‘Andy Murray wins…” ran the tickertape along the bottom of the screen on BBC1. It was 5.49am, the Diary had just woken up on the first day of Wimbledon, and wasn’t yet fully Hawkeye-focused. Wins what? His fitness
battle and so plays, bringing a welcome blast of Calvinist dourness to Ingerland,
settling over the sun-drenched land of King Harold of Kane like the haar? The Diary dearly wanted to believe this, almost as much as The Scotsman’s accountants who’d okayed the jaunt down to SW19.