WITH smiling eyes and a shamrock grin, Ronan Keating would be forgiven any trespass by his love-woozy audience, many of whom boldly prowl towards the stage only to be ushered back by increasingly infuriated security guards.
The ladies are here as much for Keating's tattooed guns as they are for the music, chosen from his latest album, Fires, and tunes from back in the day when he was a boy with a Zone.
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