Melbourne in January is invariably hot.

Seriously hot. The sun is relentless, burning its way through layer after layer of sunscreen just as quickly as you can slap it on. The whole town is burning, everyone is on bush fire alert; quite frankly you feel as if you are about to melt.

Normally. Not this year.Today, it was quite cool, wet and squally. Not unlike Scotland in July actually, today it was really quite dreich.

But nevertheless, here today in Melbourne, Andy Murray melted.

Oh, he wasn't the favourite, but there was a genuine basis for optimism. He'd been playing quite brilliantly, for one reason - every game he seemed to be improving, he looked fast, focussed and well up for it.

He had his fiancée, the lovely Kim, in his corner and she was giving him plenty of raucous support, turning the Rod Laver Arena bluer than a Rangers shareholders meeting, in more ways than one.

The signs were good. Even his opponent, Novak 'The Joker' Djokovic looked beatable after a five-set semi-final in which his stamina and fitness appeared to be vulnerable.

Personally, I've never seen so many Scots in Australia gathered in the one place as there was in Garden Square pre-match. Seriously, it was like Snowball night at the Govan Lyceum Bingo and an Old Firm game combined.

Of course, there were plenty of Serbian people there too, but they were easily outnumbered by the Scots.

Middle-aged wifies wrapped in Saltires, blokes who must have begged, borrowed or bought kilts (if they'd bought them it was a few years and a lot of kilos ago) and a profusion of Aussies whose only tenuous Scottish connection was a more than passing acquaintance with a Big Mac.

Songs were being sung, friends were being made and hopes were being raised. It was looking - and feeling - good.

As the match progressed, our hopes increased. Andy was playing well and the Joker looked tired. He was even limping at one point and although he took the first set in a tie break, it could have gone either way and Andy was looking strong - far stronger than the Serb, whose supporters looked distinctly agitated.

Not as agitated mind you, as a couple of would-be protesters who dreeped down on to the court with a banner they were about to unfurl before being huckled away by a team of security guards. A long way to go for nothing, it seemed.

Little did we know that, by the end of the game, us Andy supporters would feel equally deflated.

Andy ripped into the Joker to take the second set and even went a couple of games up in the third.

Then, not to put too fine a point on it, it all went wrong. Went, as the gorgeous Kim would no doubt put it, completely to ****.

And Andy melted. In front of our very eyes, like a guttering candle he simply dissolved.

Not tamely. He was giving himself a serious talking to - shouting and bawling during the changeovers, making Kim's previous salty language sound refined and chaste, but to no avail. As the third set slipped from his grasp, it looked like he was liquefying.

The Joker, who somewhat suspiciously wasn't limping any longer, sniffed blood and put the big Scot well and truly to the sword, delivering the dreaded bagel - 6-0 in the 4th - a humiliation to all Andy's supporters and, it has to be said, an even bigger one for the man himself, judging by his seriously downcast appearance and horrific body language.

If it had been a football match, I'd have left the ground before the finish, unable to take the pain of defeat, but I and all of Andy's support stayed until the bitter end.

It wasn't pretty but we felt we owed it to the big man himself who looked absolutely gutted, like someone had stolen his scone.

(Given that the game had taken place at Sunday breakfast time, you could say his potato scone; and his square sausage, fried egg and black pudding had been duly whipped away too.)

The prize-giving ceremony was hard to take, Andy looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, but to give him credit, he did make a serviceable speech, sounding gracious in defeat and vowing to come back next year, stronger than ever.

And that was that. As we drifted off into the rainy Melbourne night, a sizeable proportion of the crowd heading for bars showing the Old Firm game, we reminded ourselves once again that, as Scots, we can undoubtedly handle disappointment and defeat. After all, we've had lots of practice.

But there was some solace, if that's the right word, in acknowledging that, no matter how disappointed and despondent Andy Murray's supporters felt, it was as nothing compared to how the big man was surely taking it.

You just knew that he was utterly, completely devastated. Andy wears his heart on his sleeve all right. It's a big heart. It's a Scottish heart. And yes, you guessed it, it's a Braveheart.