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“I fucking hate sand,” he sighed, before settling in with my newspaper and falling asleep. I turned over on to my stomach and returned to the serious business of arse-browning, keeping a wary lookout for any stranger who might stroll up the beach in our direction. My exposed white, dimpled backside was not for public consumption. Unfortunately I, too, must have nodded off.
“Mr Connolly?” A British man in shorts and sunhat was standing over a wary Billy. I woke instantly and twisted round in alarm – then realised too late that although my arse was now covered, my breasts were not. “Sorry to intrude, but could I possibly have… erm…” he looked at me, though not at my face, “both your autographs?”
Billy Connolly: ‘I hate going on holiday’
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