So he’s done it again. After two and a half of years of wandering in the wilderness of, well, not mediocrity exactly, but second or third best-ness, after climbing the small foothills of adversity, a twingey back, a few disappointing chokes, a couple of kids, after going four sets with Britain’s first Wimbledon finalist since Bunny Austin, Federer is once again the number one player in the world. Terrific. I never liked Federer.

To much general British disappointment, Andy Murray hasn't made it to this year's Wimbledon final. I was distracted during his defeat at the hands of Andy Roddick by the insignia on the sleeve of his generally quite tasteful Fred Perry shirt. Subtler than Roddick's black armbands, the logo of the Royal Bank of Scotland was still highly visible throughout the tournament. Cause, then, beyond mere patriotism, to get behind Murray: having bailed RBS out to the tune of who knows how many billions, British taxpayers aren't just Murray's supporters, they're his de facto sponsors, too.

Everyone I know hates him, but – God forgive me – I go a bit gooey for Andy Murray. Usually I can hide it well enough but there he was last week, topless, on the cover of granny's favourite listings magazine. And there again, winning Queen's and ripping his knuckle-skin on his racket strings. And then there, winning his first round match at Wimbledon and slagging off all the other British players for being damp squibs.