In neither instance, one senses, does Perkins let truth get in the way of a lively comic yarn. And she certainly tells them well, embroidering each with lurid details of her own ineptitude. See for example the bilious tale, all sobs and dry heaves, of a drug-addled trip for telly to a South American shaman. That skit is not alone in parlaying Perkins’ public life into comedy: another fine Dave Gorman-esque routine, about a story she wrote for a celebrity anthology, obsesses over the statistical likelihood of “being bummed by a Dyson”.