There are a few things I’ve said about this country over the years that have incurred the wrath, or disappointment, of some of my fellow Scots. Such as: “a lot of England’s countryside is much nicer than Scotland’s” (true). Or: “my kilt is made from an Irish tartan” (it was cheap in the sale). Or maybe the worst of all: “I don’t find Billy Connolly funny” (sorry).

I have tried over the years, believe me. But finding someone funny, or unfunny, is such an instinctual thing – you either laugh or you don’t; ha-ha or no ha-ha – that there’s no point in trying to understand what Connolly’s fans see in him if it leaves you cold. Maybe you have to share experiences with a comedian to truly find them hilarious (but then again, I’ve never run a hotel in Torquay and find comedy about running hotels in Torquay very funny indeed so it can’t be the only explanation surely).

Having said all that, even though I don’t get his comedy, the more I’ve heard Billy talking about his life in old age, particularly when he talks about frailty and illness, the more I’ve grown to respect and admire his thoughtfulness and (whichever of the two is required) gentleness or gruffness. As you’ll know, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease 10 years ago and whenever he speaks about it, he does so with such vivid, matter-of-fact honesty that it’s gripping and a little frightening. He did an interview for The Guardian the other day and described how the disease was “creeping up” behind him and stopping him doing things. “I’m being encroached upon,” he said.

If you haven’t read the interview, I recommend it – it’s more of a chat really between him and his wife Pamela Stephenson, but it also mines the wisdom Billy has about some of the profounder questions we’re facing just now on freedom of speech, identity and nationality. Famous Scots who leave Scotland, like Connolly, often get criticised when they express an opinion about Scottish affairs as if you have to live here to have a valuable view. But it strikes me that the opposite can be true and that it’s only when you’ve put a bit of distance between you and a place, or a person, or a situation, that you get a kind of clarity.

So it is with Billy Connolly. I met him once when he was being given the freedom of the city of Glasgow and although he joked about the honour (“If I commit a crime I’m entitled to my own cell, which I would like more than anything”), he also talked about the dangers of relying too much on a sense of nationality. “I don’t dwell on where I come from,” he said. “It’s a great trap to fall into. I meet all these guys all over world, particularly from Govan and the Gorbals, who say ‘Never forget where you come from’, and of course I don’t, but it can be a mistake to dwell on it.”

It seems to me that Connolly has, thank God, the same clarity on the other great issue of our time: what to say and when to say it. It’s clear from the Guardian interview that he takes a libertarian view of comedy: if it’s funny, say it! For instance, there will be some green campaigners who think the climate emergency is so serious you should never joke about it, but Billy thinks not. “There’s something in my Scottish nature that makes me look forward to global warming,” he said, “high f****** time!” I like that. It’s funny. Maybe I’m starting to get this.

Connolly’s position on jokes like that one is that if you’re willing to take the consequences, you should be free to crack it. He points to a generation of black comedians, who are in their 50s or 60s now and are unapologetically politically incorrect. “It’s fantastically good for you,” said Connolly. “They just say it like it is – it’s breathtaking. That’s wonderful and I’m glad they exist, because the social-worker-ation that has passed through comedy is vomit-inducing. Comedians never used to worry about what was correct to say. You said it, and you soon found out whether it was correct or not. And then you got on with it. And that was a good enough rule for me.”

Social-worker-ation, I must say, is a very good way to describe it and if you need reminding of how it works, I suggest you catch the stand-up by Graham Linehan that was streamed online on Saturday. The main subject of Linehan’s routine was the fall-out from the gig he planned to do at the Fringe this year before two venues pulled out and cancelled on him, apparently because of his views on trans issues. Later the Conservatives also expressed concern about giving him a platform at their conference. Banned by the Tories and the Fringe. Quite an achievement, he said.

Happily, Linehan tries to take a positive view of what happened next: being forced to perform on the street outside the Scottish Parliament. “The Holyrood experience was a bit of a victory,” he said, “because it drew attention to how f****d comedy is.” What he means is that if a comic or comedy writer, not least one who created The IT Crowd and Father Ted, can’t get a gig at the Edinburgh Fringe, then something has gone horribly wrong.

How things should work instead was demonstrated a little bit later in Linehan’s stand-up set in exactly the same way as Connolly demonstrated with his joke about global warming. Linehan, who has attracted criticism from some gay people over this position on trans rights, told the audience how he’d recently had to go into London for the first time in ages and it turned out it was the day of the Pride march. “It was a bit like crossing occupied France while Jewish,” he said. Oh my. Jokes about Pride, Jews during the war, and global warming. I feel a little awkward.

The point is: that’s fine. Not only is awkwardness often a central part of good comedy – we often laugh because we’re nervous – awkwardness or offence can never, and should never, be a justification for avoiding the joke in the first place as long as you’re prepared to deal with what happens next. But don’t just take my word for it please. Take the word of Billy Connolly. And do what he would do: crack the joke and take the consequences. Maybe we’ll laugh. Maybe we’ll won’t. But what we’ll all do, hopefully, is defend your right to be funny.