A spot of tennis.

The Great British Public is like a sleeping leviathan, awakened early from its deep and tremulous slumber.

We’re not supposed to be interested in tennis until Wimbledon, which is really just an excuse to crack open the Robinsons and get some strawberries in a bowl, but that dashed Murray has forced people to get on Wikipedia to try and remember again how the game works many months too early.

For tennis is like ice-skating – no matter how many times you go, every time is like starting again. I could spend hours perfecting a triple axle, but stop five minutes for a minty hot chocolate and I’ll be back on my arse in no time. It’s a true fact.

And so the Brits emerge bleary-eyed, like hedgehogs poked early out of hibernation, into a world turned upside down by a fellow countryman in a Grand Slam final. He’ll probably lose anyway.