THEY appeared on stage like caricatures of the originals, the sands of time having left indelible impressions.

Dickinson, McBrain, Harris, Smith, Murray and Gers, heavy metal icons, legends of rock, Iron Maiden.

Dickinson apart, long hair, Spandex, denim and bandanas were still the order of the day, they were, like the title of one of their songs, caught somewhere in time.

They launched, like a full-on punch to the face, into If Eternity Should Fail, from their 16th studio album, Book of Souls.

Had they gone too hard too early? How could they sustain this level of energy for the next two-and-a-half-hours? After all, these were men with a combined age of more than 360. I admit, I had my doubts.

How wrong could I be?

Through Speed of Light, Wrathchild, Children of the Damned, the tempo was maintained, if not ramped up, Dickinson sprinting from one side of the stage to the other, leaping across the elaborate Mayan set like a man possessed, Gers hurling his guitar around his body without missing a chord, and Harris, trademark pose, fingers ferociously strumming his bass.

This was Maiden of yore and they were loving it.

The smile never left Murray's face, Dickinson full of mischief during the solos.

The experience went beyond the musical, screens to the left and right interspersed live footage with animation, flames leapt from ramparts, a huge inflatable 'Eddie' rocked backwards and forwards, menacingly.

It was an assault on the senses.

There were moments to catch your breath, Dickinson imparting his views on politics and the state of the world in general and telling those gathered they were the most sensible people alive, intent only on 'getting drunk, listening to Iron Maiden' and well one other more carnal thing I'll leave to your imagination.

The newer tracks synced well with the classics, such as the Trooper and Powerslave, the former seeing the enigmatic frontman emerge dressed in full military garb and wielding a British flag.

An encore of Number of the Beast, Blood Brothers and Wasted Years brought an utterly absorbing set to a close.

Age, clearly, is but a number.