After almost two weeks of intensive Murray watching it was the same old familiar story. So close yet so far. Once again a British player came within one match of a men's singles Wimbledon Final.

But for all his bite, doggedness and sheer bloody mindedness, Andy Murray crashed into the semi-final obstacle. 

For goodness sake, how much longer will we have to wait before declaring our very own British men's singles champion? At this rate it may be the best part of another century, possibly another lifetime.

Some of us are beginning to wonder if there is something in the British water that prevents us from winning things.

True, Murray has done his damndest to hold aloft that elusive Wimbledon trophy. He's gritted his teeth, smashed his racket as if it had committed a serious crime and then pleaded for encouragement from the crowd.

But for all the gutsy endeavour and jolly-hockey-sticks tenacity, there was an overwhelming feeling that even Murray lacked the killer blow. Instead, the moody, brooding Dunblane destroyer was simply blasted into orbit by an American gunslinger named Andy Roddick.

Roddick, already beaten by Murray on the world circuit, fired down the most destructive sequence of serves and aces ever seen. They came down like the missiles and rockets that many have grown accustomed to at Wimbledon.

In fact, there were times when you half-expected Murray to curl up in a ball and beg for help from his watching mum Judy.

At the end of the contest, Murray was well beaten in four sets but there is something about the Scot that inspires confidence and restores our faith in human nature.

Whereas Tim Henman, his predecessor,  seemed to politely accept defeat like the most wounded of animals, Murray seems almost offended if somebody mentions the word. How dare they tell Andy that he might just lose!, The very concept is alien to him.

Indeed it is this devil-may-care approach to tennis that has left most of us with mixed feelings about the Scot. Undoubtedly his temperament and attitude would never be questioned. The groundstrokes and forehands have exploded like grenades from his rackets. The topspin returns have been beautifully crafted, the slice shot from his ankles almost a work of art.

When the vital points have been at stake, Murray has just risen to the occasion. The running winners down the line have simply whistled past opponents and the two-fisted passes almost supernatural. Murray has gone about the shots with a power and brutality that few thought possible.

It could be that at some time in the near future, Murray may just win every tennis tournament in sight. And not before time, we cry.

There are still question marks about the Murray image and brand. He slouches and mopes around the baseline like the most discontented person in the world. Is Murray really worried about electricity bills and the world economy? Is his world really falling apart? Somebody really ought to tell him to cheer up and pull himself together.

We all know that he looks withdrawn and preoccupied at times, almost fighting off the forces of evil. Perhaps the British public have got it in for him. Yes, he is shy and introspective, a man who hates interviews with all his heart and soul. But there is a time when a man has to do what a man has to do.

Perhaps he knows that when it comes to the British public, loyalties are fiercely divided. Murray must believe that because he is Scottish and the English loathe the Scots, that a point has to be proved. There is still, though, a dynamisim and daring within Murray that may never go away.

So another Wimbledon passes into history for British tennis. Next year it will be 74 years since Fred Perry last won Wimbledon for Britain and 72 years since a dapper gent named Bunny Austin actually reached the final.

Some of us may be drawing our pension before a British male does it for us at Wimbledon. It is to be dearly hoped that Murray saves us another 74-year wait.