The great thing about Glasgow is that if there's a nuclear attack

When the great humorist Billy Connolly jested, “The great thing about Glasgow is that if there's a nuclear attack it'll look exactly the same afterwards,” he cloaked deep truth in the veil of laughter. Though spoken in jest, his words are a mirror reflecting the resilience and rough beauty of a city and its people. For behind that humor lies a philosophy of endurance — a truth as old as civilization itself: that the soul of a people cannot be destroyed, no matter the ruin that surrounds them.

Glasgow, the city of shipbuilders and dreamers, of gray skies and golden hearts, was long known for its harshness — the soot, the struggle, the scars of industry. When Connolly, himself born amid its brick and smoke, uttered these words, he was not mocking but celebrating the indomitable spirit of his birthplace. He was saying, in the language of jest, that no bomb could destroy what poverty, labor, and time had already hardened — that Glaswegians had weathered so much that even apocalypse would find them unshaken. What others might call ruin, they called home.

To the ancient ear, this might sound like the boast of a warrior before battle. Indeed, the people of Glasgow are warriors in their own right — not of sword and shield, but of laughter and survival. Theirs is the strength born from endurance, the humor that defies despair. Connolly’s wit was their banner, his laughter a weapon against hopelessness. In him spoke the timeless truth that the human heart can endure any hardship if it can still find reason to laugh.

Consider the history that gave rise to such words. In the centuries of the Industrial Revolution, Glasgow grew from a quiet town into the beating engine of an empire. The shipyards roared, the skies blackened, and generations of men and women toiled in smoke and grime. When those industries fell, they were left with broken factories and broken dreams — yet still they sang, still they joked, still they stood proud. Their city might have crumbled, but their spirit remained invincible. It is in this heritage of hardship that Connolly’s humor finds its root.

In truth, his jest speaks to something greater than one city — it speaks to all who have known struggle. When the world is gray and battered, when one’s life feels like a ruin, there remains the power of defiant joy. To laugh in the face of ruin is not foolishness; it is courage. It is saying to fate itself: You may take my riches, my buildings, my comfort — but you shall not take my laughter. Such is the lesson of Glasgow, and of every soul that rises after being struck down.

From this, let each of us learn: find beauty in the broken, strength in the scarred. The world may strike us with its storms, may leave us in rubble, but we must never lose the humor that keeps the heart alive. When life grows bleak, speak as Connolly spoke — with laughter that turns sorrow into song. For laughter is not denial; it is defiance. It is the spirit’s way of saying, “I am still here.”

So, when you find yourself walking through your own ruins — the failed dream, the dark season, the seeming end — remember the wisdom hidden in Connolly’s jest. Let your soul smile, even if your world does not. For one who can laugh amid ashes has already triumphed over despair. And one day, when the smoke clears, that laughter will be the sound of rebirth.