Some of the words to describe Billy Connolly's autobiography.
I first discovered Billy on an 18 rated VHS tape in my parents' TV cabinet when I was 15 or so. He was wearing a white and black striped suit and doing stand up, possibly at the Albert Hall. It was the funniest stuff I'd ever seen. His stories were rude, rambling, hilarious and familiar. Hairy guy with a beard from Glasgow. You've probably seen him. He cracked me up. Royally.
I've had a lot of love for the man over the years, and I've enjoyed seeing his success go from strength to strength. I watched a movie with him and Liam Neeson in it recently without his beard, where they both play Scottish ex-miners down on their luck, The Big Man (1990), and it's always a pleasure to see him pop up on screen, with some of his Parkinson interviews the most golden. But his standup routines were always the best. Have a look at the episode with Kenny Everett below.
So when I saw his autobiography I snapped it up alongside Bob Mortimer's unsure of how it would turnout. I had a feeling he'd mellowed with age and become soft, living the life of Riley over in the States. But that's not really the case.
It's like a long letter from Billy to you. A long rambling, winding, detailed, funny, terrible, honest trip down memory lane. Feels like he's telling you stuff over a pint.
A lot of it has been told before on stage and in interviews, perhaps about 8 or 9%, but you forgive him that, because after all, he is a living legend, and he's been to hell and back, and he deserves a good life, and he's written you this wonderful, long, personal letter.
Hats aff tae the Big Yin!
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