Johanne Hauge's An Unauthorised Autobiography found its power by exploding the rules constraining female behaviour and lived experience, creating something nasty, compelling, a little directionless: like watching a multiway drunken brawl from a night bus window. At a table, she translates as her mother describes over Skype exactly how she used to do make-up in the 80s, loading her eyelids with bright blue. She’s in childhood land, remembering the surreal insults that stuck with her at school. Stepping out into the audience, she’s a force to be reckoned with. She makes audience members suckle red wine from her booze-filled pregnancy bump, in a gross riff on motherly love.