Wimbledon 2012: Big-screen brigade have grand day out on Murray Mound Murray surges into a two-set lead accompanied by little more than spirited applause. It all seems just a little too easy. In fact, the most animated the crowd get is when the overhead camera pans over the hill, mapping the mass of humanity in all its Pimm's-swilling glory. Then they wave and whoop and crane their necks, thoroughly enjoying it all. There is, I think, one overwhelming reason for the growing popularity of the communal big-screen experience. In this dizzying age, the possibility of endangering or even deferring gratification is an increasingly alien one. These days, we don't seek fun. We demand it at all times. The current economic situation has added an additional dimension to this lust for guaranteed entertainment. Why pay £105 for a ticket to see Andy Murray, sit quietly in a hard plastic seat for six hours and risk going home disappointed? Far better, surely, to pay a fraction of that, grab some mini Scotch eggs and drink Pimm's until you forget the rules of tennis entirely. The watching of sport has thus evolved from a simple win-or-bust pursuit to one driven far more by context. The marketing of live sport as 'a day out" rather than a self-contained event is evident in milieux as diverse as cricket, horse racing and the forthcoming Olympics. Even football, traditionally the most tribal and insoluble of sports, is embracing the idea in the form of the 'fan parks" that now litter international tournaments. Diluting the schizophrenic passion of sport is a double-edged sword. It eliminates its darker, more sinister side; even if Murray had lost, it is unlikely anyone would have set a dustbin alight or started an obscene hate chant. "Enough of the b----- drop shots, Murray!" was about as antagonistic as it got all afternoon. Equally, though, it blunts the spikes of ecstasy that only the very highest of stakes can generate. There was whooping and cheering - genuine happiness - as Murray closed out the match and became the first Briton to reach a Wimbledon final since "Buster Douglas," as one addled punter remembered him. But any real euphoria evaporated within seconds. The throng on the hill had not earned this triumph in the same way those in the plastic courtside seats had done. They could not own it in the same way. They had risked nothing. And so off they toddled, taking their memories with them; not of a grand slam semi-final, but of a grand day out. Not dreaming of glory, but wondering why Murray always seems so miserable. "You wonder why he doesn't smile more," Louise says. He's a great player, but he's got zero personality. Perhaps the real euphoria is being saved for the final. Then again, perhaps not. Most of those present yesterday will be back in front of their televisions tomorrow, their day at Wimbledon as disposable as the plastic snack boxes they came with. Within hours, this litter is the only remaining evidence of Occupy Wimbledon, along with the big screen, flickering away to nobody.