Gordon Brown, one would suggest, is sitting in office this morning, fervently wishing that he'd spent less time as a young man working on his political aspirations, and more time polishing up his backhand. For this morning, Scottish tennis players are far more popular than Scottish prime ministers, and the lugubrious Brown ? Britain's answer to Gert Smal ? would kill for a shred of the publicity and goodwill that Andy Murray lays claim to today.

There have been greater escapes at Wimbledon, but few have roused the local support quite so explosively as Murray's five-set triumph yesterday.

Much like his fellow Scot James McEvoy hardly cuts the figure of an action hero ('Wanted' might just be the worst film I've ever seen, the complete works of Leon Schuster, Steven Seagal and the Wayans brothers notwithstanding), so Murray looks more like the slightly gawky captain of the school chess club; no doubting his credentials as a tennis champion now, however, as he strides into the quarterfinals.

At two sets down and looking, at times, almost disinterested ? very odd, considering the foaming masses cheering him on ? Richard Gasquet appeared set for a comfortable win that would have done even more to strain the frayed relationship England has with France. A big, kicking first serve delivered consistently, a searing backhand, and the softest of touches at the net: the Frenchman, as predicted by John McEnroe earlier, was looking a most awkward opponent for Murray.

But McEnroe's words might just have spurred on the Scot, who clung on in the third, dragged it to a tie-break, and emerged victorious to the sound of what appeared to be a collective centre court orgasm.

Gasquet might have sensed that he wasn't an overwhelming favourite at this stage... From there, Murray rode a wave of fevered support, suddenly producing shots, and a look of intent, that hadn't been seen in sets one or two. 6-2 in the fourth, 6-4 in near darkness in the fifth ? shades of the Presidents Cup finale at Fancourt in 2003 ? and bang, Andy Murray is Tim Henman, Sir Geoff Hurst and Richard the Lionheart, all rolled into one.

Or at least he is to his fellow Britons; to the rest of us, I'm afraid, there remains a conviction that tennis racquet replaced with braces, pocket protector and a mastery of Kasparov's opening gambits, wouldn't see Murray out of place. And, magnitude of his display yesterday acknowledged, he didn't help himself with his closing gesture on centre court: sleeve rolled up and bicep curled, he pointed vigorously to the reasonable bump, reaffirming, perhaps, that he was stronger than McEnroe had given him credit for. Brave British warrior for this morning's front pages; bit of a gimp for the rest of the planet.

Still, a gimp with an awfully good ability to play tennis, which will needed once again in a couple of days time, when he runs into someone with a bicep that comfortably dwarfs Murray's. There's a strong suspicion, every time Rafael Nadal pumps his fist or unfurls a particularly brutal shot, that Popeye lurks somewhere down the track on the Spaniard's family tree, and that suspicion will only grow as he takes on Murray and 15 000 baying locals.

Nadal will stand as favourite, but he won't relish a tricky encounter with a revived Scot on what is now firmly home soil. If Murray's serving finds rhythm, and the laziness he's occasionally prone to is kept at bay, then he could well get past a man still to fully convince that grass is a natural surface for him. And should that happen, the prospect of Murray going even further will drown the local media. At the moment, David Cameron would be an excellent bet to be the next man at Number 10; should Murray somehow remain last man standing at Wimbledon, then there'll still be a Scot as British Prime Minister. Just an Andy rather than a Gordon.

  • Contact Dan at dan@metropolis.co.za