Billy

by Stephenson, Pamela

• ISBN13: 9780060537319
• ISBN10: 0060537310
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2003-11-06
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publications

Summary

One of the fastest selling #1 U.K. bestsellers of all time is now in paperback in the U.S. BILLY is the inside story of one of the most successful British stand-up comedians, as told by the person best qualified to reveal all about the man behind the comic, his wife of 10 years.

Author Biography

Pamela Stephenson was born in New Zealand and, like her husband Billy Connolly, was originally a comedian. Pamela and Billy currently live and work in Los Angeles, where she is a clinical psychologist.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements	p. xi
Introduction	p. 1
'Jesus is dead, and it's your fault!'	p. 5
'He's got candles in his loaf!'	p. 30
In Search of a Duck's Arse	p. 53
Oxyacetylene Antics	p. 66
Shaving Round the Acne	p. 84
Windswept and Interesting	p. 99
'I want to be a beatnik'	p. 119
'See you, Judas, you're getting on my tits!'	p. 136
Big Banana Feet	p. 146
Stairway to Hell	p. 163
Captain Demento and the Barracuda	p. 180
'That Nikon's going up your arse!'	p. 194
Legless in Manhattan	p. 208
There's Holes in Your Willie	p. 218
Pale Blue Scottish Person	p. 236
Nipple Rings and Fart Machines	p. 264
Epilogue: Life, Death and the Teacup Theory	p. 283
Table of Contents provided by Syndetics. All Rights Reserved.

Excerpts

Billy

Chapter One

'Jesus is Dead, And It's Your Fault!'

Billy Connolly, King of Comedy, Master of Mirth, Chancellor ofChortling, as his children have been instructed to address him, isquivering in the wings of the spectacularly cavernous HammersmithApollo theatre.

'Pamela, what the hell am I going to say to these people?'

Horrified, I turn to face him. Oh God, here we go ... he's notbluffing. Now there are two of us heading for a full-blown fight-or-flightfit. Is it possible that this time, the first in history, he mightactually freeze, forget, stammer, storm off stage or batter someone? Ido not fancy witnessing his death by four thousand excitableLondoners. They begin to roar as his name is announced, clappingin unison and stamping their feet. It's the start of tonight's war, theone he always declares then dreads.

'You'll be OK ... '

I watch him arm himself mentally with an opening shot. Asusual, he'll take no prisoners. I'm a white-knuckled wimp when theenemy's battle cry reaches its pitch ... then suddenly he's off. Ablinding circle of light assaults him and I see his face change to afighting calm. 'Scot of the Anarchic' is stepping out fearlessly intothe front line. He might be gone for quite some time.

The bastard's done it again. Frightened me to death, and he'sgoing to win after all. I peer out into the centre of the fray and witness a beautiful armistice, achieved in the first few disarmingsentences from his scowling, apologetic mouth. There is always sucha peace for him out there in that spotlight, probably the only placehe's truly happy. Each time, it seems he's given another chance, achance he's driven endlessly to re-create; it's a chance to gainmastery, to triumph over -- he can almost see their faces out there inthe audience -- Mamie, William, Mona, Rosie. I notice that tonight itis especially Rosie who must be slain as he launches into hilariouslysavage tales of algebra and abject humiliation.

He is strutting, striding, tilting at windmills. I'm thinking, howweird that he is so aroused, furious and vindictive, yet his face attimes seems almost beatific. Swathed in disgustingly musty wingvelvets, I peek out at the front row. As individuals, these are hardlysoldiers: T-shirted people, they are settled in comfortably to betransported to places where petrol prices, the babysitter, the in-laws,are replaced by tyrants and tenement buildings, by little old ladies infat, furry coats, and the ubiquitous, noisy farts. It will all end intears and some very sore bellies. I can finally breathe. He is blessed;encircled most brightly not by forty thousand watts but by his ownfiery, evangelical fuck-youness.

℘

Ironically, Billy's very earliest memory is one of being terrified by acircle of light. Until he was three years old, he and his beloved sisterFlorence slept in a curtained-off alcove in the kitchen. One eveningshe aimed a mirror reflection onto the wall, allowing it to pirouetteand chase him until he screamed for mercy.

He had been born right next to that alcove on the kitchen floor, alleleven pounds of him plopping out onto freezing linoleum. The ragethat followed this unceremonious introduction to the world hasnever left him, although it was a serendipitous launching for afuture enemy of the bourgeoisie. For eight months he nestled in a wooden drawer with not one Fisher-Price contraption in sight.

His family's living arrangements were similar to those ofthousands of other inhabitants of Glasgow, a city that had come tobe defined by row upon row of late-nineteenth-century apartmentbuildings known as 'the tenements'. These fine architecturalsoldiers had originally been created by Glasgow's ImprovementTrust, as model housing for working-class families. But by the timethe Connollys moved into half of the third floor of 65 Dover Street inAnderston, many of them had deteriorated into rotting slums thatwould need more than a spot of paint to 'take the bad look off them',as Billy would say.

The classically derived elevations in red or yellow sandstonewere usually pleasant enough, but the interiors were thoroughlydepressing. A dingy central staircase, stinking of cabbage and catpiss, spiralled upwards to the flats. Two or more poky apartmentswere squeezed into each floor, usually with just two rooms apiece,and a communal lavatory out on the landing. Some families werelumbered with the 'coffin end', or corner apartment, which waseven smaller than the rest.

The buildings themselves butted right onto the street and wereusually entered via an interior alleyway known as a close. The'Wally' closes, as some were called, were beautifully tiled halfway upthe wall, with a leafy motif running along the top. Such finery,however, ended abruptly at the threshold of a darker, oftentreacherous, tunnel known as the 'dunny' (short for dungeon), thatdead-ended in an enclosed rear courtyard, itself a veritable assault-courseof broken bicycles, flapping knickers, and reeking middens.

Considering it now through a haze of nostalgia, Billy says theGlasgow tenement is a New York brownstone without a fire escape.Some of the buildings certainly had grandeur and, like their NewYork counterparts, are now sought after by the well-to-do. Billy'sfirst home was not one of those. The Dover Street flat had onlytwo rooms: a kitchen-living room, with a niche where the children slept, and another room for their parents. The entire familybathed in the kitchen sink and there was no hot water at all. As anenduring legacy of his early cramped existence, Billy is now quiteuncomfortable in large living spaces. He sighs over the phone to mefrom fabulous hotels all over the world: 'They've gone and upgradedme again. Bloody Presidential Suite this time.'

I let him off lightly, because I know it's a genuine problem forhim. Others who achieve renown cannot wait to sprawl sideways ona California King four-poster with a big-screen TV in every cornerand a whirlpool on the deck, but not Billy. He has never really likedour Los Angeles house because of its unfamiliar spaciousness, andprefers to hide out in his tiny study for hours on end, drinkinggallons of tea and plunking on his banjo.

Billy. Copyright © by Pamela Stephenson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Billy by Pamela Stephenson
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