With the help of karmic breathing exercises, Valium and copious amount of chloroform I am now finally able to resist the traditional overpowering urge to launch my foot into the TV screen whenever Ross Noble appears and follow through with an uppercut of Street Fighter proportions.
Because it isn’t him, it’s me. I am the problem.
I totally get and accept that.
He’s a nice bloke. He’s an ordinary bloke made good and it’s great that he’s made a name for himself. And everyone says what a nice chap he is. And a lot of people find him funny and warm and just nicely hilarious and off-the-wall without being offensive.
But his style of delivery winds me up something chronic and after just 30 seconds of one of his crazy Geordie monologues I have bitten my own teeth down to the gums and am chewing on my own tongue in frustration that I cannot do violence unto the true object of my wrath.
As I said, it’s not Ross’s fault. It’s nothing he’s done. It’s a genetico-biologico-social thing to do with me. He just doesn’t tick any of my comedy boxes whilst ticking all of my irritability boxes.
He makes me go grrrr!
There, I’ve said it.
Sorry Ross, I don’t find you funny. I’m sure you couldn’t give a hoot ‘cos lots of other people plainly do.
But your DVD did make me laugh out loud the other day...
...though not for any reason you can take credit for.
I’m assuming that the mystery shop assistant who applied the price tag and I are of a like mind.