Lucy Cavendish: The Emperor's New Clothes (08/07/12)
Andy Murray is just a dour Scot, says every smooth-faced southern softie. Nonsense
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True, he was Scottish, not English like Tim Henman, and we Home County types quickly labelled him a "dour Scot" – not stereotyping or anything – but we were prepared to overlook that because he could seriously play tennis.
Murray then went on to upset virtually every English person by saying he would support "anyone but England" in the 2006 World Cup and his reputation as a dour Scot was sealed. Except, of course, none of us realised that it was a joke.
Over the years, I have been seduced by Murray. I love his commitment, his power, the way he is such an open book on court. He doesn't have the European elan of Federer or the wildness of Nadal. But surely only the daftest amongst us could describe Murray, with his grimaces, frowns, sighs, smile and – OK, occasional – laughs, as dour now.
He is brave and he is driven. He has bulked himself up over the years so that now he is that rare physical specimen – a true athlete. Where those daft few see dourness in him, I think they are really reacting to his single-minded pursuit of being the best he can be. He has that Scottish Presbyterian work ethic. He doesn't just want to get in to the Wimbledon final. That's not enough for him. He is desperate to win it.
And I, for one, love his downbeat persona off the court. He's not showy. He doesn't do celebrity events. He rarely does interviews and when he does, he doesn't mince his words. When asked how he though his family felt during the semi-final he basically said, "I don't know. It's a lot tougher for me." I thought that was genuinely very funny and refreshingly honest. Not dour in the least. Really.
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