Billy [Abridged, Audiobook, CD] [Hardcover]

I read this book(paperback) in Italy 2 years ago, and thought it was the most funny/humorous book i have ever read, i vividly remember laughing my head at the side of the pool whilst everyone was looking at me funny. I came back to amazon to find another BIll book for my summer hols to relax and have some fun. I simply could not beleive that another reader had given it 1 star - which spurred me to write this little review. In conclusion: this book is Brilliant, brilliant brilliant. Plus, Billy if u read this if and would like to donate any funds to my overdraft a/c please feel free to email me at anytime :-).

It struck me. In a Flash. Half way through these CD's. Can you name any other wife or partner who has written a book about her husband/ boyfriend?
There are possibly some, though I'd suspect they were mostly poetry or books like The Two of Us: My Life with John Thaw (by Sheila Hancock) written as a eulogy.

Couple this with Dr Stephenson-Connolly's PhD in Psychology & you have something utterly unique, which must have been hellishly difficult to write without at least one argument with the man himself.

But it is this uniqueness that gets to the heart of what makes Billy tick. A man so complex requires many years of study & is very likely a degree subject in his own right, with a unique gift for making life funny & yet underlying quirks & tensions which would send lesser men crazy.

The thing I enjoyed most about this CD is it didn't over-bake its premise. Yes, it is very analytical, but not in a cruel, Freudian way or a doting schmaltzy way either. Primarily, it is a biography of Billy, with a lot of detail about his abusive childhood, coupled with excerpts from his modern life offering explanation for why he behaves in certain ways.

It moves through his meteoric rise from welder, to folk singer to plain stand-up comic & then goes through all the relationship difficulties & addictions he was facing at the time when he met Pamela Stephenson.

Happily, I didn't detect any self-righteousness, condescension or bitterness throughout the whole book. From appearances, Billy & the author were a good match & I suppose any cracks in the relationship would have made a book such as this impossible.

All this said, I do find myself agreeing with tinsoldier100550's review in criticizing the author's writing (or rather reading) style & her Pam-ism's. This book is hardly heavy-weight & is not really a very objective study of its subject, shying away from really thorough analysis.

Putting that aside, I think a balance is achieved between wanton Poetic fan-letter & dry psychological analysis & the book mostly steers a course down the middle, making for easy listening. It's always fascinating to learn about someone's rise from poverty to fame & this Biography achieves most of its aims.

Overall? Thoroughly recommended as something unusual to think about while commuting.

Essentially a visual experience, Connolly's reputation has been built on verbal and visual nuance. Any attempt to portray him through the written word is likely to challenge the best writer. Which brings us to Pamela Stephenson's "Billy".
The first thing to say is that - to put it kindly - the writing style is unsuited to the subject matter.
Stephenson's (purple) prose is shot through with cliche, broad generalization and truism; the whole work underscored with snippets of cod psychological insight whose combined effect is further to undermine the man and his work. The breathless tone is present throughout the 383 pages, and - since its style apes that particular magazine - will quickly grate with all but the most hardened Hello reader.
The tone of the book is established as early as page three, when we read that "Not a day has passed since I met him twenty years ago, without my shaking my head and marvelling at his miraculous survival of profound childhood trauma," and continues in similar vein. My own favourite Pam-ism arrives at page 233, and reflects the meeting of author and subject. .."but here was an alpha-man, a crazy, hilarious, sensitive, charismatic savage. I was desparately wishing I had worn something more feminine than my jeans and oversize man's tweed jacket and tie."
Stephenson's use of the superlative adjective throughout the narrative offers further ammunition to critics of her writing style. Page 240 informs us that "Despite his shocking, chauvinist behaviour, he was really wonderfully kind and his terrible sadness melted me." Or how about this from page 241: "Time creeps as slowly as the giant snails that crossed my night path to pluck a perfect Frangipani flower for my supper-time hair-do."?
Shakira Caine (the relentless name-dropping is a further feature of the book) is described, on page 278, as being "the most exquisite woman in the world." And on and on it goes.
This begs the question of any discerning reader: can we safely assume that Pamsy is the stereotypical blonde bimbo? Not according to her. Page 241 reveals that "It felt as though we were joined at the wound....he had always been punished for being 'stupid', and I had always been punished for being 'bright'". So now we know.
Taking pot shots at this book may be akin to shooting fish in a barrel, but isn't that what the Big Yin is - or at least was - all about: bursting the bubble of pomposity? Taking no prisoners?
Time was, of course, when Connolly would rightly have torn this bio to shreds. It's clear that years of living the celeb lifestyle in the Hollywood Hills have blunted his once razor-sharp objectivity. How else could he allow such toe-curling waffle to slip beneath his critical radar?
Ultimately, for all her efforts on his behalf, this book reveals more about Stephenson than it does about Connolly. Those wishing for a more accurate, a more concise, a more incisive, and an altogether grittier account of his life would be better reading "Gullible's Travels", Connolly's co-written 70's biography. He neither sported a horrid hairstyle back then, nor did he dye it; further proof - surely - of a decline in the quality of the later version!