I've always wanted to go to Switzerland to see what the army does

“I’ve always wanted to go to Switzerland to see what the army does with those wee red knives.” Thus jested Billy Connolly, the great Scottish bard of laughter, whose humor cuts deep even as it charms. At first, the line seems but a playful remark — a comedian’s way of teasing a peaceful nation known for its neutrality. Yet within this jest lies a deeper reflection on the nature of power, simplicity, and imagination. For in speaking of the Swiss Army and their wee red knives, Connolly holds a mirror to the absurdities of modern life — to the contrast between a nation famed for peace and a tool famed for its versatility in war and survival.

In the ancient spirit of irony, laughter was never merely amusement; it was wisdom dressed in jest. The Swiss Army Knife, small yet astonishingly capable, stands as a symbol of balance between might and modesty. It is not a sword that conquers nations, but a tool that conquers inconvenience. It does not harm — it serves. And so, Connolly’s curiosity — “what does the army do with those wee red knives?” — becomes a parable for a greater truth: that true strength may lie not in destruction, but in preparation, precision, and restraint.

The Swiss, a people dwelling among mountains, learned long ago that defense is not only in weapons, but in wisdom. Their army, though seldom seen in battle, is trained in readiness — disciplined, calm, prepared for what may come. The same spirit lives in the knife they made famous: a thing of beauty and practicality, forged not for show, but for purpose. It carries within it the soul of its makers — efficient, quiet, neutral, but always ready. Connolly, with his humor, calls us to wonder at this paradox: an army whose greatest symbol is not a gun or banner, but a pocket-sized miracle of usefulness.

There is a tale of the explorer Sir Edmund Hillary, who carried a Swiss Army Knife on his ascent of Everest. When ropes tangled, or equipment failed, it was that humble red blade — not the grandeur of empire or the strength of armies — that solved the problem. Thus we see that the mightiest acts are often born from the smallest tools. And perhaps this is what Connolly, in his jest, intuited: that the greatness of a nation — or a man — lies not in the vastness of their force, but in the subtlety of their mastery.

Yet his words also remind us to laugh at ourselves, at our human tendency to overcomplicate strength. We build machines of immense power, forge weapons of unspeakable reach, and still find ourselves undone by the simplest things — by hunger, by loneliness, by the need for a tool that can open a bottle or mend a wire. The “wee red knife” stands, in its way, as a philosopher’s object — a reminder that what is small and humble can still embody the fullness of design and purpose.

So, let us take from this jest a deeper teaching: that simplicity is not weakness, and that humor itself is a kind of wisdom. Billy Connolly’s laughter is the laughter of the sage who has seen through the pomp of the world. He reminds us that even as technology grows vast and power grows loud, there remains virtue in modest things — in tools that serve rather than dominate, in lives that mend rather than destroy.

The lesson, then, is this: do not despise the small or the ordinary. The smallest blade may save the greatest endeavor; the quietest joke may hold the deepest truth. Approach life as the Swiss approach their craft — prepared, patient, and balanced. Learn to laugh at the world’s grand pretensions, as Connolly did, and to value what endures: usefulness, craftsmanship, and good humor.

Thus, when we hear him say, “I’ve always wanted to go to Switzerland to see what the army does with those wee red knives,” we may smile — but we also may understand. For in his laughter, there is reverence. In his curiosity, there is wonder. And in his jest, there is an ageless truth: that the wisest strength is quiet, the finest tools are humble, and the brightest spirits know how to laugh at all things — even at power itself.