That title needs quite a bit of unpacking; it’s a printable, bowdlerised version of the blasphemous obscenities uttered by possessed child Regan in William Friedkin’s 1973 horror The Exorcist. Ange Lavoipierre repeats several versions of the line as she contemplates a number of potential meanings other than the obvious one. It’s an incredibly obscure musing, to be sure, but it’s in tune with a deliberately weird and spacey show about insomnia, and the odd things that emerge from an overworked mind in the middle of the night.

Lavoipierre just can’t seem to sleep; she introduces herself as she hugs a pillow on-stage in her goonie. She contemplates watching The Exorcist, tries some sleep-hypnosis, 2am comes and goes, thoughts become ragged, and Lavoipierre includes the audiences in a waking nightmare that’s more complex and avant-garde than much Fringe stand-up. Some 281 sound cues suggest considerable stagecraft is involved in capturing the voices in her head.

Lavoipierre creates a show here that may not be the funniest, or the most crowd-pleasing, but certainly pushes a few buttons with ASMR another modern target here. Final meanings and takeaway morals are rather elusive, but even if you haven’t seen the movie in question it doesn’t lessen the hypnotic feel of Lavoipierre’s artfully disturbed ravings. 

Ange Lavoipierre: Your Mother Chucks Rocks And Shells, Underbelly George Square, until 27 August, 4.20pm.