Bury St. Edmonds.


If you think Noel Edmonds’ shirts are bad, just imagine his wallpaper.


It doesn’t really bear thinking about. I mean, think about it. Entering his house must be an attack on the senses (like being surrounded by a wall-to-wall colour-blindness test).

You’d be at an instant disadvantage. This is Noel’s home turf; he's adjusted to the sensory overload long ago, while you’re gazing into virgin territory.

He’d also be perfectly camouflaged. It’d be hard to tell where the wall ends and his shirt begins. It would be like being plunged in total darkness, while he stalked you in infra-red goggles: if it wasn’t for the high-waisted jeans, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

(I think I’ve confused him with a lion. It's probably because of the beard.)

If you look beyond Noel Edmonds’ shirt rather than directly at it, you’ll see a three-dimensional dolphin.

(No-one has ever said that before, so well done me.)

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