Rubbished. Vilified. Banjo-ed. Abused. Lord knows, the tears I am shedding are of the crocodile variety.
Billy Connolly apparently is giving up the instrument. The villain is Parkinson’s. Tremors in his left hand have seen him bid goodbye to what’s been crucial to his act and that goes back to when I first saw him as a Humblebum at the Palladium theatre, Fountainbridge.
All’s not lost, though. Billy is still up for a 28-gig of Canada and the States in the new year and good luck to him.
I’ll bid you ta-ta. The way Peter Alliss said goodbye to me from the Old Course at St Andrews – “I’m away for a cup of tea and an Aspirin.”
Alliss’ anecdotal remarks: “Some people think I’m a bit weird.
“Something’s wrong with Tiger [Woods]. I don’t know what it is.
“There’s nothing quite like a beautiful bird coming towards you.”
I’m of a mind to dig out my uniform, find a Spitfire from somewhere and shoot down the helicopter that kept hovering round the Old Course at St Andrews, irritating the players and spectators alike.
There should be something in the R&A’s rule book that bans whirlybirds. After all, the aerial shots aren’t all that exciting.
Hair to help
I knew it, I knew it? Twice. Everything was going to be tickety-boo with Greece soon as Robert Peston plunged into the morass replete with all that funny-peculiar hair.