Like a female version of Puppetry Of The Penis, fellow Aussies Emma Powell and Bev Killick strode upon the stage with a single joke in their arsenal – one long, ribald riff about those most glorious of appendages: breasts.

Big ones, little ones, perky ones, droopy ones: they were all fair game, as the enthusiastic crowd would attest. Interestingly, given the subject matter, the show was not remotely salacious. Sex was only referred to in frank and funny terms.

This was a night out most men would steer clear of, despite the promise of two topless actresses on stage for most of the two-hour performance. The few brave souls that did venture to the theatre on Monday, no doubt under duress or in a form of subterfuge, proved to be game old boys – as the audience participation segments proved.

Highlights included a Salt-n-Pepa-inspired You Can’t Touch This, and Powell’s paean to her long-lost perky double Cs, The Way They Used To Be. Then there was Killick’s ode to Cats, complete with strategically cut-out leotard, like Dawn French’s fat ballerina, but topless (now there’s a thought!).

Opinions were divided on the show: my friend loved it and said it captured some little reported truths about the reality of womanhood. Another lady said she toyed with leaving at the interval, but stayed out of morbid sense of curiosity. But by the end, even she was laughing, also swept up in the bonkers, strangely empowering silliness of it all.

Review by Catherine Marcus