It wasn’t just the 35° heat melting my brain in London this weekend. My wife had sprung a surprise on me: front row tickets for the ABBA Voyage hologram show in the city’s east end.

Now, I might be the type of GenXer who goes on about punk, grunge, ska, hip-hop and rap, but scratch the surface and there’s a soft gooey side to me that loves Motown, Country, classic pop and – most of all – ABBA.

If you were a kid in 1974 when Waterloo won Eurovision and you don’t adore ABBA, you’ve a Grinch-sized hole in your soul.

It doesn’t matter how many raves you went to in the Second Summer of Love, when ABBA plays you get all fluttery inside.

So I was expecting to adore the ABBA "experience", as it’s called. And I did. I’m a soppy old git, and even teared up when Fernando played. Full disclosure. Zero shame.

What I didn’t expect was the sense of concern that lurked beneath the fuzzy glow of nostalgia and the 20th century’s best pop tunes. A few hours after the show ended, I began feeling perturbed by the experience.

I was, with brain-warping irony, discomfited because the night was so good, the entertainment so much fun, so captivating.

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To understand why ABBA Voyage is unsettling, you must see it to believe it. Cameras are forbidden in the giant, purpose-built venue.

Security teams send snatch squads in to huckle folk out if they film or take photos. So........

© Herald Scotland