He may not have won the Grand Slam but the whole nation has now united, reached for the man-size tissues and taken Andy Murray to its heart because he is officially a big Jessie.

In a superb piece of cheesey theatre, he showed he can rise to any challenge – especially when it comes to proving he is not an unfeeling machine driven by a ruthless desire to win at all costs.

What on earth can you do when someone on national radio accuses you of looking like a grumpy baby eagle the very morning you are due to play the match of your life? Answer – just stand there and whimper like a babby with an over-full nappy for almost five minutes, that’s what.

Way to go. Bawl for us, Andy. Yay. See, he’s not grumpy. He’s lovely. LOL.
To be honest, I too would have fallen for the hype if I hadn’t been watching the moist moment with one of my dearest neighbours. Everyone on the street calls her Angry Annie. I can say that as she is unlikely to read this because she is the last person to fork out a few pence for any newspaper.

In truth, she is not angry but just sceptical about just about everything in everyday life. Angry Annie doesn’t believe Andy Murray is anything but a robot, she doesn’t believe the workmen who say they will come on a certain day to do work on her house and she doesn’t believe anything that comes out of any politician’s mouth.

She is sceptical alright. Sneering loudly as the torrent of teardrops gushed down the Murray cheeks, fertilising the hallowed turf of south-west London, our Annie, faster than a Tom Cruise divorce settlement, declared it was all for show.
I would, of course, have agreed with her had I not been wiping my own watery peepers with my sleeve. How is it that I always get a wee bit of grit in my eye when someone is speaking very emotionally and pathetically on the box?

Despite Angry Annie’s antagonism to the anticlimactic antics of another antisuperhero, everyone else wept and wiped. He will be our superhero. One day. I figure that Annie’s cold heart will warm to him when he does pull it off and is indeed crowned King of Wimbledon. Hopefully, it won’t be too long. I would order the extra-strong double-ply now, Annie.

Andy is not the only superhero hitting the headlines. Another superhero, we are told, is Professor Peter Higgs. He is the guy credited with first confirming the existence of the so-called God particle which holds the key to the secret of the universe. Never one to take much at face value, although I cannot claim to be as sceptical as Angry Annie over the wall, I decided to delve deeper into this.

For the last week I have been up to my oxters in quarks, leptons, force carriers and colliders to try and get a handle on the God particle and find out where the rest of them have been hidden all this time. My search has not gone well. I was sure I would find a trove under the floorboards in the Free Church (Continuing) but, no, no God particles were to be found there.

The Free Church itself? Nope. In that case, there’s no point in poking about under the Church of Scotland or the Epicopalians. No chance. If you see any of these particles rolling about the pews this Sunday, be sure and let me know.

Talking of superheroes, I have been a very brave boy myself. I ended up in hospital at the weekend after developing a certain nasty and rather painful condition. I can’t even spell it but the surgeon assured me that I would have a lot of what the late rugby commentator Eddie Waring used to call an “up and under” before I am free of the blasted thing. Ooer, I can’t wait.

The staff in the Acute Assessment Area of Western Isles Hospital were attentive too. They plonked me in the Acute Assessment Area in a hi-tech bed with a special in-built function to make sure I was wide awake before the surgeon did his rounds. Without warning, at precisely 8.20am, the entire bed see-sawed wildly, banging my head against the wall and leaving me with my legs flailing in the air.

Even now, I am still not completely well and I still feel wobbly after that. Well, it’s been a long time since I have taken part in such dramatic acrobatics in any bed. It took a lot out of me and I now need a lot of help doing even basic things.
Thankfully, Mrs X has been very supportive. The light of my life has even taken to calling me Spiderman.

Spiderman? That will be because she thinks of me as her own wee brave superhero. That’s nice. She is shouting something now. “I called you a spider, man. That’s because you can’t even get out of the flippin’ bath, man.”