Here in Oz, the boy Murray done good and I'm firmly of the opinion that back home and indeed, all over the globe, Andy-Pandy-monium is set to become the biggest tartan phenomenon since the Bay City Rollers squeezed into their high-waisted sta-pres breeks and promptly set pop music back a good 20 years.
Let's face it, we could do with a hero right now, since Jocks with a worldwide appeal are currently as rare as personal integrity in the Celebrity Big Brother House.
It wasn't always the case – back in the day there were quite a few Scots we could proudly hold up to the rest of the world as being famous, prime examples of the ilk. I remember in Texas once, being asked by a woman whether she'd know "any famous folks from Scatland". Feeling on pretty safe ground, I offered up the name of the man we know as Big Tam but the rest of humanity calls Sean Connery.
"Sean Connery?," she said. "I always thought he was Welsh." Uh? Surely shome mishtake boyo, look you, ishn't it?
But with Andy, the boy Murray, we've found ourselves a cracker. Leaving aside the fact that he occasionally acts in a flagrant un-Scottish way by being quite good, all the other available evidence is overwhelming.
Take his appearance for a start. Whereas the likes of Roger Federer always appears on court in an immaculate get-up with a perfectly coiffed hairdo, looking like his mum ironed him right before he went out the door, oor Andy displays that classic just-fell-out-of-bed look much favoured by young sons of Scotia since time immemorial.
Factor in the wispy, scrubby beard and teeth that for a multi-millionaire still look a bit council to me, and you can tell in an instant that Andy is plainly one of our own.
Another method of assessment is how each player reacts to a bit of bad luck during a set, what they do when they net or put wide a certain winner. Federer, being an unemotional Swiss, barely reacts at all, an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders perhaps, then he simply gets on with the game.
Rafael Nadal, on the other hand, when things go wrong, is all Majorcan moodiness, endlessly tugging himself in private places, muttering Iberian phrases under his breath, snorting and snarling, more the bull than the bullfighter.
(Djokovic, of course, like the big Jessie he is, pretends to be injured when he makes a mistake; starts limping, coughing and spluttering and then takes about a fortnight to bounce the ball, thus delaying the game whilst he gets his focus and breath back. No, I'm not bitter.)
And Oor Andy? He raises his head to the sky and in classic Caledonian style offers that heartfelt vow which somehow seems to perfectly encapsulate a nation's history, triumphs, joys and foibles.
It goes like this: – F***!!!!!!
There's another thing about the boy Murray that gives the ethnic background game away. He's never happy. Oh sure, he punches the air and clenches his fist when he takes a set or pulls out a fizzing winner, but there's always a grim joyless determination to him. Not only does he not smile, but sometimes it looks like he's in abject pain.
And should the umpire make a blunder or a ball-boy fumble, Andy goes all "who're you looking at" with a few choice words and a steely gaze that delivers the message in block capitals 10 miles high: "I'm Scottish. What's your problem?"
To use an old, highly descriptive word you don't hear nearly enough these days, Andy Murray is carnaptious. And I for one, love him for it.
By the way, an interesting point for politicos is that nobody in Australia, commentators or fans, refer to Andy as being British. He's a Scot, all the way, all the time.
(To be honest, trying to explain the significance of independence, the referendum, devolved power and all the rest to Australians is an onerous task which usually results in their eyes very quickly glazing over. Or at least, I think they do. I find the whole situation so boring and complicated that my eyes glaze over in the middle of the explanation).
But Andy, Oor Andy, where does he go from here? Well, Wimbledon of course. And much as I wanted to see him win the Australian Open in Melbourne, a far sweeter moment would be a triumph at the totally non self-consciously named All England Club, home of stuffed shirts, club blazers and the old school tie. (And that's just the women).
Wouldn't it be brilliant for Oor Andy to do the business there? Preferably dressed in slightly grubby tennis whites with his shirt-tail hanging out, a pair of old sannies and a racquet his mum bought him at a local jumble sale.
And it'd be even better if he won the championship with a down the middle ace right after he'd told the dweebs on Henman Hill where to stick their strawberries and cream.
Game, set and match, Scotland. I mean, Murray.