Billy Connolly’s most intimate interview yet (by his wife): ‘Comedians never used to worry about what was correct to say. You said it, and soon found out’ | Billy Connolly
Billy Connolly and his wife, Pamela Stephenson Connolly, photographed in Key West, Florida September, 2023.
Billy Connolly and his wife, Pamela Stephenson Connolly, photographed in Key West, Florida, September 2023. Photograph: Nick Doll
Only one person can get to the heart of who the Big Yin is – his partner and carer, psychotherapist Pamela Stephenson Connolly. He talks about how Parkinson’s has changed him, what he misses from being on tour, and living in a hotbed of Trump supporters in Florida
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Sir William Connolly, AKA Billy Connolly, AKA the Big Yin, the Glaswegian welder-turned-folk-singer-turned-comedian has been my partner for over 40 years. When Billy and I met, I was a comedian appearing in the BBC’s popular topical comedy programme Not The Nine O’Clock News, but since then I have become a psychologist, author, dance enthusiast and regular Guardian columnist.
Billy and I have five children between us. We married in Fiji (my mother’s birthplace) then settled in the United States in the late 80s, living first in California, where Billy was under contract to Warner Brothers. We subsequently moved to New York after our children finished school, and we currently reside in the Florida Keys, where the ‘fishing is easy’ and (in Billy’s words) ‘the sun comes clattering down’. Our move to Florida was prompted by a need to situate Billy in a more relaxed place, without the extremes of temperature one experiences in New York. As is the case in Billy’s beloved Glasgow, for him a cold winter is accompanied by the likelihood of his slipping on ice and ‘falling on my arse’. So for now, our alternative environmental hazards are hurricanes, aggressive grackles and iguana poop.
As my 80-year-old husband’s main caregiver, I try to reduce his stress, so this interview has been conducted via a series of questions sent over by the Guardian, the answers to which I recorded in a relaxed conversation between the two of us.
Pamela Stephenson Connolly
Your career has taken you to so many different places. What are the best and the worst places you’ve ever been to?
Billy I’m always slow to mention the worst place, because inevitably I’ll go there again a second time and like it. I noticed that with gigs, especially. There was one in Liverpool – the Liverpool Empire. I remember saying to one of my roadies: “This is a great gig. We’ll go down well tonight!” But about 15 minutes into the show I felt I wasn’t doing very well; I’d forgotten to work. I’d presumed it was a good place so I was always gonna go down well. Sometimes you forget what you have to do. And it’s the same for towns and countries. You can go to a place and have a rotten time, but then a year later you might go back
B My friend whom I used to watch shooting lizards has told me that he’s preparing for the civil war. But unfortunately, his family have taken him away so I can’t find him any more. Maybe that’s a good thing.
Since retiring from live performance, what do you miss most about it?
B The fact that it doesn’t matter what kind of day you’re having; you’re gonna have a great night.
P That’s good. That’s very good.
B You become this other guy … and have a great night that will last till the following day.
Billy Connolly on stage in 1977. Photograph: Evening Standard/Getty Images
How has life changed for you both since Billy’s Parkinson’s diagnosis?
B Pamela dresses me in the morning …
P Is it really that different? I mean, when you were home before, you more or less did a lot of the same sort of things, you know – sat and watched football. People brought you cups of tea …
B I have to get lifts everywhere. I can’t drive any more.
P Well, you do have a fabulous Australian chauffeur.
B True.
P With superior driving skills …
B Aye, the less said about that the better.
You’ve written about the re-entry problems; when you came back to normal domestic life after being on tour for a long time, it was hard to re-enter.
B Yeah – you keep dialling 9 for an outside line. And try to call room service.
How hard has it been for you as a natural traveller to be at home – during the various lockdowns, as well as due to your illness?
B It’s been brilliant! It’s been one of the great surprises of my life! I was told to stay home, I did it and I loved it. Even my dogs loved it. Although we were very lucky because we live on a canal, so we could go for walks in a tropical paradise.
P And even now … for example, two nights ago you were sitting fishing just outside your back door. The higher the sea level rises, the closer the fishing’s going to be … so you’ll soon be a fishing Rambling Man without even leaving the house.
B There’s something in my Scottish nature that makes me look forward to global warming: “High fucking time!”
P You used to say a long time ago – when we bought the Highlands house – that you always wanted to be able to go fishing in your slippers, and finally you can do it.
How has your Parkinson’s diagnosis evolved over time?
B It’s very difficult to see the progression exactly, because a lot of things come and go. Recently I’ve noticed a deterioration in my balance. That was never such a problem before, but in the last year that has come and it has stayed. For some reason, I thought it would go away, because a lot of symptoms have come and gone away … just to defy the symptom spotters. The shaking has reappeared …
has been most significant, hasn’t it? Especially since, unfortunately, it resulted in you having a couple of serious falls …
B It’s funny, that fall I had when I landed on my jaw reminded me of a thing I used to do on stage. I used to say: “I fell out of bed, but luckily my face broke my fal
B It’s just added to the list of things that hold me back. I feel like I want to go for a walk, but I go for 50 yards and I want to go home, because I’m tired. I’m being encroached upon by this disease. It’s creeping up
behind me and stopping me doing things. It’s a cruel disease.
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