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.
Indeed, he has matured into a worthy champion, as the thousands who will line Dunblane's streets to hail his triumphant return today will be able to testify. Before him every other racket-wielder now trembles in fear, and there is little point in even staging the next dozen major championships, so certain is it that Sir Andy will win.
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.
We would point out that these reports – which we now acknowledge to be erroneous – were published by us in good faith, being based upon statements made to us by anonymous sources in whom we had rashly placed too much confidence. We would like to apologise for these sources, who have now been removed from our payroll.Reuse content