Imagine an over-stimulated child on his birthday - in such an excited state and fuelled by E-numbers he is constantly torn between exploding with joy and peeing himself.

That's Ross Noble, that is. Like a comedy iPod set to shuffle, he's as random as they come.

Sauntering on stage dressed like a White Stripe in negative and flanked by a set that can only be described as looking a bit like giant inflatable orange sperm, the Geordie seemingly had two jokes prepared, one for the first half, one for the second.

Oh, and a spare one for the encore.

Taking noodling to new heights, he is a master of comedic jamming.

Making increasingly bizarre observations, tangential subject changes and free-form streams of consciousness, stringing them out and bringing them back together in a dizzyingly clever denouement, Noble proves he's more than just some slightly odd-looking fella who is talking rubbish for nearly three hours.

Enveloping the audience in a world where kicking a penguin in the face is a valid pastime and the pope is a Road Runner-style immortal, he appeared to weave a show out of thin air, unprepared and unfazed.

At times indulging his randomist fantasies a little too much, Noble is nevertheless a stand-up master and an improv god at the top of his game.