In Scotland there are the dours and the no’dours. The dours are well enough identified. They are decedent of the joyless Presbyterians, the ones who relate to pain before pleasure.

The no’dours are a bit more difficult to spot, but spot-able nevertheless, usually by their excessive use of humour. In company they quickly descend into a kind of puerile jokey-ness, usually a little harsh, usually at someone’s expense.

I think the no’dours disliked the stereotype of the miserable Scot: mean about money and drink-sodden. Like Britain’s prime minister in the 60s, Harold Wilson, they contrived a humour to throw off the stigma of their natural dourness.

Once in a while they produce a comic genius like Billy Connolly but more often the no’dours are unfunny and tedious as they compete with each other for who can banter best. Put a few of them in a room and the nonsense soon kicks off.

They are mostly male though there are Scots-women who can match the no’dours crack for crack. Whatever their gender I wish they would get serious. Actually, they are serious, very much so just behind the vale. But they’re afraid to show it socially in case they come across dour. And we couldn’t possibly have that could we?