The dry ice! The sequins! The thinly disguised xenophobia! They’re all here in this riotous interactive Eurovision tribute show, in which you not only sit through ten numbers of unrestrained tastelessness, you also get to vote with your mobile phone.

Described by Terry Wogan, who makes a guest appearance on video, as a “glorious homage” to the real song contest, Eurobeat is both a kitsch and canny send-up and a tack-encrusted love letter to the varied and sometimes sick-making musical smorgasbord. “I love Eurovision,” says Terry, whose wry commentary is for many the highlight of UK broadcasts of the competition, adding mischievously: “It’s my pension.”

And, to judge by an excitable audience, armed with flags, badges and clackers that produce a sound so deafening that they almost (some might say mercifully) drown out the performers, he’s not alone in his affection for Eurovision’s glitzy charms.

Originally a modest spoof that began life on the Australian comedy circuit, Eurobeat, created by Craig Christie, Andrew Patterson and the director/producer Glynn Nicholas, has since tickled Edinburgh Fringe audiences and toured Britain. The current West End version is overamplified and about as culturally significant as Dustin the Turkey, but it’s also well-honed, sharp-eyed and slickly performed.

The location is Sarajevo and our perma-grinning, glittery and alarmingly bewigged hosts are Boyka (Mel Giedroyc) and Sergei (Les Dennis). The multilingual Boyka has an unnerving habit of bursting into shrill laughter and flapping her jaw like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

As Sergei, Dennis has peculiarly dead eyes, which may or may not be part of his shtick. Anyway, they make a compellingly bizarre pair, genially supplying interact links scattered with malapropisms and innuendo.

The contestants themselves, though, are the real treat. There’s a trio of clean-cut boys from Poland, who sing a homoerotic ditty with the repeated line, “We can pull through if we pull hard”. There’s a wacky Björk look-and soundalike from Iceland, a foxy Greek Nana Mouskouri-type who flings aside her specs to indulge in some steamy pole dancing, and Germans who gyrate robotically to Kraftwerk-style electronica.

Sweden offers Abba clones, while the UK’s contribution – a leggy lass singing a soppy ballad with a benign punk – brings back queasy memories of former Eurovision horrors Scooch and the off-key Jemini. The opening-night victor was, in classic Eurovision tradition, Ireland, represented by the musical Corr family’s less successful sibling Ronan, delivering a rousing patriotic number worthy of Daniel O’Donnell. It brought tears to the eyes for all sorts of reasons.

This show is entirely pointless, but its OTT energy and shameless silliness are oddly seductive. Forget high culture; this is high camp, and in its own unpretentious way it’s a winner.

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