Vagina. Vuh-ji-nuh. ‘However many times you say it, it never sounds how you want it to.’ Without launching into high-brow feminist polemic, Zoe Patkanas had captured the maelstrom of negative feelings that surround female genitalia. The Vagina Monologues speaks to you conversationally, which is appropriate considering it is modelled on real women’s testimonies, ranging from a dominatrix to a 71-year-old. Though by no means comprehensive, a good chunk of the female spectrum is represented here, and the effect is incredibly moving.

Eve Ensler’s 1996 sensation has been brought (at long last, some might say) to the Cambridge stage, and caused just as much of a ruckus as it did two decades ago: rumours of Tuesday’s Vagina Party spread like wildfire along the Cambridge grapevine, causing a last-minute scrabble for a sell-out first night. Though the odd giggle escaped from the crowd at the sight of the huge vagina backdrop made entirely out of knickers (snaps for you, Rosie Skan), the audience quickly laid aside their discomfort, and even the most graphic scenes passed without a titter. The show, it seemed, matured its audience.

Though the quality of acting (not to mention the bravery of touching yourself in front a theatre full of people) was outstanding, two performers merit special mention: Temi Wilkey, and Ellen Robertson. Wilkey made up one half of the show’s compering duo (the other half given admirably by Zoe Patkanas), but definitely more than two thirds of its attitude. Her feistiness in descrying the ordeals undergone by women’s vaginas (tampons being a particular pet hate) trod a tightrope between indignant and farcical, serious and silly.

Indeed, the show’s greatest strength was its being so well-balanced, striking a serious chord just at the point when the laughter began to hurt. The impact of figures about rape as a weapon of war and female genital mutilation was exponentially greater for their catching us unawares, laughter abruptly interrupted by stunned silence.

Director Lauren Steele used her theatrical medium far more savvily here than in her previous attempt to raise awareness about rape, Did You Say No Though?, which, though far more earnest in tone, left its audience lukewarm. Clearly Steele has come on in leaps and bounds since her directorial (and authorial) debut, learning the bizarre but nevertheless important lesson that sometimes, in order to make people think, you first have to make them laugh.

The Vagina Monologues delivered triumphant feminist rhetoric but with none of the ham-fistedness which might have caused its audience to tune out. No, the audience were very much tuned in, and the curtain call was met with a tidal wave of whoops and applause, one which soon swelled into a standing ovation. Disregarding how incredibly unprofessional I looked standing there clapping zealously, notebook in hand and pen in mouth, I stood: this was the most electrifying, empowering show Cambridge has seen for a long time, and celebrations were in order.