Rob Rouse - Funny Bones
Rouse is a comedian that turns hit and miss into an art form
Arguably the most impressive thing about Rob Rouse's show was how many of the good people of Norwich were prepared to take a punt on his show, previously unseen. Only a handful of hands went up when he asked who'd previously had the privilege of an audience with him (my words, not his). He seemed genuinely touched that so many folk - Stage 2 was packed - were willing to spend the evening with him without foreknowledge. The venue - surely Norwich's hidden gem - continually programs the provocative and intriguing. It would appear I'm not the only one concluding that if something is on at Stage 2 it's probably worth a shot.
Not that the audience's spirit of adventure was necessarily rewarded, as Rouse kicked off the show with a song and (sort of) dance routine that implored us to lower our expectations. On and on it went, with Rouse getting increasingly and visibly exhausted, while the lyrics on screen invited the audience to join in. In hindsight, the song set the template for the evening, as it explicitly advised that it was going to test our patience. Whether discussing his disastrous prostate examination or promoting his revolutionary bifocal glasses, Rouse tended to take an idea and then run with it to the point of exhaustion. Throughout, I found myself teetering on the edge of boredom, only then to burst into uncontrolled laughter I can't recall experiencing in a very long time. Whether this was a result of a finely crafted comedic arc, or hysteria having been taken to breaking point, I'm still trying to work out, but it made for an evening without parallel.
Which is not to say Rouse is averse to a bit of amiable chatter, drawing from Nurse Rebecca, the most surprising objects found up her patients' bottoms - ornaments and plant pots if you're wondering, while Ian only turned up because Matthew Bourne’s Red Shoes in the main theatre was, he determined without seeing it, boring ballet. Was this a man easily distracted from his scripted routine, or were distractions part of the deal? Judging by the time the show overran - an astonishing 45 minutes - it's the former, but it's hard to imagine him launching from one disconnected set piece to another. His chaotic deconstruction of Zoom calls, complete with a thumb-based intervention, was funny but not nearly as funny as Darren's bottle blowing exposition or the various hecklers from an unusually boisterous crowd.
"You don't really need me," said Rouse plaintively, as a wag from the audience earned one of the biggest laughs of the night.
The very biggest laughs, however, came from Rouse's touching eulogy to his deceased rescue dog Ron. With him for fifteen years, and guilty of monstrous behaviour throughout, Ron was clearly and deeply loved. As one horrific anecdote was piled on top of the last, the inexplicable devotion to a pet that was objectively nothing but trouble, was laid bare. Coupled with similar stories from the audience this was the highpoint of a singularly uneven but consistently involving night of ramshackle routines, discordant observations and occasional misfires.
For me, one such misfire was his closing song, accompanied by illustrative film. Perhaps I was just getting twitchy as time was marching on, but a song about Martin's huge penis felt out of place after his touching tribute to his dog. In fairness, Martin turned out to be a pony, and I guess Rouse felt the need to double down on his signature silliness. Was it fair of me to expect the various strands of the show to be elegantly drawn together? Should I have been surprised that we closed on an ill-advised dick joke? After all, I had been warned at the outset I should lower my expectations.
What I didn't expect was to laugh so hard for so long, and often in the most unexpected places. Rouse is a comedian that turns hit and miss into an art form
