Earlier editions of the London-based national press may have given the impression over the past few years that Andy Murray is an immature sour-faced, slovenly, Scottish choker who could not win a Grand Slam title even if his opponent were a one-legged, short-sighted octogenarian equipped with a banjo.
We now accept that, on the contrary, Sir Andy (as we hope you may style him come the New Year's Honours list, Ma'am) is a true-born British world-beater in the tradition of Sir Francis Drake and the Duke of Wellington.
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Furthermore, it is possible that some readers may have formed the idea from our coverage of major tennis tournaments that his mother was a shrieking, coarse-voiced, hatchet-faced harridan who, having given birth to a loser, unwisely invested much of her time and money in the fruitless task of trying to turn him into a player capable of winning something. We now realise she is in fact an attractive, vivacious, sweet-toned shining example to the country's mothers, having recognised her son's unique talents and made many sacrifices to ensure they are fulfilled. We salute you.
Aye weel, you're still not forgiven.
