Brave Mouth
Ever since our time in Spain - when I had many an idle hour - I've had a voracious appetite for books. Even now, busy as I am with various projects, I manage to read 2 or 3 books a week. I've read pretty much all the decent literature that Knightswood Library has to offer (which ain't a lot, in all honesty) and I'm now scouting round the non-fiction shelves for new material.
Yesterday I discovered a rather scary fact about myself. There is a dormant Hello-reader in my soul. Not that I actually lowered myself to borrowing Hello magazines from the library (and, believe it or not, you can), but I borrowed Pamela Stephenson's biography of Billy Connolly, "Brave Mouth". It's actually her 2nd biography of him: I guess The Big Yin is just too damn big for only one biography.
Being the cynic that I am, I was not expecting to get sucked into the life-story of any celebrity, even Billy Connolly, but I did. The book has proved to be both poignant and (of course) funny; and even though I am not a huge fan of Pamela Stephenson - especially after her appearance on Parkinson (I think) to plug her first biography of her husband - I have to applaud her for the way she has written about him.
That said, there was one thing that really fucking grated on me. She gives the Tickity Boo charity that Connolly and his manager set up a huge, big plug, with the underlying suggestion that Billy - saving a few Indian street prostitutes' children from the gutter - is big hearted as well as being a funny man. Yeah, sure... it's nice that he's rich enough that he can indulge in charitable acts, and I wouldn't feel so sour about it if Pamsy hadn't mentioned that the charity didn't have enough money to increase its capacity and that it would soon be turning people away. Why? Surely The Big Yin and his very rich, best-selling, psycho-babbling wife could afford to inject some much needed cash into the project. They're only like fucking loaded. I mean, The Big Yin and wife have a castle in Scotland, a mansion in L.A. and - so I've just read - a house that they've bought in Malta, not to mention a yacht that Billy's manager bought him.
You know the word that comes to mind? It's "duh". That's what I feel like saying to Pamsy. Sell the fucking spare houses and the yacht for starters and you could build a big enough place in Bombay to save the souls of every underage prostitute in the entire fucking city.
The thing with über-rich people like Connolly and Stephenson is they just haven't a fucking clue. They siphon off far more than their fair share of the world's resources, they pretend to themselves that they somehow deserve this, and then they salve their troubled psyches (or, if they've got them, consciences) by making miniscule charitable gestures (and by that, I mean it is no financial inconvenience to themselves).
Now I'm not suggesting - God forbid - that Billy and Pamela should move into an upper cottage flat in Knightswood, but three fucking houses! No-one needs three houses! No-one! And no-one can justify such avarice when there are so many people who don't have a house at all! Good on you, Billy for at least setting up the charity, but come on man, how can you live with yourself? If you had a real heart you'd modify your excessive lifestyle and sell off the rest for your charity. I'm sure you could raise fucking millions that way. Hey Billy, you could be a flag-bearer. You could start a fashion. Who knows, maybe all your über-rich pals will follow suit and sell off their excess houses, yachts and cars; and maybe all their über-rich pals will do the same... and soon enough there'll be enough spare cash to fund proper programmes of house, school and hospital building in the countries where people have fuck all (and don't forget Billy, they have fuck all because some folk have a fucking sight more than they should have!)
Yesterday I discovered a rather scary fact about myself. There is a dormant Hello-reader in my soul. Not that I actually lowered myself to borrowing Hello magazines from the library (and, believe it or not, you can), but I borrowed Pamela Stephenson's biography of Billy Connolly, "Brave Mouth". It's actually her 2nd biography of him: I guess The Big Yin is just too damn big for only one biography.
Being the cynic that I am, I was not expecting to get sucked into the life-story of any celebrity, even Billy Connolly, but I did. The book has proved to be both poignant and (of course) funny; and even though I am not a huge fan of Pamela Stephenson - especially after her appearance on Parkinson (I think) to plug her first biography of her husband - I have to applaud her for the way she has written about him.
That said, there was one thing that really fucking grated on me. She gives the Tickity Boo charity that Connolly and his manager set up a huge, big plug, with the underlying suggestion that Billy - saving a few Indian street prostitutes' children from the gutter - is big hearted as well as being a funny man. Yeah, sure... it's nice that he's rich enough that he can indulge in charitable acts, and I wouldn't feel so sour about it if Pamsy hadn't mentioned that the charity didn't have enough money to increase its capacity and that it would soon be turning people away. Why? Surely The Big Yin and his very rich, best-selling, psycho-babbling wife could afford to inject some much needed cash into the project. They're only like fucking loaded. I mean, The Big Yin and wife have a castle in Scotland, a mansion in L.A. and - so I've just read - a house that they've bought in Malta, not to mention a yacht that Billy's manager bought him.
You know the word that comes to mind? It's "duh". That's what I feel like saying to Pamsy. Sell the fucking spare houses and the yacht for starters and you could build a big enough place in Bombay to save the souls of every underage prostitute in the entire fucking city.
The thing with über-rich people like Connolly and Stephenson is they just haven't a fucking clue. They siphon off far more than their fair share of the world's resources, they pretend to themselves that they somehow deserve this, and then they salve their troubled psyches (or, if they've got them, consciences) by making miniscule charitable gestures (and by that, I mean it is no financial inconvenience to themselves).
Now I'm not suggesting - God forbid - that Billy and Pamela should move into an upper cottage flat in Knightswood, but three fucking houses! No-one needs three houses! No-one! And no-one can justify such avarice when there are so many people who don't have a house at all! Good on you, Billy for at least setting up the charity, but come on man, how can you live with yourself? If you had a real heart you'd modify your excessive lifestyle and sell off the rest for your charity. I'm sure you could raise fucking millions that way. Hey Billy, you could be a flag-bearer. You could start a fashion. Who knows, maybe all your über-rich pals will follow suit and sell off their excess houses, yachts and cars; and maybe all their über-rich pals will do the same... and soon enough there'll be enough spare cash to fund proper programmes of house, school and hospital building in the countries where people have fuck all (and don't forget Billy, they have fuck all because some folk have a fucking sight more than they should have!)
posted by Dee Rimbaud @ 6:35 PM
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