Nicola Brown, 53, is a clinical psychologist. Like any middle-class, middle-aged human, I have experience of this species. Nevertheless, the extremely subtle manipulation of my awareness takes me by surprise, in this stand-up comedy show.

Yes, she is standing up, and yes, she is very funny. But make no mistake, this is therapy – social therapy.

We are lulled into a funny story, told by our sister (OK, aunty, for anyone younger than Gen-X). Brown’s style is conversational in delivery and volume. This is not observational comedy and the laughs (prodigious as they are) are not the point. The punchlines are conveyed with a twinkle rather than a dramatic pause. As James Mustapic has noted, the timing is dead-on. But the half-smile and the Kiwi conviviality draws you in. You are an intimate, a member of the family – some genuine members of which are in the audience on opening night.

The scripting and pace of this well-rehearsed piece is more carefully written than an academic paper. (According to SCISPACE Brown has not co-authored any academic papers, but what the fuck does an GenAI know?) We have exposition, but not too much. The meat of the story is conveyed with the support of crocheted props (or “crotch-eated”, if you are an AI voiceover – as Brown demonstrates) which are distributed among the audience for touch/feel engagement.

Direct engagement is a feature of Brown’s delivery – adding to the intimacy. As the only audience member in the front row, I get more than my share of attention, even winning a prize (please note, future productions: I am entirely corrupt). I look forward to sculpting my taramasalata prize into a perfect vulva – as per Brown’s slideshow examples – to win her affection as the teacher’s pet.

It was my experience in inserting pessaries (into sheep, as it happens) that gained me my prize. Pessaries are Brown’s key tangible communicator of the physical and mental agony that is pelvic organ prolapse. You’ve never heard of it, right? If you have, you should still go and see this show. Because Brown is spreading the word, not just the taramasalata. And she is doing it with grace, skill and, most essentially, authenticity.

Brown’s bravery, subsumed as it is beneath gentle, southern Kiwi self-effacement, is the backbone of this piece. It elevates the message from the comedy, while the delivery makes it alright. It is OK to feel sad in this comedy show. Aunty is OK. She is just teaching us about something we need to know, so we can be more understanding and supportive. So we can be more loving to each other.

How many comedy shows deliver that message these days?

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The heart of Dunedin’s performing arts scene, the New Athenaeum Theatre, is packed tonight as Nicola Brown’s debut Fringe performance, Space Invaders, is sold out. In the foyer hangs a poster of Nicola dressed as an astronaut, fitting attire for a performance that is out-of-this-world funny.

Nicola Brown demonstrates masterful skill as a comedian. Beginning with relatable anecdotes, she quickly establishes and strengthens a connection with the audience. As her show progresses, this connection becomes the foundation for sharing a message close to her heart (though anatomically closer to her uterus).

The first half of her show covers Brown’s adventures as a mother, wife, and clinical psychologist; mixed with perceptive jokes about horoscopes, online scammers, and lesbian fashion stereotypes. While her own dress sense is sharp, her wit is sharper. Not only is she very funny, but her show is chock-full of internal allusions, a hallmark of a well-written piece.

The second half of her show covers Brown’s medical misadventures. She speaks from the heart about a serious health condition that has plagued her, causing significant distress over the past several years. While educational and poignant, it is no less entertaining than the first half, as Brown punctuates the tense moments with perfectly placed jokes.

Her condition, “Pelvic Organ Prolapse”, which was previously unknown to me, is a shockingly common issue, really emphasizing the need for educational reform for both the general public and the countless medical “experts” who took years to diagnose her. 

Brown’s show is on par with her contemporaries like Hannah Gadsby and Pax Assadi, carefully combining comedy with social advocacy. Brown uses her platform to challenge the gender bias in healthcare, using her sharp wit to cut a satirical-shaped hole in the medical patriarchy.

A truly unforgettable show at the Fringe, proving once again that comedy can be profoundly funny and profoundly significant. It is easy to recommend a show with both heart and humour.

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