She starts of with some bog-standard put downs, picking randomly on punters for being bald or having shirts she deems to have come from Primark, even if they’re perfectly ordinary garments. But, of course, it’s just a ruse to assert her authority.

Next comes a celebration of drunken, slaggish young women on the pull, a routine clearly designed to forge a connection with the sort of rowdy crowds certain comedy clubs tend to attract. She is so used to these tough environments, that she dares not venture anything subtle in her act - nothing interesting even – for fear they wouldn’t get it. It may work, but there’s no escaping the fact it’s lowest-common-denominator stuff.

That’s never more so than the bulk of her act which – and there’s no delicate way of putting this – is all about her saggy tits, baggy vagina and the various foodstuffs she likes to shove up there for gratification. If you found that sentence distasteful, imagine the impact of a full routine in that grossly unedifying vein.

It’s blunt, aggressive material, trampling over all sensibilities. But there’s not much wit to this, just filth for filth’s sake, designed purely to shock. And judging by the number of ‘Eeuuughs’ she gets in response, that’s exactly what it does.

But getting a knee-jerk reaction isn’t the same as being funny – which is where the routine falls down. I found it all utterly dull – not because I’m shocked by a woman talking dirty; but because I’m not.

Strip away any outrage, the routine is exposed as being very empty indeed. Filthy can be funny, there are plenty of comics who prove that, but it doesn’t follow that filthy EQUALS funny.

Smith’s been at this game long enough to know her style, though, and this is obviously what she does. There’s no doubt it’s effective late-night crowd control, but inspired stand-up, it ain't.