NO wonder master percussionist Issam can't stop smiling. The Syrian Pharaoh of Rhythm has an unbeatable view of the "the art of sensuality in motion", on stage with the Bellydance Superstars and The Desert Roses.

He is pretty much the only man here; there is but a handful in the female-dominated audience and that is baffling. You can understand the nervous lads giving Puppetry Of The Penis a wide berth, but outside of a swaying stag party on the Micklegate Run or a Christina Aguilera video, where else could they enjoy such a pulchritudinous bellyful of gyrating bare midriffs?

I made my excuses, lads, and stayed, and if the Bellydance Superstars and their supporting dance troupe, The Desert Roses, ever pass this way again from desert America, you should do likewise.

They dress like Christina/Britney gone Arabic, stack up more jewellery than Lene Lovich, they call themselves exotic names such as Ador, Petite Jamilla, Jillina and, er, Colleen and Sharon, and they can shake more than an earthquake.

Producer Miles Copeland, Sting's old boss in The Police, was convinced he could take bellydancing out of the restaurants and make a five-course feast for the eyes on stage, and he was right.

This mesmerising melange of tribal, Egyptian, cabaret and even stilt-walking routines is sensual, seriously sexy and sensational. The girls know it, Issam knows it, now I know it. Come on gentlemen, no bellyaching, let's bellydance.

Updated: 09:10 Thursday, April 21, 2005