Noel Fielding is your bog-standard weird Brit without the string or toothpick collection. Everyone is puzzled by his first name, since there are clearly two of them in his full name, plain as day.
His mind, if there truly is one, does not work like ours if it works at all. He seems to be a daft punk without actually being Daft Punk. His so-called comedy stylings have sent the likes of Prince Philip into hospital, poor man. We shall eventually see if this Fielding fellow is a space alien, American armadillo or somesuch. Though if he is, the zipper in his human costume is nigh invisible; a tribute to Savile Row tailoring, no doubt. But he is not fooling us. Only Scots and peasants from the West Country are humourous, as anyone can tell you.
The space alien theory is supported by his encounters with Russell Brand, with both ragamuffins needing haircuts, naturally. In any case, when the two are in the same spot, strange things happen. The space-time continuum warps and the English language somehow no longer works as it should. Perhaps a good exorcism is needed to deal with both.