One of the hardest things for a Scotsman to get used to, living here in the Southern Hemisphere, is that unexpectedly happy feeling that comes over as you realise yet another year is rapidly fizzling out.

If my memory serves me right - and I'm confident that it does -the fag end of the year in Scotland is exclusively a time for cold, dark nights, cold dark mornings and - more often than not - cold dark afternoons. With the ever diminishing prospect of spending a fortune getting blootered at Christmas and Ne'erday the only dubious bright spots on an otherwise bleak, miserable calendar.

Whereas, here in Oz, it's springtime, mate - fantastic weather and that unmistakable feeling of renewal as the trees, buds and flowers burst into life. Another reminder of the importance of living in an Australian town where you truly get seasons. 

Everybody cheers up in spring - it's a medical fact - you don't even need drugs or booze to be happy, though it always helps -and anyway I've got everything to be happy about. 

Well, I have.

Naturally enough, when I realise I'm actually uh, happy, I immediately question it.  

I mean - were Scotsman supposed to be happy? I don't think so.  I mean, forgive the stereotype but it's a stereotype for a reason.

Anyway, happy and contented always seemed to mean smug and self-satisfied to me, and I don't think I was alone. 

You know, the sort of toffee-nosed, up-themselves blokes who follow rugby, that you're  liable to come across in places like Gullane and Lochearnhead - which I only mention because that's where I once met a bloke who was a particularly self-satisfied dick. 

'I've a Lab - chocolate - and my house is worth three times what I paid for it. Oh, and every Sunday we have a wee do for pals with wine, cheese and a few nibblies if you're interested.  In the conservatory, naturally …'

He was happy.  Or pretended to be.  I'm not sure which is worse. 

A far greater crime than observing insufferable smugness in others is detecting it in a brief moment of self -examination.   It's bad enough making a tit of yourself when you're pissed but when you're stone cold smug'n'sober, then maybe it really is time to stop thinking like a moaning-faced Scot.

Australia's got a lot to offer, you know - it really has.  The iconic image of sunny days, fantastic light, beach barbeques and big knockers is really astonishingly accurate, believe it or not - as is the high standard of living, higher than average wages, and dynamic Metropolitan cultural vibe.

Of course I'm happy.  Who wouldn't be? 

Me.  It's not my fault.  I can't help it.  I'm Scottish. 

I am happy. 

But not all the time - you're not supposed to be.

What is happiness anyway?  In such situations it may be helpful to consult the entirely British  - (some would say English and as a long-term, sincere fan I wouldn't disagree) - comedy legend that is Ken Dodd.

'Happiness', said Doddy whose very inimitability is clearly demonstrated by the fact that he's about the only 1960s British variety entertainer who was only ever in police custody for diddling  - his tax - 'is the greatest gift that I possess'.

'I thank the Lord, that I've been blessed - with more than my share of happiness.'

Now I don't know about you, but I think that sounds like someone's who's a bit nutty.  The sort of person who suddenly bursts out laughing on a bus.  When they're travelling alone. 

A crazy person.

But then, the run-up to Christmas, early winter in Scotland.  A magical time, to be honest.  Dark nights, bright lights, good curries, great pubs, office parties, European football nights, Saturday afternoons, Fridays, friends and family.

See, that would make me happy.

Or would it? 

It never used to.  Oh, I was happy enough - most of the time - but I wasn't happy all the time, and anyway, that'd be weird.

The idea of a Friday night wandering down Byres Road, having a few and then jumping into the Subway - it still has the smell - ending up in town, having a beer in the Horseshoe... it's still an occasional personal fantasy of reasonable proportions.

But it's basically a fantasy.  And a great memory at the same time - nothing wrong with memories if that's what makes you happy.

Or, even if they make you sad.  Or even just a wee bit down.  Which is normal - no, better than that, a good thing.  After all, to appreciate happiness, you have to embrace some sort of sadness otherwise you'd never have anything to compare it to.  Life is a combination of good times and bad times - often paradoxically at the same time - and unless you actually want to be a non-thinking zombie, the sooner you accept it, the better.

Two years ago today, my father died. Now, he we gave him a great send off and he died fully aware of how loved he was - but - I don't half miss him.

Like most sons I only really called him when I needed something - even if that something was just to hear his voice.  I've got the memories and it's not the same thing, but I suppose it'll have to do. 

Don't they say that when your father dies, it's time to be a man -  isn't that what we Scots believe - mostly because it's true?

I've always believed the best music comes out of sadness.  Pain, rejection, heartache and hurt.  What has happy music ever given us anyway - Ken Dodd?  I rest my case.

I love the Blues.  Not only your old original Robert Johnson/ Mississippi Delta stuff but all of the various branches of the root which produced all good popular music, from Chuck Berry to John Lennon, Smokey Robinson to Pink Floyd and way beyond.

Next time you experience some unexpected happiness, play some sad songs.  You'll be amazed how much  better you feel.