I’d wager I love Handel opera significantly more than the next man; but when I was buttered up (not by the next man, I hasten to add) to see ENO’s new production of the rarely-performed Partenope, it was on the understanding that it was a comedy. Well, it is a comedy. It’s just that ENO do all Handel operas as comedy, so sometimes it’s hard to tell.

Partenope having little in the way of narrative complexity (again, par for the course: think Gosford Park without the murder or the servants) there is little need for recit and plenty of time for aria after champagne aria. From start to finish this is music to which there is every danger you might actually get up and dance . . . if you were absolutely convinced no-one was watching, obviously. (Perhaps you think this sounds rather unchallenging: by all means try sitting through ROH’s La Calisto, instead.) Eurimene-who’s-actually-Rosmira (and played by Patricia Bardon) comes, disguised as a man, to retrieve her erstwhile lover, Arsace (a man, yes, but played by Christine Rice). Both women — no wait, men . . . what?! — sport moustaches. But then so does the nervous weakling Armindo and he is a man. Well, a counter-tenor, anyway.

The three of them (plus Emilio, a rival, clean shaven) proceed to compete for Partenope’s love. If only for simplicity’s sake, Partenope is a woman. One hundred per cent.

The whole thing is absurd, and totally gripping. Generally, one doesn’t much care what happens to any of the characters, especially in a comic opera; but I wanted, at the very least, to know which girl would get which other girl.

The production is beautiful, too. There’s simply no weak link. The singing is flawless, without exception, in yet another sparkling translation by Amanda Holden; Christopher Alden’s direction is feisty and engrossing; and Andrew Lieberman’s reversible art deco set comes complete with plumbed-in toilet.

Jon Morrell’s costume dept. evidently enjoyed mischievously cross-(cross-)dressing the cast in modish 1930s couture (colour-coded, thankfully) and raiding the Freddie Mercury ‘tache box for the women-disguised-as-men-kissing-women-who-are-playing-men and women-who-are- actually-women-kissing-men-who-are-actually-countertenors-all-running-round- threatening-to-“expose”-one-another scenes.

Comic honours are split between Iestyn Davies’s Woody-Allen-ish turn as Armindo, and Emilio (John Mark Ainsley) who sings his “wretched lover” aria from the booming acoustic of the loo (who hasn’t?), before outing Rosmira, tabloid-style, by pinning up a 15ft collage of her womble-noses.

Rosemary Joshua couldn’t be better suited to the role of Partenope, vocally or aesthetically. Her alternating bursts of sublime delicacy and sexy vigour are matched only by her ability to be equally delectable in white tie or a backless dress (and don’t even get me started on the trousers!). It is the single most believable element in the entire three hours that every other character wants her for a lover.

The whole is underpinned by a full, often-boisterous orchestra, under Christian Curmyn. I liked it — you want your champagne to have some body, don’t you? — but, for the record, my date grumbled that they were too loud. Still, that’s only because she was busy drooling over the counter-tenor. Disgusting and shameful.

London Coliseum, until November 2. Tickets: £10-£76. Tel: 0871 911 0200 (www.eno.org)