Iain Maciver writes …

GRUMPY people must have hated Monday. It was International Optimism Day, when many people sang and danced and laughed and told poker-faced people to get over themselves.

Fantastic idea. Long overdue. Me? I had intended to take part in the day, but I was so overcome with such abject melancholy after watching Ceol Country on the Gaelic channel at the weekend that I was under the duvet. Whimpering.

It must take a heck of a lot of sheer dedication and many months of training to get normally joyful performers to sing light and fluffy songs in such soul-destroying, downbeat, mournful fashion.

Everyone was dour – the artists, the bands, the audience. There they were, all lined up in glorious unison, taking the art of the constipated scowl to new and glorious heights. How could they gather quite so many people in the one room and make them look so utterly dejected and wretched? There must be a knack to doing that.

We were not allowed to see the audience close up in case the merest hint of jolliness should play upon their lips. They are all very obviously regimented in 1960s black-and-white style. On each table is plonked a lamp and each person has a half-full glass in front of them. Or maybe they were half-empty. That would explain it.

Shadowy audience members sat glumly chewing wasps. A row of Free Church (Continuing) elders has more pizzazz. A wandering camera showed shots from behind them. You can see, feel, taste and chew the all-pervading gloominess.

The Optimists Society would have had their work cut out there. They are the group of gloom-dodgers who have been sending cheer packages for International Optimism Day to particularly forlorn fellows like Jeremy Paxman, John Humphrys and Alistair Darling. They feel that even although the country has been struggling with tens of thousands of people losing their jobs, now is the time for our personal outlooks to brighten. Right, let’s all go down the JobCentre. Yes, yes, yes.

See? It is not that easy. When you are faced with life-changing difficulties, it is far from easy to turn that frown upside-down. But you can do it. They are not saying things can only get better. No, we heard that before and look what happened. I think they are saying things may feel worse if you are not positive, so smile like a big daft loon.

With the almighty storm we had at the weekend here, it was hard to find something to be cheerful about. We were warned well in advance. After a while, it was difficult to find any hatches to batten down.

We had little damage ourselves. The sign was ripped off the A.D. Macdonald plumbing shop. It took off and skited down Keith Street and ended up smashing into my wife’s van. Not much damage, really. About, oh, £3,000 should cover it.

Mind you, herself has been on at me to get a new bathroom suite. What do you think, John Norman? Hmm, maybe it is me who is being optimistic.

Like our vehicle-hire tycoon, Kenny Arnol Maclennan. A big concrete wall was blown over and wrecked his fleet of a dozen of nearly-new rental cars. He tells me he is trying not to think about it, although they were worth about £100,000.

That’s the spirit, Kenny. I hereby invite you to join my new Optimists Society (Continuing).

Maybe purveyors and aficionados of the Stornoway black pudding should look on the bright side this week. Iain Barley has gone off to Europe to lecture the EU on why the black marag is really quite special. The boys in the shop have shown me a copy of his speech, or the Brussels spout, as they call it.

You can keep your smelly Stilton, he told them. Parma ham is not on a par with the marag dubh, he lectured the European officials, as he proudly waved the Marags Are Marvellous petition.

Whether Iain and Rhoda Grant MSP succeed in their campaign to get protected status for the finest tube of blood and guts this side of Portobello’s Stornoway-style pudding makers remains to be seen. But a thick slice of optimism wouldn’t go amiss.

Someone else I have to invite into my new OS (C) is that well-known son of Lewis, Barack Obama. I kid you not. Related to descendants of people who left here in 1851 and showing all these white teeth yesterday, he is well-qualified. I think I’ll make him president. We’d better plan another inauguration.

Meanwhile, Seonaidh Macritchie in the County Hotel is still optimistic he will find a name for his new bistro. He tells me that, despite local rumour, he has no plans to call it Marag Obama.