7 May 2015. Sombre and tender he recounts a tale of woes to a handpicked listener but the story fans outward to us who sit in the dark then in the light. The straggling text of online chats are magnified in their littleness as we watch it all scroll down. On stage there are wigs and masks and shoes and pants. They conjure the elusive loved ones. Body parts are fixed and changed and tried; it takes guts to show us how soft it is, how hard it is. His travails cut across the lines of the world. It’s shameful, honest!
Kim Noble drills through walls, he changes his shape, voice, hair, clothes. He goes through bins and shows us shit and rubbish. He sends every emoticon. His yearning is particular and a blur. His home technologies call up humans. He films us awake, he films us asleep, he films the guy across his road. He asks Ian to do up his bra, he asks us to listen, he asks us to Nandos, he asks the computer screen, he joins us at work, he gives us awards, he asks us on dates, he asks. He gathers people to dance with each other on stage at comedy’s end.
Then Kim Noble mounts a white horse, like Don Quixote or the saddest rider of the apocalypse, and goes off stage. A camera follows him. We see him slowly ride away from the Junction. Someone walks alongside him. It is hard to clap because the act has strayed off stage, and whether it was an act feels doubtful. He journeys through the carpark. It’s the end of a storm torn western, the reconciled end of a riven and sorrow filled fable. There’s a man in sad drag on a nag going to Nandos. People are nearby.