Ross Noble Jibber Jabber Jamboree
Dispensing with the notion of a support act, we collectively jumped into the deep end, as he homed in on the brave souls on the front row. It's not unusual for a comic to break the ice with a bit of a chat with the audience before launching into the act, but it quickly became apparent this was the act. At times, he seemed less like a slick comic, and more like the funniest mate down the pub.
Theatre Royal
When watching a stand up perform, there's an unspoken contract we enter into with the comic. The performance works best when we indulge the conceit that they are making it all up on the fly, witticisms spilling forth unbidden from a febrile mind rather than toiled over and worked on for months before you get to hear them. Read Stewart Lee's How I Escaped My Certain Fate to see how he forensically dissects his own act, revealing just how few of those inspired bon mots are unplanned. The man himself is coming to town in a fortnight, but last night was all about Ross Noble, who has gained a reputation for carving out a niche at the other end of the spectrum. In short, almost uniquely, he really does make it up as he goes along. Whether that reputation is deserved is a moot point, but there was nothing spontaneous about the splendid stage set that confronted his audience when they took to their seats.
Huge monkey heads with protruding growths covered the stage - looking as if they were honed from rock and shrouded in mist. A pity, I thought, that they hadn't kept the curtains closed and thereby kept them a surprise. In fairness, when Noble made his entrance there were surprises aplenty, and one I'm keen to avoid spoiling, should you be toying with going later on in the tour. Let's just say the theatre blossomed and leave it at that. It was the brilliant, barmy pointlessness of this extravagance that was so impressive. No reference to it was made, and no need for it was forthcoming. On the contrary, the only prop - the all inclusive buffet - was imaginary. One can only rejoice at a production manager's horror at the compromised bottom line for a show that is essentially a bloke talking at you for a couple of hours. And, my word, he does like to talk.
Dispensing with the notion of a support act, we collectively jumped into the deep end, as he homed in on the brave souls on the front row. It's not unusual for a comic to break the ice with a bit of a chat with the audience before launching into the act, but it quickly became apparent this was the act. What sets Noble apart is that he seems genuinely interested in what folk have to say, rather than using them as a sounding board for well-rehearsed quips. After trying out a bit on nonsense with a person that leaned over at just the wrong time - mirrors on their shoes was the gist of it - he alighted upon the comedy gold of Jessica, and that's when the fun really started.
Reviewing comedy can be tricky - how do you explain what happened without spoiling the gags for those joining the party later in the run? Well, unless Jessica is going on tour with him, she presents no such dilemma. Having been caught yawning, he drew out from her the explanation that she'd been drinking in celebration of her new teeth, having lost the originals, as a result of being headbutted by a child while teaching in Japan. The gift that kept on giving, if you're reading this, Jessica, you made the night. While the anecdote was hers, it was his warmth and empathy that drew it from her. Bolstered by a ready wit that would give Lee Mack a run for his money, it was the best, but not the only, opportunity to showcase how Noble can take an idea and run with it.
Despite rumours to the contrary, some of what we heard was obviously prepared. The stuff about the King's prostate worked well enough, as did the trials and tribulations suffered by his wife. He's a surprisingly good mimic, cheerfully lampoon's his fellow comedians, and call backs along the way - no, I have not been diagnosed with ADHD - added to the fun. Less successful were the tentative forays into gender politics. It would take a special kind of dunderhead to be genuinely offended by his Guess Who routine but you had to wonder why he bothered with something that simply wasn't that funny.
I get the impression he's got a stockpile of routines in reserve, but will happily dispense with any or all of them if a flight of fancy takes him elsewhere. Sound tactics, in my view, as all the biggest laughs sprang out of his interaction with the crowd. Even when we weren't laughing, we were thoroughly engaged, not least when he chatted about his time in Afghanistan, in a Q&A encore, entertaining the troops. More than ever, he seemed less like a slick comic, and more like the funniest mate down the pub. The one with all the best stories, some of which might actually be true.
