Andy Murray: will we ever learn to love him? Ironically, Henman was Murray's role model in that department. They were good friends, and Henman taught him the art of saying nothing in a string of polite and apparently cooperative sentences, just as Alan Shearer guided Michael Owen into utter blandness before having the audacity to go into "the media" himself. That might be a shock to some. If you think Murray is boring, blame Tim. But that's not a true reflection of his character. As the writer of his autobiography in 2008, I can attest to a young man who was punctual, respectful and even bravely obeyed some elder's command to kiss older women on the cheek on their arrival. Bless him. He was bored to death by the necessity of talking about himself and had not a single rock'n"roll anecdote in the manner of Boris Becker, but he was authentic, kind to animals and loved his mother. In fact, his mum, Judy, told the story in the book of the Christmas card he had once sent her in his teens that listed all the reasons he appreciated her. She cried. "What are you doing that for, you stupid woman?" he asked, affectionately. You'd have thought the Henman fans, many of them maternal souls, would have swooned at his feet, rather than reach for the garlic. His manners had been instilled by his lovely Presbyterian-born grandfather, Roy Erskine, a former Hibernian footballer in the pre‑tattoo and spit era. Andy and his elder brother Jamie were taught to take their hats off indoors and show respect to Grandma Shirley, whose shortbread and Christmas lunches remain a family legend. Murray isn't rude, he is preoccupied. He wants to win, with an unsettling fervour he has yet to control, in a Grand Slam final. And yet, internet messageboards have continued to register disapproval as well as staggering wonder that we have a finalist at last. The views are polar opposites - "hope he falls at the first fence, can't stand the man," alongside "I just love Andy and wish him every success." For the record, Andy Murray is not anti-English. His girlfriend, Kim Sears, is English. His beloved grandma, despite the expertise in Scottish shortbread, is half-English. His main home is in Surrey, and were Bunny Austin - the last Briton to reach the men's Wimbledon singles final - still alive, he would undoubtedly have approved of his successor's spirit. Austin was a gentleman in the literal sense. Brought up in an authoritarian era, when his French master at Repton School used to shut him in the grandfather clock at the back of the classroom for not conjugating his French verbs with sufficient thoroughness, Austin was rarely harsh or judgmental himself. He died in 2000 at the age of 94, wishing he had seen a fellow countryman emulate his feat. It has taken 74 years for that to happen. If Murray makes no effort to win over his critics, it is probably because he knows he can't please everyone and he is rich enough not to care. There are huge swaths of the population who think he really did go out and buy a Paraguay shirt in 2006, a line entirely fabricated by the tabloid newspaper that printed it. But if he does ever lay the anti-English jibe to rest, the accusations of hypochondria continue to dog him. It's been that way ever since 2005 when, at the age of 18 and half the size he is now, he suffered from cramp when playing five sets against the big beast, David Nalbandian, who drew blood from a line judge at Queen's this year. If Virginia Wade could call him a "drama queen" for having treatment on his back mid-match this year at the French Open, then clearly non-aficionados of the sport are likely to see it the same way. He is certainly cautious, but that's hardly surprising if your livelihood depends on your body. He remembers with clarity the long wait for diagnosis of his bipartite patella (a knee condition that he manages to this day), and being told at 14 that he might not play again. He sat and cried, which seems reasonable. Ideally, he won't play through pain if there is a risk of long-term injury. But perhaps his detractors are most offended by his impersonation of P G Wodehouse's famous Scotsman with a grievance who is easily distinguished from a ray of sunshine. Until Lendl's cool counsel prevailed, Murray often gave full vent to his frustrations, be they four-letter effusions or pure bloody-minded misery. His body language was an esperanto of gloom. Then again, they don't like fist-clenching roars of unbridled competitiveness either, a trait Murray inherits from his mother, who played for a while on the women's senior tour. Visible self‑motivation seems vulgar to some in the hallowed precincts of the Centre Court, never mind that Jimmy Connors (cold‑shouldered at first) and John McEnroe (ditto) could be flat-out anti-social loudmouths but eventually forgiven and adored for their charisma. Anyway, they were American. Without being too over-analytical, it is even possible that some visceral dislike descends from all this chat about Scottish independence. There is a pronounced view in some English quarters that the Scots can take their devolved parliament, free prescriptions and whatever's left of the oil fields, and get on with it. As the figurehead of Scottishness in some eyes, Murray is copping the flak for Alex Salmond. Prejudice is hard to shift. It is undoubtedly the case that were Murray to lift the load of a century from British tennis and defeat the near-deity that is six-times Wimbledon champion Roger Federer, he still wouldn't win over all his detractors. They should look on the bright side. He doesn't fraternise with celebrity for the sake of it, his grandfather would have a fit if he even thought of having a tattoo, he doesn't fall out of nightclubs, he has been with his girlfriend (with one break) for seven years, he hardly drinks, works out like a fanatic, and has a well-developed, if dry, sense of humour. If we had a footballer like that, we'd propose him to the Vatican for beatification.