Thousands of screaming One Directioners - and mum

Absolutely no standing and no singing — how Barbara Scully fared as a chaperone mum at One Direction.

I spent Saturday in the company of feminists at the Markievicz School in Liberty Hall, Dublin, where we talked about ‘young women and feminism’.

I also spent Sunday in the company of young women. There wasn’t much discussion — but there was a lot of screaming.

A year ago, my darling youngest daughters had pleaded with me to get them tickets to see the boy band, One Direction, who would be playing in Dublin’s Croke Park. I didn’t need much convincing, as I quite like One Direction. They seem like a nice bunch of lads and their music is harmless. However, it did take most of a morning and a bucket load of stress to secure the precious tickets. Then, as is the manner of such things, we all forgot about it, until the hoopla began as the band embarked on their ‘Where We Are’ tour in South America last month.

A year makes a huge difference when you are a teenager, and I could tell my 15-year-old was conflicted. I knew she felt that she had outgrown the boy-band thing, unlike her 13-year-old sister, who was wildly excited.

They were each bringing a friend and I was the spare wheel and ‘accompanying adult’. As the date grew closer, the 15-year-old embarked on a campaign to assure me that I was surplus to requirements.

“Mom, I am near 16 (she isn’t), so I can be the accompanying adult,” she said.

“No dice,” I said. “Rules is rules. I am going too.” Of course, I couldn’t resist adding, “I like One Direction, especially Harry.” This was met with groans of “oh gawd Mom, you are sooooo

Finally, sensing she was fighting a losing battle, the 15-year-old resigned herself to her fate, but issued me with strict instructions: under no circumstances was I to get out of my seat; I was to remain sitting and I was not to sing. She also drew up a seating plan, which put me at one end of our merry little row, beside my youngest (the 13-year-old), the friends in the middle, and herself at the other end.

I reckon she thought she could let on she wasn’t with me if I got over-excited.

The support act was a band called Five Seconds of Summer, an Australian One Direction, but with instruments and an edgier sound.

By the time they were rocking the stadium, the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing to a soft blue. From beyond the stage, an occasional aircraft made a silent, slow-motion climb out of Dublin Airport, oblivious to the mounting excitement below.

All around me were girls — of every age, but mostly under 16. There were some boys and a few dads, but they were in a massive minority.

After watching music videos, which had been playing on a loop, the big screens went blank and ‘The Macarena’ came belting out of the speakers as the huge stadium came alive to tens of thousands of girls doing... well, doing the Macarena. It was like a teenybopper version of a Mexican wave. It was then I realised I wasn’t so much at a concert as at a massive party.

The screaming reached heights I wouldn’t have thought possible as the mini ‘mna na hEireann’ lost it when One Direction finally arrived on stage. Fireworks shot into the sky and the party at Croker reached a whole new level.

And it was a level that was maintained for the next two hours, as the band and their fans indulged each other in a massive mutual love-in.

“Thank you for having us, Dublin. Thank you, you lovely, lovely Irish people,” said Harry and his sentiments were echoed, in turn, by each of the band — except for Zayn, who, my girls told me, is very shy.

The adoring fans sang every word, of every song, back to the boys on stage. As the light drained from the sky, the words of ‘You and I’ echoed around the stadium, which sparkled with the light from thousands of smartphones: “We can make it till the end, nothing can come between you and I.” And so it seemed. From listening to the thoughtful wisdom of Bernadette Devlin McAliskey on Saturday, to singing along with tens of thousands of deliriously teenage girls, on Sunday — it was the best of weekends. And, yes, I did dance to the ‘Best Song Ever’. And my 15-year-old had long forgotten to be embarrassed.