Andy Murray and the disappearence of the British stiff upper lip

NO sooner had I finished three croissants, a mug of hot chocolate and the papers – well the interesting bits – in my beach chalet with sea views (panoramic to the left) on Sunday than the heavens opened.

Water was pouring down the Felixstowe cliffs, the steps to my chalet turned into a cascade, the sea merged with the sky – a strange summer we’re having isn’t it?

I happened to be caught out in the downpour and found myself driving through the town as drains flooded and roads became covered with huge and surprisingly deep puddles.

A friend of mine said two inches of water filled her back porch and she was mop in hand for some considerable time afterwards.

When I finally got back to my flat with sea views (distant), with my footwear all but ruined, I spotted a little damp patch in my ceiling with water dripping on to an occasional table.

So I got the towels out and cursed the weather.

By the time the tennis started I was dry and ready for a Sunday afternoon on the sofa.

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I was flicking between the match and Columbo but managed to pick up the salient points of all the action in SW19 – a postcode in which I once lived for several happy youthful years.

I couldn’t watch the whole match as the constant whooping and screaming and shouting out of the mob got on my nerves.

Wimbledon seems to have become an overhyped TV phenonomen – an amazing 17 million tuned in – with everyone swept along in an hysterical orgy of emotion.

And, despite Lieutenant Columbo’s best efforts, I did see the end during which Andy Murray has a flash flood of his own.

With the cameras rolling he blubbed – though graciously – his way through Sue Barker’s questions and thanked everyone as if it was an Oscar speech.

I heard one commentator say “Well isn’t it nice to see him cry” or words to that effect; as if crying and public displays of emotion are nowadays the only way you can prove membership of the human race.

My sports desk colleagues tell me the odds that Andy Murray might win sporting personality of the year – something which I have always viewed as somewhat of a contradiction in terms – have significantly shortened from the moment he lost control of his emotions.

I sometimes wonder what happened to the British stiff upper lip.

Andy Murray played some brilliant tennis against a man who is possibly the world’s greatest ever tennis player and he took away a cheque for �575,000 – surely that’s and achievement that’s will help dry his tears to fight another day.