Surburbanites Rise to the New 'princess' - Andy Murray

As there was, and is likely to be for many years, only one British singles player in the second week of Wimbledon, the search is on for someone to accompany Andy Murray. Inevitably, like a naff football club giving the fans a squad number and listing them in the program, the BBC have alighted on the Center Court crowd. It was an extra player. It was worth a set, at least. Hell, give it a wild card and it might even win the darn thing.

The crowd's best performance, it was commonly agreed, came on Monday night when it came from two sets and a break down to beat well regarded Frenchman Richard Gasquet. The press went into overdrive. There was amazement that something so quintessentially stiff upper-lipped could quiver with such emotion. The Diana effect was wheeled out. The national collapse of backbone that had followed the death of a princess rendering it permissible for suburbanites to 'vent' over a last-16 match.

Baloney. Monday's emoting - and more than 10 million watched on the Beeb, making tennis audiences second only to football - demonstrated not a shift in middle-class behavior, but tennis's eternal qualities. I remember seeing a Davis Cup semi-final against Italy in the 1970s and the crowd reached fever pitch watching the brothers Lloyd.

When it is close, tennis, with its perfectly calibrated scoring system, is the best of sports. It is like a continuous penalty shootout without pause and with added variety. When it isn't close, it's as interesting as squash.

Murray's victory was entirely gripping. You would have to be mute not to whoop and holler. It was the highlight of a Wimbledon not blessed with close matches - although this afternoon's final should be for the ages. It was followed the next day by the nadir when Alan Titchmarsh was kidnapped from the Royal Box to pass comment. According to Titchmarsh, Murray deserved particular congratulation not for his battling tennis, but for having learned the lessons of PR. Now the Scotsman was behaving properly, the over-celebrated gardener felt able to support him. Hats off to Titchy.

If only John McEnroe were to be unleashed on the refuseniks from the Royal Box and encouraged to treat them as he does callers to the tennis version of 606 on 5 Live. 'Sorry, your name again... Twatmarsh, unhuh... And your point is... Next pointless celebrity, please.'