The Anderston guy who was a welder on the shipyards but fancied life as a folk singer, went on to make quite the name for himself. But rather than forging a career in music, Billy Connolly just went ahead and reinvented the comedic form as it existed in Britain. After one life-altering appearance on Parkinson in 1975, storytelling stand-up was never to be the same again, and while that genre has dropped in and out of comedy fashion, he remains its colossus. The sheer number of comedians who cite Connolly as a major influence is so extensive that it borders on the dull; something that the Big Yin could never be accused of.

In this eulogy to a man and an entertainer, Gary McNair performs the recollections he’s gathered from individuals all across Scotland, not to try and tie up Connolly’s appeal in a neat bow, but simply to get a sense of what he means to the people of this land. Turns out, unsurprisingly, that the overwhelming majority love him, with a few naysayers grudgingly admiring his comedy and status as a national icon.

It’s not just McNair’s more-than-passing resemblance to Connolly that makes him the ideal person for this task; his own longstanding ability to weave stories with wit and not a little wisdom in productions such as The Gambler’s Guide To Dying and Square Go make him Billy-esque. Featuring a lovely live soundtrack played by Jill O’Sullivan and Simon Liddell, McNair carefully structures his 90-minute piece to take in everything from The Crucifixion to the Parkinson’s and cancer diagnoses that have slowed Connolly down this past decade.

McNair even inserts himself into this tale recalling the time he suddenly found himself in a room with the Big Yin but couldn’t bring himself to ask a proper question. You get the impression that Billy Connolly never walked away from a single conversation in his adult life with regrets over what he should have said. 

King’s Theatre, Glasgow, Thursday 22–Saturday 24 June; reviewed at Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh.