Tall Tales and Wee Stories Read online

  About the Author

  Sir William Connolly, CBE is a much-loved Scottish comedian, musician, presenter and actor. He is the recipient of a BAFTA Lifetime Achievement Award and is regularly voted the nation’s favourite stand-up comedian. Billy was born and raised in Glasgow and now lives in America. He announced his retirement from live performance in December 2018.

  Billy

  Connolly

  TALL TALES

  and wee stories

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Two Roads

  An imprint of John Murray Press

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Billy Connolly 2019

  The right of Billy Connolly to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover image: Jaimie Gramston © Hodder & Stoughton, 2019

  Illustrations © Billy Connolly, courtesy of Castle Fine Art

  www.castlefineart.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 529 36135 3

  John Murray (Publishers)

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  1. Childhood & Family

  2. Scotland & Beyond

  3. Real Characters

  4. Accidents & Adventures

  5. Sex, Drugs & Folk Music

  6. A Life Worth Living

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  ‘I’ve got a lot to say. And sometimes it comes out in the wrong order. Please don’t worry about this. I personally couldn’t give a fuck. So don’t let it get you down. There’s a bit of profanity. But I like that. And I’m rather good at it, too.’

  I’ve always loved telling stories. It’s the most natural thing in the world for me. When I was a musician and folk singer, I would chat to the audience between songs. I wouldn’t tell jokes, as such, I told wee stories.

  Once, in the early days, when I’d forgotten the lyrics to an old Jimmy Driftwood song, I stopped singing and started riffing on the story of the song to cover my arse. The audience loved it. They laughed and cheered when I’d finished and I thought to myself, oh, this is interesting!

  So, I was a storyteller long before I was a comedian. It was something I learned at school and later in the army, but most of all from my time as a welder in the shipyards on the Clyde. When we stopped work for a cup of tea, and the heavy machinery fell silent, the stories always flowed. They could be rough, rude, cruel even, but they were always funny. And there were some brilliantly funny men there, much funnier than me, real patter merchants who could’ve made a life out of comedy. But I guess I had a banjo and that gave me a ticket out.

  Being a comedian has always been a bit of a mystery to me, because I actually very rarely get funny ideas away from the stage. I can’t churn out jokes like some people can. I wouldn’t know how. But I can always tell stories. And the comedy seems to emerge out of the stories as I tell them.

  As you’re about to see, my stories usually don’t come in a conventional shape. They’re kind of lumpy and strange. They might appear to have a beginning, middle and end, but often they don’t – it’s an illusion. They’re a merry-go-round of memories, observations, fantasies and ad-libs that somehow fit together and mean something. That’s the way I like it because that way they’re as imperfect as I am. They’re not story-shaped; they’re me-shaped.

  The thought of going out on stage scares the life out of me. It always has. I’m riddled with anxiety and self-doubt every time. What the fuck am I going to say to these people?

  But the nerves are good for me, they force me to work harder. And if I didn’t – if I got complacent – then it could fall flat and I’d make an arse of myself. But when it’s good, there’s no better feeling. I love it when I pick up on a ripple of laughter. I try to build on that, to try something new. And I love the sense of trust that comes with that: an audience who are willing to stick with me wherever my story goes.

  I don’t really ‘prepare’ as such. There’s no special technique and I’ve never done homework. I never write anything down. All I have when I step out on stage is a wee list of headings like this:

  Parachutists

  Alcohol

  Marijuana

  Army

  Scrotum

  Holiday

  Cameras

  Shampoo

  And every time I take a step back for a sip of water, I’ll glance at the list on my wee table and see two or three things, and then I’ll go on to talk about them. And sometimes they’ll come out jumbled up in a very weird and unexpected order, and that creates something new that’s as surprising to me as it is to you.

  I will give you an example. I might have a story about parachuting. And maybe the previous night, halfway through, that led me unexpectedly into talking about, say, welding. Then the next night I might start by talking about welding, and see where that leads me. Then, on a whim, I might stick something new in the middle of that, and see how that affects the next thing. That is the way I operate. I get lost and see where it leads me.

  I love losing my way. I love getting lost in cities and small towns and all kinds of places, wandering off down long and winding streets and wee lanes and exploring the area, turning corners and seeing what’s there. And I love getting lost in my stories for the same reason. It’s how I discover things, how I learn things, how I imagine things. It keeps things fresh and it keeps them funny and it keeps me amused.

  I must admit that I didn’t always feel this way. There was a point in the past when I thought that maybe I was mentally ill, and so I went and asked some Buddhists – in Lockerbie, of all places – about all this stuff going round and round in my head in such a rapid and chaotic way. And they just said, ‘Enjoy it. Sit back and enjoy it. Watch it like a train going past.’ So that’s what I now do. And that’s what I recommend that you do, too.

  Sometimes I’ll drift away. You mustn’t worry about this. And sometimes I won’t drift back. Don’t worry about that, either. Just enjoy where the ride takes you. I always do. Once a guy yelled out at the end of my show: ‘Billy! What happened to the guy in the toilet?’ And I said: ‘Right enough – I forgot about him. Tell you what, though – if you come to Manchester tomorrow night I’ll finish the story there!’ But the next night I got to the end of the show and I heard this desperate wee voice: ‘Billy! You promised … what happened to the guy in the toilet?’

  By the way: apart from all the stories about people and places I’ve known and things that I’ve seen and experienced and thought about, you’ll also see a lot about bodily functions: pissing and shitting and vomiting and belching and farting and all of that kind of stuff; and maybe some of you will wonder why it’s there. It’s there because it’s natural rather than fabricated, and it genuinely makes me laugh. I love the vulnerability of it. Sex, sitting on the toilet, needing to pee, trying not to fart, being sick, suffering from haemorrhoids or an itchy bum in a crowded room – when your trousers are down, you’re vulnerable. When you’re vulnerable you’re funny.

  You’ll also notice that there’s an awful lo
t of swearing in the pages that follow. I don’t apologise for that. It’s not ‘bad language’, it’s ordinary language. I don’t understand the snobbishness about swearing. I grew up swearing. Everybody around me swore. It’s part of our culture. It can be poetic, it can be violent, and it can be very funny. It’s the rhythm of how we speak, and the colour of how we communicate – at least when we’re being honest and open and raw. So, if you’re likely to be offended by the swearing, you may as well fuck off now.

  But I hope the rest of you will enjoy reading what’s here. I’ve been asked many times to put my stories down in a book and I’ve always refused. It didn’t seem right because as long as I was still performing live then I was still playing around with my stories – pulling them apart, twisting them around, improvising and improving. But in December of last year I decided to retire from live stand-up. I’m not as young as I was and standing on stage for two hours or more had finally become too much.

  So, this feels like the right moment to put these stories down, once and for all. I’m glad what I said up on stage is now captured on the page. You’ll hear my voice in your head while you’re reading. And if you miss seeing my drunk walks or wildebeest mimes – it’s your turn now. Get together with your pals and try them yourselves for a laugh.

  Books have always meant a great deal to me. When I was young, people used to have all kinds of advice as to how the working class could free themselves from factory life and all of that frustration, but for me the true secret tunnel, the hidden escape route, was in the library, reading books. I used to buy as many of them as I could from Oxfam when I was skint as a teenager. I even had a spell as a messenger boy for a bookshop – John Smith’s in Glasgow – and in between delivering books to readers all over the city, I used to sit out the back and read a pile of them for myself. It was magical. A book, it’s nice and quiet and very civilised. Yes, you can scribble a comment in the margins if you must: ‘My thoughts exactly!’ but no one else will see it. It’s a purely private matter.

  So it’s very nice to think that now you have my own book here in your hands. It’s always been a pleasure talking to you. I hope now it’ll be a pleasure reading me.

  Billy Connolly, June 2019

  1.

  Childhood & Family

  ‘I was brought up as a Catholic. I’ve got A-level guilt.’

  ANDERSTON, GLASGOW

  Believe it or not, I usually don’t enjoy performing in Glasgow very much. It’s because it’s my hometown, which is really difficult when you’re a comedian because you can’t lie in your hometown. It’s essential when you’re a comedian that you lie well, but when you’re performing in your hometown – and especially in Glasgow where they don’t hang back – they know when you’re lying.

  You know, you can say, ‘Oh, there was a wee guy in my class at school and he was this and he was that …’ and somebody in the audience will say, ‘Hey! Hey! I was in your class and I don’t fucking remember him.’

  Do you know Tony Roper, the actor? He’s a funny guy. Because Tony comes from Anderston, in Glasgow, and I was born there, he thinks I’m an Anderston guy. I left when I was four. And yet he keeps asking if I know certain people. I have to say, ‘Tony – I left when I was four, for Christ’s sake!’ You don’t know anybody when you’re four! But he keeps doing it, because it’s where he comes from.

  Because nobody in Glasgow comes from Glasgow. They come from Partick and Govan and Maryhill and Anderston and the Gorbals and stuff.

  I met him for lunch a while ago and we’re rabbiting away about this. Anderston used to be a very, very cosy place – not anymore, it’s devastated now, but when I was wee it was like a nice village, very warm. People all knew one another.

  I’ll give you an example. My sister Flo and I were playing in the street, and we got lost. Well, we weren’t lost – we knew where we were – but nobody could find us. She was five and I was three. She used to look after me all the time. I was always crying. I cried for the first ten years of my life: ‘Waaaah!’ ‘Come on, Billy.’ ‘Waaaah!’ ‘Come on, you’re all right.’ ‘Waaaah!’

  Anyway, we lived on the top floor of this tenement building there. Across the road lived this family called the Cumberlands, who were nice people, I guess. There were eleven girls and a boy in their family, and the boy was the youngest. You could see what had happened. The guy – who was quite a legend in those parts – had been shagging his brains out trying to get a boy! The woman ends up like a wet chamois.

  So, what happened was this. On Friday night, me and Flo were out playing in the street. It was the end of the week so Mr Cumberland came home from his work with his wages. He goes in, says to his wife, ‘There you are, there’s the wages, I’m away out for a pint.’ But his wife says, ‘Nae fuckin’ danger, you going out for a pint. I’ve been on ma feet all day looking after the fuckin’ weans, making fuckin’ sausage and tatties and peas and fuckin’ mince. Ah’ve got a child under ma arm an’ Ah’m painting the door with ma fuckin’ leg, an’ every time Ah go to sit doon there’s a fuckin’ baby sittin’ there, an’ Ah’m feedin’ the dog an’ Ah’m tryin’ tae knit a fuckin’ pullover at the same fuckin’ time. So now you get those children in here tae bed before you go for any bloody pint!’

  So he goes, ‘Okay. Okay, give me peace, give me peace!’ And he staggers out the house. ‘Aw, right, how many weans have Ah got? Twelve.’ He goes into the street and he says: ‘Right, fuckin’ you, you, you, you, you …’ He rounded up the first twelve children he came across. Two of whom were me and my sister.

  And we were washed and put to bed. I was there, tucked in with all the others, looking around, going: ‘Waaaah!’ My sister’s going: ‘We’re all right, we’re all right, I’ve been in here before.’ ‘Waaaah!’

  Meanwhile, my aunt, who brought us up, is going berserk. She’s out with a policeman, because we were down at the docks – she thinks we’re off to Shanghai in a kitbag with some fucking pervert.

  The only reason they found us is that they found two Cumberlands crying in the street. ‘We can’t get in the house! The bed’s full!’ So, they took them in and that’s when we both started going: ‘WAAAAH!’

  A VISIT FROM THE PRIEST

  The priest used to come around visiting the houses, you know, to see how everybody was doing. And they were always wee lonely men. They always looked cold, priests – cold-looking men, who’d come creeping about.

  And people would say ‘Here’s a priest coming! Put that television off! Right, get to yer rooms, come on, hurry, get in yer damned rooms! The priest is coming up the bloody stairs! Get in yer damned rooms!!’ And, you see, priests think the world is full of broken televisions. Everywhere they go, they’re not working.

  You see, a guy once told me, the Queen thinks the world smells like paint, because ten feet in front of her, there’s always a guy going – brush-brush-brush …

  I lived in the tenements, and there was a kinda warmth about the whole thing. I’ve always seen tenements as kind of vertical villages. People say, ‘Oh, the deprivation! Oh my …!’ Nonsense. When you’re a wee boy it’s not like that. It felt great, there were all these nice neighbours. And they had big wooden toilet seats then, you know – luxuries!

  You didn’t lose the power of your legs reading the Sunday paper. Maybe it’s my age, but it seems I can’t walk halfway across the room when I’ve been on the lavvy. ‘Heeelp!’ Pins and needles, can’t pick up the damn things. ‘Oh my God!’

  The only other time I’ve felt like that was in America. I’d had a drink called a ‘Zombie’. Have you ever drunk Zombies? It’s kind of muddy-coloured. I would advise you to do it. It’s an extraordinary concept: you get drunk from the bottom up. You’re perfectly lucid, talking away: ‘Oh yeah, been there. Yeah. Have you got the time? Oh, is that British time …?’ You’re being very terrific, jet-setting and urbane – until you need to go to the toilet and your legs are pissed. ‘Excuse me, I’ll just go to the toilet—’ Crash! And you can’t get up, you see.


  Chic Murray once told me, he fell in the street, and a woman said to him, ‘Did you fall?’ He said, ‘No, I’m trying to break a bar of chocolate in my back pocket.’

  But a priest came to the house, and our mother said to us, ‘There’s a coat there, to keep you warm.’ Because, you see, in a tenement, it’s a bit, y’know, a bit poor-ish, and in the winter you throw coats on the bed, for the kids. ‘Oh God, the very thought!’ But it was actually brilliant, because you could wear them in the dark and go about playing games. ‘Right – you wear the fur coat now, I’ll wear this big thing …’

  And the priest’s in, having the corned beef sandwiches and the custard creams. ‘Have another crumpet, Father, that’s what they’re there for. Come on, get it down!’ ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Connolly.’

  But there’s bedlam in the room behind. ‘Will you be quiet! Will you try to be quiet in there. I can hardly hear myself think in here. I’m trying to talk to Father Flanagan in here. The noise is deafening!’

  ‘It’s him, Mummy! It’s him again. He’s taken more than his fair share of the coat.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha, what are you talking about, “coat”? There’s no coat in there. I don’t know – she has a fertile imagination, Father. The coats are all in the cloakroom.’

  Bloody ‘cloakroom’. She thinks it’s a dance hall she’s in.

  ‘The coats are in the cloakroom, and well you know it. Down on the mezzanine floor. Near the luncheonette, next to the breakfast bar. It’s an eiderdown, you stupid girl. “Coat?” Ha-ha-ha, I don’t know where they get it! She must have thought it was one of them duvet jackets. Eiderdown!

  ‘What were you were saying, Father …? What were you saying about God, there, Father? What was that? All right, enough. Here, have another custard cream, that’s right. Oh, you don’t say?’

  Bedlam, bedlam, bedlam.