WE'RE on the march with Andy's army. It is on days like these that the true scale of what this generation of Scottish tennis players, particularly Andy Murray of course, have achieved in the last few years.

On your diarist's flight from Edinburgh to Brussels at an ungodly hour on Thursday morning, what could only be described as a small tennis tartan army was gathering. Everyone knows by now about the team's University of Stirling barmy army of cheerleaders, but this was more than just your usual tennis crowd.

There were no glengarry hats, doe-a-deers, and everyone was unfailingly polite, but the biggest peace time mobilisation of a tennis crowd from Scotland is coming down the road this weekend. In his usual thirst for exhaustive research, your diarist ventured out to an Irish bar in Ghent on Thursday night to catch the Celtic v Ajax game to be confronted by the same thing, West of Scotland punters who have given up on following their football teams abroad in favour of following someone with a decent chance of victory on the global stage.

Sadly one member of our crowd seems even more enthused by tonight's St Johnstone v Dundee match.

YOUR diarist is used to finding a Gideon's bible in his bedside drawer during hotel stays but this time the company must have upgraded. He is booked into a charming if spartan place called Hotel Monasterium, the perfect place to learn the benefits of an austere, monastic life. There is just one problem with this contemplative habit, though. There was no sign of the tonic wine.

THE Davis Cup trophy, donated by Dwight Davis back at the start of the 20th century, is a whopper, up there with ice hockey's Stanley Cup for sheer size. I wouldn't be the goalkeeper who has to walk off following the ceremony with the base. It would be a dark ironic indeed, if Andy Murray, having carried Great Britain to glory, did his back in trying to lift the thing.

GHENT, we have discovered, is a charming place but not all of the journalistic fraternity's reconaissance work has gone exactly to plan. One member of our number, for instance, grilled Alex McLeish before travelling for hints and tips and restaurant recommendations after his stint in the Belgian Jupiler League. "Ghent?" came the terse reply. "I was at Genk you idiot."