Hormonal Housewives does exactly what it says on the tin and if you’re ready to embrace your middle age spread and your midlife crisis – then it’s an absolute romp of a hen party kind of a night – a real make ’em laugh, make ’em cry crowd pleaser, like a Chippendales audience 20 years down the line, after the kids and hubbies, but proving girls still want to have fun. The whole evening has a feel of Ann Summers on Ice. And that’s not just the audience.

Slicing the ham thick and tongue placed very firmly in cheek, Scotland’s ultimate game show glamour Carol Smillie gives it everything, but unfortunately all you can think of is that Changing Rooms moment – when she made the woman cry by redecorating her lounge room in the manner of an autistic child with a green crayon. Television gold. But here’s no doubt that the real star of the night is writer and performer Julie Coombe. Hats off to the comedy timing. She’s a lady who knows how to take the joke too far. And with the third answer to Scotland’s Charlie’s Angels, Shonagh Price, the girls make a feisty threesome. It’s all very Sex and the City – if the city was Dundee.

And they do make us laugh, make us cry and make us wee ourselves just a little when we sneeze, an entertaining night in the stalls. But the problem with this show is that it never quite really delivers. It’s like standing on the street as one of those stretch limos drives by. You deep down really want it to be Kylie Minogue, but as ever it turns out to be a bunch of Lambrini drinking, toothless 18 year olds from Falkirk.

There’s some beautifully constructed ideas all accompanied by some real killer lines – “I’m not middle aged” “How, what age are you going to live to?” – and of course the almost mandatory girl’s anthem, Beyonce’s “All the single ladies… put your hands up, up, up…”  – although damn you Glee for stealing our velour track suit ridiculous dancing moment montage.

As the interval wines kick in, it begins to rather lose its momentum and although most of the stalls are now reaching for the Tena ladies, it doesn’t quite get there. It’s like one of those nights that has the promise of being an absolute belter and then goes slightly askew. Beginning with the excited buzz, then the booze wears off, happy hour finishes, your mates don’t show up and you get barred from the club leaving you with that disappointing feeling of not being able to get a taxi and having to walk home with your shoes off in the rain on a Saturday night… and then falling asleep in your chips… but then again why don’t I just lighten up and take the pickle out of my ass? “All the single ladies… put your hands… up, up, up…”