STOP all the clocks.

History has been made. Andy Murray admitted this week to a pang of guilt about not wearing the kit of Fred Perry any more but the 26-year-old from Dunblane might as well have donned the garb of a Ghostbuster on Centre Court yesterday as he laid that pernicious old phantom which has haunted British tennis for 77 years to rest. He also becomes the first Scottish-born winner since Harold Mahony in 1896, a point that presumably was not lost on First Minister Alex Salmond and his wife Moira as they rebelliously dangled an oversize Saltire directly behind the head of Prime Minister David Cameron in the Royal Box.

Timepieces read 5.24pm when Novak Djokovic netted one final backhand, consigning a job lot of the sport's record books to the dustbin and allowing Year Zero for British tennis to begin. The moment itself had a spontaneous, utterly unchoreographed feel to it, the Scot bizarrely feeding at first off the reaction from the press – he just happened to be looking directly at the celebrating reporters at the time – then walking among his people, glad-handing the front row in the kind of manner which earns you a booking these days at football. In an instant, here he was centre stage again, kneeling on the ground as if praying to the most famous turf on the sport, maybe shedding an imperceptible tear, before crumpling back in his seat in disbelief.

It was not until photographers were ushered to a safe distance, and ball boys and dignitaries brought into place for the presentation ceremony, that everyone was given the moment they craved. After gaining the assent of the referee, Murray began that time-honoured ascent to the players' box, stopping to shake hands with a sprinkling of the sport's greats seated in a commentary box along the way.

Our hero then crossed that once rickety old roof – freshly re-inforced after Venus and Serena's dad Richard Williams well nigh fell through it a few years back – stopping first to embrace Ivan Lendl, then his partner Kim Sears, the other members of his team and attendant pals such as Sir Chris Hoy and Ross Hutchins, who he has supported through his cancer battle. Even in triumph, our boy flirted with a major social faux pas: missing out his mammy. He was almost on his way down again when he heard his mother Judy "squealing" behind him and returned to give her a hug.

Quite literally, Wimbledon was the hottest ticket in town. While Saltires and Union flags jostled for position out on the hill each tried to claim him for their own, but no referendum was required on the affections of the crowd.

Centre Court was posher than ever – Victoria Beckham was in the Royal Box, with Wayne and Coleen Rooney, US Open champion Justin Rose, Serbian president Tomislav Nikolic and film stars Gerard Butler and Bradley Cooper. Celebrities such as Jimmy Carr and Jonathan Ross were slumming it in the cheap seats. But perhaps cognisant of the Murray mantra this fortnight, there was a rowdiness and a rebelliousness about this body politic which has never been witnessed here before, and was certainly far removed from the polite equanimity of last year's SW19 final meeting with Roger Federer. At some points – such as the roar that greeted the Serb netting to hand Murray the third break of the match – it was distinctly rude.

Suggestions that this would be the Scot's day of destiny were strengthened by superstition: the match was taking place on 7/7 – an altogether more pleasant memory for Londoners on this date than the terrorist bombings in 2005 – 77 years after the last male winner at a tournament where the last home female winner, Virginia Wade, arrived in 1977. If seven wasn't the Scot's lucky number, it certainly should be now.

The Scot and the Serb are the de facto New Firm of world tennis and considering they are old friends and occasional doubles partners they don't half enjoy brutalising each other. This was two classic counter punchers testing each other out with the jab and waiting for the other to open up, amid temperatures so hot you could have fried an egg behind the service line. Amazingly both men had even practised for an hour in the baking noon sun prior to coming on court and the whole exercise was no less masochistic because it only lasted three sets.

If this was the match of the Scot's life, it was also capped by the game of his life. On the kind of day where the physical and mental resources required to overturn a 4-1 deficit in a set must have seemed like an invitation simply to give up and get on with the next one, he had shown incredible reserves of willpower to fight back from a break down in the second and third sets and now stood, with the balls in his hand, on the cusp of greatness.

While the Serb seemed keen to get on with things, Murray made him wait. He then raced away to 40-love, but three championship points – the first interrupted when someone shouted 'one more ace' while he was on his ball toss – suddenly seemed like millstones around his neck. But one last Djokovic backhand into the net and Murray would go to the ball after all, even if he was typically rather lukewarm about the prospect of spending his moment of glory at the All England Club's illustrious Champions dinner.

The late drama was all somewhat illusory, as the Scot had made the whole palaver seem surprisingly straightforward. He isn't done yet, not by a long chalk. Perry's 1936 win here was the last of three, his eighth major in all. That old ghost still has some legs in him yet.