If not, take a pew and listen to Andy Cameron. "Well, it was the 1970s and he was Archbishop Winning then. As part of an anti-sectarian television programme, myself and the archbishop had to go to Ibrox. He was to be photographed wearing a Rangers scarf and I would be wearing a Celtic scarf. There was a sign saying: 'Do not go on to the pitch.' Willie Waddell stomped down the tunnel and asked what we were doing. He then pushed away the sign, telling us to get on the park for the photies."
Waddell, the Rangers footballing legend and the manager who led the club to the European Cup Winners' Cup triumph of 1972, then invited the archbishop into his office for a cup of tea. "The archbishop was a great football man, from Craigneuk. He knew Willie had played for Forth Wanderers so they sat and talked for hours."
It was just another surreal moment in the life of Andrew Cameron, bus conductor, Sunblest supervisor, Top of the Pops veteran, songwriter, radio personality of the year, television personality of the year, comedian, actor, after-dinner speaker and Rangers supporter.
"A year ago I was flying to Europe to see Rangers play,'' says Cameron of the financial depredations that has seen his club sink into administration. "Now I am braced for watching them at Annan.''
The Rangers saga is the story of the moment. But Cameron's history offers a spell-binding tale of itself.
The cliche demands that all comedians must bring light relief from a place of darkness. Cameron's relentless humour, his brimming optimism and his obvious humanity stand in stark contrast to a traumatic entrance into the play of life.
"It's all in the book," says Cameron, referring to the circumstances of his birth related in his autobiography. Pressed to elaborate, he continues: "I was found in a building in London wrapped in a cloth with my birth certificate pinned to me."
This was 1941. His father, serving in Egypt with the Army, was called home to take his son to Scotland. Cameron arrived on the doorstep of his granny, Bella, in Rutherglen. "I never heard of my mother again. I do not know what happened to her. But my granny was unbelievable."
His presence as the youngest in a brimming household proved ultimately to be an audition for showbusiness. "There isn't anyone in showbusiness who does not have an ego," he says with a smile. "I wanted to be the centre of attention. There were parties in the house with uncles singing, aunties dancing but I could not hold a tune. So I decided to tell jokes."
The rest is geography. Cameron worked all over the place. He was on the buses, a delivery driver and a character who seemed destined for a life far from the limelight. It all changed after a broken marriage.
"I was 32 before I got into the business," he says. His break came after he did what he describes a "wee turn" at a works party and then was asked if he would perform at a stag night for a tenner on the Friday. "For a tenner, I will be there on Thursday," he replied.
Spotted there by an agent, he was asked to do 20 minutes at Cambusnethan Club, near Wishaw, for an audience of social club conveners. They were impressed enough to give him a combined 21 bookings.
Woking as a supervisor at the Sunblest bread factory, Cameron's career took its biggest step. A bus strike meant he was deputised to drive a secretary to and from work. He was 32, bruised by a failed marriage, and Norma was 18.
"She is the best thing that has ever happened to me. The love of my life. A rock. Always supportive." The comedian is not smiling.
He may be remembering the day his future wife strongly dissuaded him from giving up. "I 'died' at Danderhall Miners," he says. This would have been etched on his career gravestone if Norma had not intervened.
"I was at her house for dinner on a Sunday and asked her if I could use the phone. She asked what for and I said that I was going to phone the Ochiltree Club in Ayrshire to cancel my gig the next night. She just said: 'No you are not. You are going and I will come with you."'
The booking was a success. "I went full time as comic the day I got married. November 4, 1975."
He was then 34 and on the bottom ladder. He rose quickly on the back of supporting Sydney Devine in the country and western singer's sold-out shows at the Pavilion in Glasgow.
"He gave me a great piece of advice. In the clubs, you had to go for their throats. It was machine-gun patter. Sydney told me to pause and wait for the laugh in theatre. I went down well."
The only dissenting voice was his granny who was now 86. "'She called me a silly so-and-so and added: 'Nae wonder people were laughing at you the way you were acting."'
We're on The March with Ally's Army, the rallying song to the Scotland squad that headed to Argentina for an ill-fated World Cup finals in 1978, brought Cameron to national prominence, bringing him on to Top of the Pops. Television shows followed but Cameron became part of the national fabric through panto and radio.
The latter became a phenomenon when children came on to the show and told jokes. It had its pitfalls. In Aberdeen for a live broadcast, the comedian was asked by a young boy what vegetable made you cry.
"I replied onions. The wee boy said: 'Naw, a turnip.' I said a turnip does not make you cry. The boy said: 'It does if it hits in you in the testicles.' And he did not say testicles." Cameron was booked on radio for 13 weeks and stayed for 15 years.
Panto provided laughs, experience and "a good wage". He says: "I loved the atmosphere, I loved the warmth, but I had to give it up. You cannot go by your time. The weans want to see people they watch on telly. It is draining as well. Rehearsals for 12 hours and then three shows a day for the run."
Cameron, 71, now lives in Auchterarder and does after-dinner speaking. He also does match-day interviews for guests at Ibrox. He is still a fan. As a young man he signed himself out of hospital – after having more than 30 stitches inserted in his hand – so he could go to watch Rangers.
"I cannot get over the fact that I now can play golf with Alistair McCoist [Rangers manager] and am told to go into the dressing room at Ibrox and haul out a player for interview."
Rangers is central to his life even though, whisper it, Cameron always comperes the annual Celtic charity night. He is briskly belligerent towards any form of sectarianism, drawing ire when he championed the signing of Mo Johnston, a Catholic, for Rangers in 1989.
He is similarly outspoken more than 20 years on about the troubles besieging the club. "There are times when I cannot see any way out of it," he says, pondering the club's descent into financial mire. "I had a lump in my throat at the last match of the season against Motherwell at Ibrox. I am very sad and angry. I cannot forgive Whyte.
"My views on Sir David Murray [the previous owner] are clouded by the fact that he gave us great players and nine-in-a-row. We were all cheering him then."
He adds: "But I try to be positive. The supporters have been magnificent and the manager has been strong. Of course, I worry. Are we going to have players? Where is the team going to play? How will we manage to get a team on the park with this transfer embargo imposed by the SFA. I have been watching Rangers for 66 years. It is not just part of life, it is a part of me."
He reserves just a small part of his life for crotchiness. "We live in an obnoxious society that is strongly influenced by a minority who are not happy and want you to be the same. They cannot stand anyone just getting on with life, making the best of it."
He pauses and then smiles. There is a joke coming. There always is. He is set to make the best of things a little bit better.
LIFE AND LOVES Career high: Top of the Pops in 1978. I was on doing Ally's Army. My dad was on nearly doing Billy Idol. He took exception to a comment made by the Generation X singer and had him up against a wall. It was all smoothed over and it was a surreal night.
Career low: Every time you ‘"die’" in stand-up. It's a real low. You can't sleep for days afterwards. Fortunately, you go back in front of the punters and it works.
Favourite meal: Mince and tatties, with pie pastry.
Favourite film: Rio Bravo because I love Westerns. Some Like It Hot because I still laugh every time I see it.
Favourite music: Bobby Darin is a favourite but swing music in general.
Last book read: A biography of Spencer Tracy by James Curtis.
Best trait: I am an optimist.
Worst trait: I have a short temper.
Best advice: Anne Fields, the showbusiness legend, gave me a great bit of advice about panto. She told me: "Don't work in skirts, always work in trousers. You lose your personality in a skirt." She was right.
Worst advice: If I have had bad advice, then I feel lucky enough not to have taken it.
Favourite dinner guests: I would like to talk to Winston Churchill, Stalin and particularly Harry S Truman. I would love to know how they came to the decision to drop the nuclear bomb on Japan. How is such a huge step taken?