Why there hasn’t been a parental backlash against Pussycat Dolls is perplexing. Why so many brought children as young as 8 to watch what is essentially an erotic dance troupe was downright disturbing. Pussycat Dolls might be packaged as a pop group, but their debut British tour had as much to do with music as their bondage bikinis do with sensible seasonal wear.

The set said it all. No instruments or even a DJ to distract from the dancing. There were, however, two podiums and silver scaffolding with stairs, a walkway and poles perfect for pairs of long, strong legs to wrap around. Pussycat Dolls are by no means the only girl group to expose their bodies on stage — and both Pink and Kylie have pole-dancing segments in their shows — but the raunchy routines weren’t part of the performance; they were almost the only attraction.

The songs came courtesy of a booming backing track, as did the most of vocals. Nicole Scherzinger, the head Doll, sang some leads live and they packed a surprisingly powerful punch. Rumours that the former hula dancer, who found fame on the US version of Popstars (she was one of the winning band, whose luck lasted less than a year), is about to go solo could well be true. Certainly, Scherzinger is likely to tire soon of supporting five other Dolls, only one of whom did slightly more than mime.

The set list comprised almost entirely songs from PCD, the Dolls’ successful debut album, which in Britain has sold more than a million copies.

For a manufactured R&B band their quality is high. Scherzinger has a handful of co-writing credits, but the sextet’s secret weapon is their high-profile fans. For their first decade (with different members) Pussycat Dolls were a burlesque outfit who played the Viper Room in Los Angeles and Las Vegas and posed for Playboy. For their pop rebirth in 2004, the super-producer Timbaland, Will.I.Am from the Black Eyed Peas and the rapper Busta Rhymes all lent a hand.

The highlights were the salaciously sassy Don’t Cha and the R&B ballad Stickwitu; the lowlights were terrible, tinny covers of Soft Cell’s Tainted Love and Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff. But almost any beats would have done. The show was about great-looking girls shaking their breasts and backsides, thrusting toned, tanned thighs towards the floor and moving their glossy manes in time to the tunes. At those they were excellent, and their smart, sharp routines immensely good fun.

Yet seeing little girls scream and wave their glowsticks as yet another naughty number rolled by was an uncomfortable experience. “I don’t need a man,” they sang at Scherzinger’s request and at least some of the dads who brought them must have shifted uneasily in their seats. Well, you would hope so.