As British hero fades away, the sun shines on the hill

Murray Mount was subdued but civilised last night and quite right too, writes Michael Henderson
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His mother must have told him there would be days like this. Andy Murray was not so much defeated last night as cut up, slice by slice, by the rapier of a rather fine Spaniard. Another year, another chance, the Scot will think. But players do not forget hidings like this.

On Murray Mount, which most people still call Henman Hill, they were peeling away long before the end of this drubbing. There was no great enthusiasm for Murray last night. There couldn't be. He gave them nothing to cheer, and so thousands of minds wandered to other matches.

Some people do not like the cheering of home-grown players. It's too nationalistic, they say. Others do not like the people doing the cheering, because they are held to represent a narrow social range. Which raises the question: when does patriotism become nationalism, and which sport, if any, offers a broader snapshot of British life?

The same people, of course, go on about the last night of the Proms, which Mike Selvey, cricket correspondent of this parish, attended and described as "benign patriotism". He was quite right. It's a good thing to attend - once - so long as you are not going for a purely musical experience. It's not everybody's cup of tea. It's not my kind of thing, to be absolutely honest, but it should not be passed up if you have the chance. And the people who enjoy it most of all, it almost goes without saying, are those from overseas.

In the best of all possible worlds, there might not be any patriotism. We would all be model citizens: sober, reflective, disinterested. Alas, we are all influenced by an accident of birth and we feel things in the blood. If a famous German had not got there 200 years ago, one might call it "the crooked timber of humanity".

You could argue, if you were really perverse, that cheering on your own team is infantile, in which case the infantilism is international. British crowds support British players, just as spectators in other countries favour their own. What a surprise! If that is nationalism, then we are all equally guilty.

Murray Mount last night was about as tolerant and relaxed a place as one could wish to find. Thousands of people were licking ice cream, reading newspapers, using laptops, enjoying picnics, drinking, gossiping or avoiding nosy reporters who wanted to know their opinions on the progress of an outclassed Scot.

There were students discussing exam results, businessmen flirting with secretaries, couples arranging holidays, and hundreds of others simply loafing. Despite the crush, particularly at the top of the hill, there was no unpleasantness, and hardly a word spoken in anger. With marvellous views over London it was a wonderful spot to while away an hour or two in the evening sun.

Most were middle-class white people, and there were at least as many women there as men, which makes Wimbledon a unique event in British sport. So what? Most people who go to Glastonbury are also white and middle-class. How many people of colour attend the literary festival at Hay? This is a predominantly white, middle-class country, so why should Wimbledon be any different?

When the concept was done and Nadal presented Murray with his freshly white ears, everybody packed their bags and slipped away. It was a low-key end to a day that had promised more. It was a disappointment, not a disaster. A British player lost a tennis match to a superb opponent but, strange as it may sound, the sun will still come out today.

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