Aye, it’s being so cheerful ….
The calendar doesn’t tell the full story however. To fully appreciate the passage and for that matter ravages of time, nothing quite beats the moment when you inadvertently catch a glimpse of your reflection in a shop window.
‘Blimey, who’s that miserable looking old git?’, you instinctively ponder before harsh reality kicks in and you realise that the vaguely familiar aged misery-guts in question is, in fact, you.
Reading this on a typically grim Scottish February day you might feel in desperate need of some dazzling down-under therapeutic summer warmth, but before you think about selling the family car, boarding out the kids, (or vice versa), and signing the emigration papers, you should consider some of the less alluring elements of life in the Land of Oz.
Fair enough, it wasn’t an open invitation to do as you pleased; innkeepers and publicans in exotic locales didn’t actually invite you to marry their daughters and covet their oxen, but we were certainly better regarded than some other nationalities I could mention.
Like, for instance, off the top of my head, the English, who, in my experience at any rate, were often regarded as haughty, pompous and self-regarding.
As Scots we’re used to disappointment. Some might even say we like it that way. Saves time later on.
Inside the Rod Laver Arena, you can tell which particular members of the Murray Mob are truly genuine Scots.
The ones who, like me and my posse, don’t really expect the Big Man to win.
Years ago, during the World Cup of 1982, me and a bunch of mates were at the Brazil game - famous for David Neary’s “toe-poke” goal.
The Big Man needs a test.
That’s the unanimous verdict of the wee group of people I’ve been watching the tennis with. We’ve bonded, the same way you do with those people you sit next to at the football.
There’s me and Billy ‘Mr Zydeco’ Abbott of course, his daughter Nina Simone, Dave the Scot, Beryl the delectable Kiwi, Alan fae Dufftown, and Ped who won’t give me his full name because, as he says: ‘I’ve got more warrants out for me than ‘Bible John’.