GLASGOW’S Renfrew Street, the corner with Renfield Street. A lone figure surveys the fenced-off street ahead. He’s wearing green Harry Potter glasses, a denim shirt and tight trousers, a combo few 75-year-olds would have the nerve to contemplate, and carries unmistakable silver hair. It’s Billy Connolly.

His thoughts are almost aloud; you know he’s wondering why Glasgow could have burned so savagely once again. But the chat that follows suggests the comedy legend isn’t only coming to terms with the loss of a building, it’s about holding onto the Glasgow he knew.

When Proust wrote Remembrance of Things Past his madeleine cake and tea experience was his memory trigger. Right now, Connolly’s jolt could well be the smell of a sausage roll, or the schoosh of an Irn Bru ring pull.

As we talk, what emerges is he doesn’t simply want to be here. He needs to be here. The comedian’s eye catches the building where the Apollo Theatre used to be. He laughs as it reminds him of being accosted by a fan who demanded he sing a Dolly Parton song.

On the subject of fame he segues into another story, when back in the day of his beard a fan spotted him in Troon. Such was her enthusiasm to introduce him to her pal, she led him there – by his facial hair.

Connolly’s wicked chuckle suggests he’s doing well, the evil Parkinson’s held at bay by six pills a day and large gulps of determination. The hands, which once played guitar and banjo (and banjoed the odd journalist) aren’t shaking now.

His movement? Well, it’s more a of tea dance than a jive, but conversation reveals his mind is still Locarno ballroom quick.

We talk of the Glasgow voice; the worry it’s weakening. He’s sad young people don’t protest, they don’t get angry. Those who do get angry, ironically, are those with the least to say, who love the idea of being upset.

Remember the time, Billy, when you could delightfully diss the Scottish Parliament without unleashing fury of Biblical proportions? He laughs in recall. We talk of the great theatre that’s running in the city right now with Sting’s The Last Ship. Connolly saw it in New York. And it reminds us of when Glasgow raged, thanks to the angry young men and women of UCS.

Connolly worked in the shipyards of course and then he landed a new job of Funniest Man On The Planet. He’s not going to his stage work any more however. The memory isn’t powerful enough.

We talk of mortality; it’s hard not to. We’ve both lost close friends, Connolly many more. He can’t resist a funny when he says a pal declared the Departure Lounge to be getting really crowded these days. A great line indeed, Billy. So we have to make the most of the time we have.

And he plans to do that. He’s writing a play at the moment with a plot line which will evoke RD Laing’s world. And won’t Glasgow lick its lips in anticipation? You know Connolly can craft this play. And he may even appear in it. He may also appear in a new movie. If the director can see past the Parkinson’s, he says. He’d be mad not to, I suggest.

Chat flows from light to dark. We talk of how Glasgow once perceived him, when the nation suffered horrendously from Tall Poppy Syndrome. But those days are past, he says, in thankful voice. He’s right; now the city displays murals, and soon a bronze statue commissioned in his honour.

His eyes twinkle in appreciation. But you guess what he’s thinking; statues are about remembrance. Sir Billy Connolly is still very much here. And he wants to connect with his city. He wants to see where Stanley Baxter once entertained, where he himself once performed. He wants to talk about Glasgow now, about Steven Gerrard’s arrival.

Conversation is halted. Fans begin to emerge. Selfies. More selfies. Connolly smiles and indulges them but I sense he’d rather be left to wander near the burnt-out art school.

Yet, this strikes a note; while the art school sold Glasgow to the world, so too has this man. Where Joyce’s Ulysses transformed the image of Dublin from a backwater to a metropolis, Connolly too has sold his hometown, its colour and vibrancy, its humour as dark as a boilermaker’s overalls.

He also makes us realise you don’t need to go to art school to be an artist. Just as Picasso studied the human form in order to capture its essence, Connolly has studied the mind, capturing its tics, its eccentricities. And what I come away with is the realisation buildings can be remodelled, insides recreated. But what if the city loses the spirit of a Billy Connolly? Who can remind young people they need to howl sometimes, to question, to laugh at the absurd?

Proust wrote: “Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”

He was right. Let’s focus on giants with so much to give.

Let’s savour our legends, those who’ve made us laugh while offering a sense of who we really are.