Nobody died. There were no mini Belfast riots to deepen the legend of previous Ikea spectaculars, such as the three bargain hunters crushed to death in a stampede for $150 vouchers in Saudi Arabia in 2001, or the five injured in a north London frenzy in 2005.
Cool Belfast failed to rise even to a mini traffic jam.
After weeks of doom-laden predictions on the talk shows, miles of police cones on the Holywood-Belfast dual-carriageway to deter hysterics tempted to abandon cars mid-carriageway, scores of CCTV cameras, 20 PSNI officers on Ikea traffic duty and a helicopter overhead to quell rampaging flat-pack fiends, we considered packing flak jackets, tents and three-day rations.
Come 8am, two hours before opening, what we got was an unnaturally orderly and cheerful queue of about 60 being entertained by jugglers and stilt-walkers.
Second in the queue were a couple from Ashford, Co Wicklow, Paul and Leona Fleming, who had borrowed a van and parked at 2am before getting a few hours' sleep. Mad, right?
"Yeah, but it was all about missing the traffic," said Paul happily.
The Flemings are Ikea veterans - Bordeaux (curtains), Warrington and Glasgow (the kids' rooms), Belfast (the family room): predicted outlay this time about £1,500 to £2,000.
Kathleen Coulter and her daughter, Kerry Fairless, from Carrickfergus, Co Antrim, knew the kitchen they wanted to buy.
It cost them £3,000, including appliances and "solid wood worktop". This was £5,000 to £7,000 less than Ikea's rivals and "with a 25-year guarantee", they said with the certainty of thorough researchers.
The claimed Kathleen's 60-year-old, birthday-boy husband was "itching" to get going at the kitchen with his screwdriver.
Just after 9am, the Chuckle Brothers, ie the Rev Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness, arrived in high good humour and immediately set off an alarm somewhere.
"Shopping brings people together," said the reverend, prompting some of us to wonder why that strategy failed to feature circa 1971.
"This store is going to make it easier for a Ballymena man to buy cheap," he chuckled, allowing mischievous Martin a few seconds to hope that "all the people from Cork and Galway will come here", upon which they collapsed, grinning, into a red sofa, with a reassuring label: "Durable, easy-case leather, practical for families with children."
Then came the surreal bit. A few minutes before 10am, a great cacophony inside the lobby area signalled that a full-scale pep rally was in progress for the 400-strong staff. They lined the lobby, the stairs and the balconies, chanting, cheering and clapping their pep-talking manager, before starting a feverish countdown, then launching Mexican waves and fistfuls of Ikea "confetti" on the first couple in the queue being escorted through the door.
"You'd nearly get married here," said an awed photographer as the happy couple sailed through the cheering crowd with a big bouquet of (Ikea-themed) flowers, while a jazz band belted out the classics, followed by a fabulous assortment of folks in what they fancied were Swedish fancy dress.
There were special prizes for Swedish-themed costumes and a £10 voucher for birthday people.
And as the river of happy humans flowed on, still the staff cheered and clapped and flung confetti. Male shoppers tended to roll their eyes in mock embarrassment, but the atmosphere never veered beyond calm, good humour.
By 11am, some 2,500 people had come through the doors, and already the impossibly small flatpack containing the bargain dining table and four chairs that had lured many of the early birds (down from £90 to £29) was snugly sitting in a fleet of trolleys.
Upstairs in the sparkling restaurant overlooking the iconic Harland & Wolff cranes, the Black Mountain and city airport, a Polish couple, Peter and Gabriela Kocwin, were wheeling their table and chairs up to a virtually empty food counter. They're expecting six relatives and a small child from Poland for Christmas, and Ikea hasn't arrived a moment too soon.
Another couple heated their baby's bottle at the fantastically well-equipped baby station.
Then, in that pure Swedish ambiance, everyone got stuck into an Ulster fry (all of £1.32, for the record).