WITH her teapot handled onto thrust hip, Sophie Cameron (pictured) is a dribblesome vessel indeed. Big baby blues and blonde barnet lure in the posh boys and raise a twitch in their pink cords. She then delights as a torrent of class hatred and expletives lady jizz all over their proprieties.

She likes a dirty joke. I have little time for those that don’t. She’s well aware that the difference between vulgarity and sexism is that one is something we all share, the other is about power. She’s easily the filthiest performer going. Better yet, not because of her ribaldry — that’d be too easy — but because of the imagery she rams home.

“I grew up with humour,” she tells me over a dirty martini. “Most working-class people use humour to get through difficult times. A lot of people don’t take me seriously, they focus on the swearing and don’t actually listen. Many mighty women like Sofie Hagen are passed by not only because of what they say but how they say it.”