Still relatively new on the circuit, Rachel Anderson combines an innate Geordie charm with increasingly assured writing.

She immediately gives the lie to her initial butter-wouldn’t-melt sweetness with a scathingly vicious gag about Jordan’s son Harvey that’s cruel, but not quiet in the way that you expect it to be.

She sometimes falls into the trap of going for the crude but artless lines, but there are encouraging signs she’s beginning to write herself out of such easy routines as the lewd doctor’s examination.

For evidence that she’s capable of adding some depth to the depravity, look no further than the sweet-natured ballad, powerfully delivered and accompanied by an unusual folk instrument called the autoharp, that describes exactly what filthy things she’ll do because her self-esteem is rock-bottom.

Yes, it might be nothing more than a more elegant update of the Pythons’ Sit On My Face from a female perspective, but there’s maturity with the muck.