Wimbledon 2015: Now that's over they'll all be Roger Federer loyalists on the mound

COMMENT: This is a crowd that will always value good manners. It shouldn’t be like this

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Andy Murray briefly extending his stay in the second set was all the thousands squeezed on to the All England Club’s sloping back lawn were given to cheer about. They took their chance.

The Pimm’s-soaked paroxysms that swept from the bottom of Court One, past the waterfall, the bar, the refreshments stools and under the rows of hanging baskets were a welcome confirmation of a fact that should never have been in doubt.

Wimbledon belongs to Murray. He is not, even his mother would have to admit, as immensely likeable as Roger Federer. And there can be no doubt that millions of tennis fans, even in this little nation, would love little more than to see the Swiss demigod of tennis win just one more Wimbledon title. But not many of them were here.

It meant that, while not a spare inch of grass could be found, to the extent that the stewards declared the hill closed midway through the second set, the atmosphere rarely rose above the gently subdued.

What Federer did to Murray, he did to them all. Without so much as a single break point to get excited about, what more could be expected?

Inside the hallowed amphitheatre, the story was predictably not the same. London may very well be the global capital of the world, and Wimbledon is long imagined as a little corner that remains for ever All England. But it’s not the case.

Tennis is a game played by individuals, not nations, and this is a crowd that will always value good manners above the occasional unpalatability of determination.

Sport, of course, is nothing without the crowd, and the crowd has to be partisan. This is a crowd that simply doesn’t like sport. They like to clap merrily along to the Hawk-Eye replay, shout out the odd witticism that the booze in the marquee has convinced them is hilarious and to titter at the passing pigeons.

Come the high-moneyed plateau of men’s semi-final day, virtually anyone with any residual passion for sport is long gone. There are no returns to be queued for either. It has become fully the dominion of the corporation and his client. There’s a roof now, but there’s one shower it can’t keep out. That Federer, the man from the home of tax-free savings, should have so much invested in him is cheerfully fitting.

The occasional “Come on, Roger!” was met by at least three “Come on, Andys!”, followed by the obligatory sotto voce ripple of mirth at the hilarity of it all.

Good, in its own way, for the atmosphere. An away end, helps, however polite. But there’s no doubting it shouldn’t be like this.

Any sociologist wishing to produce a thesis on British tennis need only count the straw hats. Up in the gods, they’re tough to spot, but rise exponentially as they reach courtside. The total percentage rarely dips below 40, rising sharply at the tournament’s business end.

There’ll be no doubt who they’ll be supporting tomorrow, either. What a relief. Come on, Roger!