Billy Connolly broke ma hert

Gin ye grew up in a partícular pairt o Scotland at a partícular pynt in time — say the wast coast, say the Eighties — Billy Connolly wis the anely thing that maitered. Set by yer Sex Pistols, forget yer Clash — nane o that stuff iver got throu tae us. The C30s that we swapped aroond in cless warnae bootleg Bowie; they war taped fae dusty auld vinyls we foond in oor faither’s cupboard, clatterin sangs on banjo aboot wellies an jannies an mad wee dugs gaun loco. Like the jokes, we didnae ayeweys unnerstaun them — whit exactly wis ‘the broo’? — but we knew the warld they cam fae, kent the hairmless jakies an alcoholic dreamers that líved in it.

An we learned. As we listened, we learned. We learned hou tae tell oor ain stories, ridículous yins, lingerin on the lip o credibility, interruptit aye an anon bi the wheezy lauchter o the teller. We learned hou tae haud aff an haud aff an keep haudin aff, tae pit aside the story’s endin like a last wee bite o cake. An we learned that the wey ye tell a story maiters, says somethin important aboot ye, an that if ye coudnae tell a story kindly, than it wis mebbe a story that wis better left untelt.

Tae tell a story kindly disnae juist mean bein nice. It means tellin the story in a wey that’s true tae the fowk that it’s aboot; respectin their choices, respectin their mistaks. Tak a keek at the píous, pre-emptive eulogies for Billy Connolly that hiv been croppin up aw owre the shop, an tell me — are they kind? Are they nice? Or are they juist the kind o guff that Billy spent his hale career deflatin — or used tae, onygates, afore he went an broke oor herts?


There’s the wey ye talk tae fríends, an there’s the wey ye talk tae co-wirkers. There’s the wey ye treat the faimily ye love, an the wey ye treat the faimily ye dinnae. There’s nice, but as well as that, there’s nicey-nice. The phone vyce equivalent o fríendliness, the smile wi’oot the een. An whaniver somebody gears themsels up tae say somethin guid aboot Connolly nouadays, it’s as if they’re clappin a scabby auld dug that micht hae yin mair snap left in it.

It’s in the natur o epitaphs — and yon’s really whit we’re talkin aboot — tae be reductive. Sae it’s nae surprise at aw tae see Billy Connolly dung doun bi fowk wha niver really cared for him, lowdent tae a kind o Caledonian Chuckle Brither, an end o the pier act fae a lang-shut muisic haw. Yon disrespect, ah ween, isnae juist for Connolly. It’s for the notion o stand-up comedy as a hale, the idea that there micht be — hae been — artists whase art juist happened tae be makkin fowk lauch. Fowk wha hiv legeitimised the form, the wey Ali did for boxin or Fischer did for chess. An mak nae mistak, Billy Connolly wis o their kind. Billy Connolly wis a genius.

Aye, that’s richt. Billy Connolly, the chiel wha inventit the jobby wheecher, a genius. Think aboot it. A place isnae real till it’s been fully imagined. An in the thirty year that Alasdair Gray wis imaginin Lanark, Billy Connolly mapped oot a wirkin-class Glesga that tae this verra day remains canonical. It’s there in Frankie Boyle an Kevin Bridges an Limmy’s Show. It’s there in hou Gleswegians think an talk aboot theirsels an each ither. Even whan fowk are tryin tae get awa, it’s Connolly’s Glesga that they’re strivin tae escape. Mair sae than Gray or Kelman or even McIlvanney, it wis Billy Connolly, a lowly banjo picker, wha defined the topography o oor common Glesga — its mercats, its parks, its nightclubs, its tenements. Leuk on his wirks, ya bampots, an despair.


Sic a thing cannae happen again; no in this day an age. There’s owre muckle gaun on, nou, for a body tae become as vital tae a cultur as Connolly wis tae Glesga’s. There’s owre mony Glesgas tae be celebratit — gay Glesga, transgender Glesga, Asian Glesga; Glesgas which war aw vyceless afore — for juist yin carle tae represent them aw.

Unity; it’s a kittlie an gey unstable thing, aft as no mainteened at the expense o them excludit fae it. But whan ye’v got it, while ye’v got it, it’s the anely thing that seems tae coont. Connolly gied us unity wi ither, but lat us think oor unity wis wi him. But it wisnae. An that’s whit’s makkit necessar this talk aboot forgiein him.

Maist o whit’s been scrieved aboot Connolly in 2017 haes haed this gey redemptive air, like whan some weel-loved showbiz personality taks a mad turn in his dotage and stairts supportin UKIP or threapin for the tawse in schuils. Think Patrick Moore’s gay-bashin, think Roald Dahl’s anti-semitism. Awbody is suddently in a richt hurry for them tae get on wi it an shoot the craw, juist so’s we can aw forgie them an gan back tae thinkin o them the wey we used tae. An, efter aw, whit coud be mair Christian than that? Tae forgie? Weel, aye; ’cept that forgieness aft becomes a kind of wappen, a wey o daikin aff the roch edges o a person, renderin them as they shoud hae been, no as they really are. An forby, forgiein somebody lats us establish somethin aboot them that it micht itherwise be awfy haurd tae pruive — that they did somethin wrang.


Sae, naw. Ah dinnae think there’s much honour in the virr wi which we’re aw forgiein Connolly, or the wey we’ve waitit till he’s least likely tae repone. No tae mention the wey we’re aw pussy-footin aroond saying juist whit it is the man’s supposed tae hae duin wrang. A recent veisitor tae Earth wad boggle at it, tryin tae wirk oot whit hithertil nameless chairges the Big Yin haes tae answer tae.

Weel, naebody wants tae be the tragic wee shape that actually comes oot an says it, but whit we’re aw forgien Connolly for, or tryin tae, is that he abandoned us. Pit thegither these airts in which we líve, than left us tae it an buggered on aff tae Hollywood. Gin Billy Connolly is the faither o modren Glesga, as ah’m tryin tae propose, he’s lang syne been an absent yin.

Writers like Kelman an Gray, they create moniments. The warlds they mak are the warlds we aw líve in. But stand-ups dae something a wee bit different. It’s no places they big, it’s vyces. The Glesga o Connolly’s devisin wis no sae much a conurbation o tenements an playgroonds as an attitude; gallus, garrulous, quaistenin, self-flagellatin; a vyce that coud exist juist as weel on the Muin as on the Clyde.

But a vyce, unlike a scrieved wird, is a thing that dees. It cannae be replenished or replaced. McIlvanney’s Glesga will líve on doun the ages. But Connolly’s Glesga, like Brigadoon, is dwynin awa wi the man. An suin aw that we’ll be left wi are the echoes.

Sae the abandonment issues we’re talkin aboot here are uggsome on a kind o spíritual level, especially here in single parent Glesga, second cíty Glesga, yer da’s a no-user Glesga. Tae us, Connolly’s exit stage richt wis as personal a disappearance as iver it is tae ony wean o D.I.V.O.R.C.E. In a warld full o soap opera storylines an gleg volte faces, it wis still the maist dramatic heelturn o oor lifes. But than, leuk at whit we war proposin as alternatives. Connolly as cíty mascot. Connolly as coort jester, as disembodied tour guide for aye. Connolly as indentured servant. Whit we wantit o him micht hae seemed raisonable, but even we coudnae mak oot that it wis fair.

At the same time, whit Connolly haed duin wis whit comic faithers o comic faimilies hiv ayeweys duin; he’d pentit hissel intae a corner. Like mony artists, he’d biggit a name for himsel bi celebratin a wey o life which wisnae really hou he wantit tae líve. Whitiver genuine affection Connolly haed for the miners an the shippy men, he didnae want tae juist be yin o them, an he coud niver be happy pretendin that he did. A Newport moment wis ayeweys in the staurs.

The analogy wi Dylan breaks doon awfie trig, o coorse. Whan Dylan went electric, the result wis Highway 61 Revisited. Whan Connolly went mainstream, the result wis Garfield 2.

Lat’s no pile on — whit Connolly did in films wis wirthy eneuch. But naething in his later years wad merk him oot as byous. He wad niver be as beloved bi Hollywood as he haed ayeweys been bi Glesga. Weel, aye; but than, wha but Connolly micht ken hou haurd sae fidgin-fain a love micht be tae líve wi? Hou fearsome? Face it. Awbody in Glesga thinks o themsels as the cat wi the white pent up its back. Naebody wunners if they micht be Pepé le Pew.

Sae ye cannae exactly blame Connolly for gettin the hell oot, even if his Blonde on Blonde juist niver came tae be. Nae dout he haed bigger things in mind than a bit pairt on The X Files. But gin it haed been left up tae us, Connolly wad still be strampin aboot the Pavilion in his big banana feet, swappin pratfalls wi Andy Cameron. He mebbe didnae hae that mony lines in The Hobbit, but ah think ye still hiv tae caw that a bullet dodged.

Wi ony break up, the moral high grund ayeweys winds up bein aboot wha pullt the rug oot fae unner wha. Which yin wis awready checkin oot o the relationship whan ye wir leukin at the weddin rings? We aw like tae think that he pullt the fast yin on us, but the truth is that Connolly wis ayeweys whit he wis. The persona o the Big Yin wis whit we projectit on tae him, and it wis his genius tae reflect it sae weel; but oor incredulity at his turnaboots — his kneelin for honours, his quiet opposítion tae independence — wis juist a function o oor endless capacity for self-deceit. Connolly niver kiddit us on aboot this stuff, but we didnae tak him seriously than, no whan we didnae want tae. Nah. Insteid o that, we juist went on believin that the truth aboot Billy lay in oor herts, an no in aw the things he said an did.


Ah cannae love Connolly the wey ah used tae. It wad be unkind an unfaithfu tae the spírit o the chiel tae lat on itherwise. Gin hertbreak is inevitable in this warld, that can anely chynge the wey ye act, no the wey ye feel deep doun. Whan ah leuk at Billy Connolly nou, wi his hipster specs an his David Foster Wallace haircut — still sellin oot tours, still makkin films — ah hivnae it in me tae feel happy for him. Ah juist feel sorry for masel, the bourach o cooncil estate bairndom he left us aw sittin in. The empty drivewey, the narra wee hoose like the trash compactor oot o Star Wars. It wisnae his faut, ye ken. Faur as ah can tell, naebody wis tae blame for whit wis happenin in wirkin-class Scotland. No the corporations, no the govrenment, naebody. It wis juist wan o thae things aboot the warld, that the cream wad ayeweys rise.

It’s no juist Trump that’s in the business o pittin up waws. We’re aw at it. Ivery election, ivery referendum. On this side, me. On the ither, youse. An sometimes the waws are actual, concrete barriers; but ither times they’re juist distance, spaces atween us an somebody wha is walkin awa. The sleekit thing tae dae is tae watch them as they disappear, and kid on that they’re getting smawer. The honest thing, the anely honest thing, is tae lat them be. Lat them gan.

Sae afore we start tidyin him up for murals, allou the man Connolly that much at least. Allou him the consequences o his choices; allou him the gap atween us that he chose, an wantit, an pit there. Allou that we cannae meet him honestly on even grund again. An dinnae juist speir if we’d hae makkit the same decísions, if we’d been him. Juist leuk at oor ain lifes. Ask oorsels if we did.

Thomas ClarkThomas Clark is a makar an scriever fae the Scottish Borders. He is currently editor o Scots at Bella Caledonia, an poet-in-residence at Selkirk FC. He gabs awa at and on Twitter @clashcityclarky.

Argie-bargie in politics

Whan fowk is discussin issues, the conversation whiles dwynes intae a wee stramash: yin side gies thair thochtie on the thing, the ither says “naw, A think this ither thing” an thay juist rane thair stances. An this is the mair-be-taiken whan it’s polítical issues. Whiles ye’re chancey tae even see fowk argollin for thair posítion. An, whan this happens, fowk afttimes come awa fae it thinkin the same things thay did aforehaund. Whiles, it’s mair the waur: whiles, fowk juist caw ilk anither names, like “yese are juist dunderheids”. An thay end up thinkin thair ain posítion thay awready haed even mair. An that’s a waesome state o affairs.

Sae whit dae we actually want tae be daein? Dae we want tae redd up tuilyies? Or evitin bein naur thaim whan thay kythe? Or dae we juist want thaim no tae kythe?

Haud on readin . . . “Argie-bargie in politics”

Lat the auld witch burn — A tale telt by Marsaili MacLeod, a native o Strathnaver, tae Alistair Heather

Patrick Sellar’s auld hoose stauns on the toff’s estate doun the river Naver fae the clachan. The biggin itsel is cuttit intae twa; ae side is hame tae the ciobair — shepherd in the Gaelic — an the ithir side stauns tuim tae this day. It’s kent as ‘Patrick Sellar’s hoose’, and naebody will bide intae it. A hunner year an mair syne he wis pit in the grund in the kirkyaird at Elgin, an still there isnae a body wha’ll gang near the place. He wis taen on as Factor for the Duke o Sutherland, tae turn the laund at Strathnaver an thereaboot intae sheep ferms. Tae dae this he wis gied the richt tae evict the fowk wha bade there.

Mair nor a dozen brochs rise oot the earth tae gie witness tae auncient life in the strath. Viking place names gar ye ken that thae northren raiders had their time o ascendancy here an aa. The name Sutherland itsel is derived fae the Auld Norse for Sooth-laund. But at the stert o the 19t century Patrick Seller tried tae pit a stap tae the muisic o life that had pleyed in the strath for millenia. He wis efter replacin it wi the foolish bleatin o sheep an the cauld clink o siller in his pooch.

Haud on readin . . . “Lat the auld witch burn — A tale telt by Marsaili MacLeod, a native o Strathnaver, tae Alistair Heather”

The First Mínister’s Readin Challenge

Wha kent whit, an when did they ken it? E’er syne they catcht auld Dick Nixon wi his lug tae the Watergate waw, oor politícians hae makkit a guid haundlin oot o the doctrine o plausible deniability, itherwise kent as the virtue o unexpectit ignorance. Knawledge, tae oor current crop o baby-kissers, is a volatile thing, ayeweys apt tae blaw up in yer face; an in fact is just like Schrödinger’s box — naebody kens for shuir whit’s in there, but it’s fifty-fifty ye’ll be left wi a deid cat tae explain. Onygates, it leukt as if the Donald had takken yon trend tae its logical conclusion when he wis electit high heid yin o the free warld on the basis o kennin absolutely naething aboot absolutely onything — weel, until this week, that is, when his auld sparrin pairtner, Mister Salmond o Lithgae, admítit in a student paper that, afore 2015, he had niver actually read a beuk.

Haud on readin . . . “The First Mínister’s Readin Challenge”

Trains approachin?

Puir infrastructure is a belt aboot Scotland’s thrapple. Oor roads are pithailed anachronisms. Boats tae the isles are auld an dear. Fleein tae ony airt ither than London gars ye traivel tae the ane o the central belt aeroports, doublin the cost an time o ilka journey. Scotrail is a mixter-maxter o the sorry an the sublime. On ae haund there’s a braw new electric service breengin atween Embra an Glesca. On the ither haund ye hae twa-cairiage vintage trains rattlin aroon an aboot the hielands, gangin nae place fast. No anely is infrastructure puir, but infrastructure inequality is severe an growin worse ilka year. Gin ye want tae gang onywhaur in Scotland north o the Forth, by car, sea or rail, it’ll be slaw an it’ll be dear.

The effects o this are extreme. Hale sections o Scotland are economically uninhabitable.

Ane o the worst effectit airts is the Buchan. The Broch. Peterheid. Buckie. MacDuff. Big touns thrang wi cultur, business an potential, cut aff fae mercats an ceeties by an infrastructure that’s oot o date by decades.

Haud on readin . . . “Trains approachin?”