As imagined by Brian Beacom

LOOK, I’m a wee bit concerned that here we are, appearing in our first major football tournament in nearly quarter of a century and the first question you ask is, ‘Do I mind being described as ‘dour’?

Am I dour? Well, I’m from Saltcoats. And as a boy, my idea of excitement was dodging chip-hungry seagulls on the beach and counting the days ‘till I got the Scottish Football Book each Christmas.

I’m certainly not showbizzy. I’m not looking to bathe in the spotlight. I’m not Rod Stewart or Janey Godley. Or Professor Jason Leitch.

So, if I am dour, is that such a bad thing? The very essence of being Scottish is to be miserable. That’s why our schoolkids study Grassic Gibbons' Sunset Song and Ena Lamont Stewart’s Men Should Weep. And didn’t we all love IM Jolly? It’s that sense of searing hopelessness and damp wallpaper reality I’m trying to bring to my squad.

There’s another point for Herald readers to consider; does dourness deny success? Andy Murray doesn’t exactly overflow with undiluted joy. Gordon Brown always looked like someone had nicked his five-speed bike. And have you ever seen Nicola Sturgeon smile, except when Ruth Davidson said she was hanging up her boots – oh, and when the Salmond inquiry accepted her lost memory story.

Experience has also taught me that glum is good. I played for St Mirren. I was assistant to Jose Mourinho at Chelsea. Kenny Dalglish made me coach at Liverpool. Could you ever imagine either of these two singing Kumbaya round a campfire, or watching Mamma Mia! The Movie?

If you want me to be happy, I can’t be Scottish. And if I’m not Scottish should I be in charge of the Scotland team? And remember this; Scotland tried happiness in the past. Wasn’t Ally MacLeod the cheeriest of men? Yet, contrast with those who brought as some success; Andy Roxburgh and Craig Brown were both schoolteachers. Nuff said.

I should add that I nearly once got the Celtic manager’s job, losing out to Ronny Deila. And it’s this sense of failure I want to instil into my players. You see, I don’t want them to think they are Brazilians. I don’t want them flying too close to the sun like Icarus but to accept their DNA; they are red-haired, freckled and easily sunburnt, a stunted cultural product of bad diets and emotional neglect.

OK, you’re asking how can all this help win games? Well, I’ve been studying American psychology professor Barry Schwartz, who argues in the bestseller The Paradox of Choice that the secret to happiness is having low expectations.

That’s the key; expect hee haw. Work hard. Hang up your egos in the dressing room peg – and you might just do well. Someone famous once said: “It’s the hope that kills you.”

They were so right. So, let’s not hope for a second that a morose, moody Mr Magoo with a dark blue trackie could ever lead Scotland to Euro success.