Billy Connolly at his best

I’m gonna tell you a wee story. There are two guys, two wee Glasgow guys, and they went on holliday, to Rome, and they were being tourists, you know. “Holy, hm, hm, another one over there.” “Oh, that’s great, I wonder who papered that ceiling, that’s fantastic.” Going around the place, looking at things. And the sun there in Rome was getting to them, you know. “Today the sun’s beating down on my head.” “It’s beating down on mine as well, funny that, ain’t it?” “Might as well go have a bevvy.” And they will enter a wee bar, in Rome, you know, wandered straight up to the bar, saying to the barman “Hey Jimmy, give us two pints of heavy.” He says “What!”. In italian, you know. He says “Give us two pints of heavy, know what I mean.” He says “We don’t sell heavy in Rome, you know.” “Oh, what a bore. What’ve you got there, I don’t know anything Italian, baby.” He says “You are welcome to anything you see here, you know” “Hmmm. Do you know anything.” “No, I don’t know anything.” “I tell you what. What does the Pope drink?” He says “Well, he likes a glass of Creme de Menthe from time to time.” “Gives us two pints of that, then.” [???] Two green pints duly arrive. “Well, all the best. When in Rome, get it, ‘when in Rome’.” “What do you think.” “It’s a bit like drinking Polar Mints, ain’t it?” “Ah well, who cares. Another two pints, Jim, no, keep your hand in your pocket, give us another two. My round. Same again. [On eight???] empty it.”

They wake up in the morning, in a crumbled heap, in a doorway. Peed the trousers. Steam [???] And they’ve been sick, down the left side of the jacket. They have been shouting huey all night, right. “Hu-ey hu-e-ey” And occasionally Ralph. “Hu-ey. Ra-alph. Ralph. Huey.” And it’s green. Green huey or Huey Green, if you like.

Here’s a thing. Have you ever wondered, why everytime you’re sick, there’s diced carrots in it. I have never eaten diced carrots in my life. I have come to the conclusion, that drink doesn’t make you sick, it’s diced bloody carrots. There’s probably a pervert somewhere, with pockets full of diced carrots, following drunk men.

Meanwhile, back in Rome, the two guys are lying in the doorway, and they are just getting awake, y’know. “Ohhhh. Ohh my head. Christ. Oh, I think I’m wearing an internal balaklava. Oh. Oh, my body’s all sore. Ahhh! I cannot feel my leg!” “That’s my leg, you [???]” “Oh, thank Christ for that. Got a fright [???] How are you feeling?” “I’m feeling kind of funny. I think I’ve had a tongue transplant. This one doesn’t even seem to fit.” “Jesus, they say the Pope drink that stuff. Not any wonder, they carry him about in a chair.”

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Filed under The Ramblings of a Reformed Ecclesiastic

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