Cats on Broadway - shortly before it closed, I think. The C90 cassette they used to play the music was warbling like a demented bird and the sets looked equally tired. Despite the half empty auditorium, the cast attacked the songs with vigour. I still loved it.

And, today, I still had goosebumps. Maybe it was the unseasonable chill in the air, maybe it was the moonlight, or maybe it was the magic of Cats!