NOT since the proposal of the Pasty Tax in 2012 has a nation suffered so much angst and anxiety.

In the early hours yesterday morning, a familiar scene bubbled away in households across the nation as thousands of weans slept unsuspectingly in their beds, no doubt dreaming of new pencil cases, Pokemon GO adventures and the trials and tribulations of a first day back at school looming large.

Down stairs, adults tried to watch the telly. Some from the comfort of their sofa, others cowering behind it, while the downright restless paced the floor like a demented budgie, muttering obscenities that a navvy with Tourette's would be proud of.

The reason for such exacerbation? Tormentor-in-chief, a Mr Andrew Barron Murray.Glasgow Times: Great Britain's Andy Murray is hoping to add to his Olympic success at the US Open later this month

Jings crivens, you’d think we’d be conditioned to it by now. Eleven years ago the then gangly-looking teenager from little Dunblane embarked on his dream to play the Tour as a senior professional tennis player. Even with the quiet self-assurance that accompanied him as he attempted to fill the legacy of Tim Henman (stop laughing), he never could have envisaged the rollercoaster of incredible highs that would be laid out for him.

After just three years he would reach his first Grand Slam final in the US Open, but of course he’d have to suffer through stinging tears another three heart-wrenching Slam final defeats before he – and the rest of us – could rejoice in the glory of his deserved triumph.

On that night back in September 2012, Murray, not for the first time, put us Scots through the emotional mincer, glancing nervously through cracks in fingers at one of our own doing things the only way Scotland knows how. The hard way. After taking a two-set lead over Novak Djokovic in the US Open final, he would be pegged back to a deciding fifth by his nemesis. 

With the country holding its breath in unison as the clock ticked round to the small hours again back in Blighty, Murray’s life would change forever as he roared to a 7-6, 7-5, 2-6, 3-6, 6-2 victory.

It was a JFK moment for most who danced about their living room at 2am. Me included. You see, only three months and five days separate this buffoon of a correspondent and the man who now has two Olympic gold medals to his name. Well, that, and a few other things if we’re being honest.Glasgow Times: Andy Murray, pictured, retained his Olympic crown after a hard-fought win over Juan Martin Del Potro in the final

For a certain age group from Scotland, Murray is one of us. Brought up in a small and close-knit town in the Nineties, one of the game's young hopefuls was somehow nurtured into the phenomenon that is now, if not on paper but reality, the best in the world at what he does. Just let that sink in. The best in the world.

‘That could have been me’ was the cry at 1am yesterday morning as just moments after his triumph over Juan Martin Del Potro I leapt to my feet in my Spiderman pyjamas and started wielding a Nintendo Wii remote as if I was being attacked by a plague of invisible kamikaze midges. Mrs Mullen gave me that despairing glance normally reserved for when your puppy defecates on your granny’s new carpet before giving me my medication and ushering me back to bed and tightening the restraints.

The reality is, Andy Murray is a bespoke piece of human engineering, an intertwined masterpiece of natural ability spliced with sheer bloody-mindedness and a work ethic and commitment to a sporting profession that is alien to most. Can you imagine Andy Murray lying half drunk in an Edinburgh street eating a kebab?

Blessed with a raw talent, Murray has sacrificed so much to be where he is today. As a young teenager he gave up everything he’d ever known to move to Barcelona to learn from Pata Alvarez, and ever since he has put his body throw a punishing and unforgiven fitness regime. That’s not even talking about the mental pressures and strains from being constantly living out of a suitcase as he travels the globe, including now enduring long spells away from his new family.

Is it little wonder then that, almost four years on from being sleepless in New York, that after three Grand Slam wins (including two Wimbledon titles), a Davis Cup triumph and an Olympic Gold, a bubbling but drained Murray slumped to his seat at the side of centre court in Rio, sobbing into a sweat-soaked towel. The latter accolade had been defended in the most dramatic of circumstances, and everyone concerned was emotionally worse off for it. Cheers Andy.

The desire and drive for self-betterment and success comes in many guises for the 29-year-old as he pushes the boundaries of British sport but his greatness shows little signs of dissipating as his career moves into a new era.

First seen as the up-and-comer testing the big three of Djokovic, Rafa Nadal and Rodger Federer, Murray then moved to become the one forever dancing in the shadow of the imposing Serb. Three Grand Slam finals this year, a Wimbledon win and now a gold medal threatens to propel Murray to even greater heights as Flushing Meadows, the location of his first ever major triumph, now comes into view.

Already he has the strongest claim to be the country’s finest ever athlete. Another late night next month will only strengthen his case.

Pass me the Prozac.