Sporting venues have come a long way from the days when you joined an interminable queue for a cold pie dipped in Bovril and people crammed in behind you relieved themselves in an empty can of Sweetheart Stout.

Here at the Melbourne Tennis Centre, you watch in comfort from a seat with an uninterrupted view of proceedings, easy access to food, drink, gambling facilities and even yoga classes if that's your calico bag.

As long as you can pay for it, of course.

None of it's free and you sometimes get the impression that if they could work out a tariff, the people who run the Australian Open would give you a bill for breathing, so rampant is the arm of naked capitalism at play, or more accurately, at work here.

There's a Saltire banner right across from me as Andy Murray, slapping on the sun cream and fitting on his baseball cap, strides onto the Court. It reads: 'Andy Murray - Paisley, Scotland'; indicating there are people from all over Scotland here.

At $100 a ticket, $9 for a beer and $4 for a tiny bottle of water, can you imagine how bad those poor buddies must be feeling?

It'll be choking them but they'll swallow it. They won't like spending money - hard-wired into Paisley DNA that is - but they'll be loving what's happening out there on the Court.

Maybe I'm imagining it, but this looks like a new Andy, different from the brilliant - but often as edgy as a ned at closing time - one of old.

Not today. Not now. This is clinical Andy, putting his opponent, a Portuguese fella called Sousa to the sword, neatly, effectively and categorically.

Clinical is the word.

At first, at any rate.

The first two sets, this is New Andy, no histrionics, no bad tempers or glares at Judy in the player's box - she's here of course - just top-quality power tennis, the likes of which Sousa can't handle.

It's impressive but I don't know if I completely buy new Andy.

The tennis is less than riveting, it's too predictable, almost boring - serve, smash, down the line, thanks very much, game to Murray, new balls, please.

So comfortable is he that, by the third set, Andy looks like he's gone into practice mode; he's completely in command, the game is in the bag but somehow, it's not as exciting as it used to be.

And then, predictably perhaps, Sousa perks up. Maybe his pride was hurt but more likely, it's just that the intensity has gone out of Andy's game and his opponent has cottoned on.

Sousa breaks the big fella's serve and suddenly it's honours even, three games all.

What does Andy do?

That's right, he chucks a bit of a moody. Not exactly toys out of the pram, but certainly a mini-tantrum - a tanty, as they say here.

He chucks his racquet down and reverts back to the grumpy Andy of old, though I notice he doesn't direct his anger in the direction of the player's box, as he used to do, so maybe it's a good sign that he's not looking for someone else to blame.

Suitably, fired-up, Andy tries to lift his game to previous heights, even though Sousa has now started to stand up for himself. It's a good game for a few points and then Andy duly finishes off the match.

Sousa isn't a mug, you can see that, but Andy is quite simply too good.

When he tries that is. When he's up for it.

The talk amongst his fans at the close suggest that whilst it's good Andy is a bit less tense when he's playing well, maybe he still needs to have a certain intensity about him. If the occasional chip on both his shoulders helps him to balance it all out, then perhaps he has to retain the rage, or at least some of it, when need be.

After all, we don't want Andy Murray to be too clinical.

Clinical gets the job done all right but it isn't much fun.