“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Andy.”

“Andy who?”

“Andy Murray.”

That’s right folks, Andy Murray is back in business. Or is he?

After an average 2014, which saw Murray fail to reach even one Grand Slam final, everyone’s favourite grumpy Scot appeared to have turned over a new leaf when he reached the final hurdle of the Australian Open in January. The old foe Djokovic lay in wait, but he lay battered; the Serb was clearly nursing some injuries, as the constant wincing and grimacing after every point showed. Yet Murray, having brought the match level after a first set dropped to ol’ Novak, proceeded to capitulate in the third set, going on to lose as his opponent made a remarkable comeback. A dejected Andy promised to do better next year, and that was that. Off he trotted.

Now at this point, one might wish to question how and why Murray failed so comprehensively after showing such grit to get to one set all at the close of the second. And I have the answer: Murray, as he has shown many times before in his career, is a weakling. Not physically; no. I envy his Adonis-like figure, especially every time I stumble out of the gym. It isn’t that he’s puny. Rather the problem lies in his mind: somewhere, deep in the mental codex of Andy Murray, is a glitch that needs fixing.

Murray’s mental breakdown on court in Melbourne had echoes of those seen earlier in his career. Year after year Murray stormed through to the semi-finals of Wimbledon, the US Open, the Australian Open, like an Adidas-sponsored William Wallace – only to be exposed by a far stronger opponent as limp, wet, smoked Alex Salmond.

And year after year, the British public reminded itself that because, like Salmond, Murray was Scottish, his surrender was permissible and even – dare I say – funny.

Things seemed to have changed after Murray employed the services of tennis legend Ivan Lendl as his coach in 2011: there was something new in the fibre of the man.

He appeared strong, focused, determined to win, possessing a tenacity that even began to challenge that of the infallible Rafael Nadal. And, behold, Murray deservedly went on to win his first Wimbledon title in 2013.

Yet here he was again in January 2015 – admittedly with a new coach in the form of Amélie Mauresmo – grimacing like a honey badger with lockjaw as the match fell beyond his weakened grasp. Something, therefore, needs to change if Murray is to reach again the heady heights of 2012. Perhaps the lad could employ a sports psychologist to help him understand that when things aren’t going according to plan, you don’t just – well – give up.

What you do is step your game up a level, just like all the greats do. Ask Federer, Nadal or Djokovic how they manage to stay so stoic in the face of adversity – although they probably won’t tell you. Ditch Mauresmo and bring Lendl back. Do something. Bribe the umpire, I don’t know.

Next time you watch Murray play, look closely and you’ll see what I mean. Watch his face when his opponent gets a break point. Read his lips as he drops a point. The storm clouds inside the man’s head are almost visible; the frustration, in almost every case, palpable.

One thing is for certain: Murray’s mental deficiencies will be the death of his career if he does not sort them out. Cries of “Come on Andeh!” will only go so far; one day, those crazed fans will give up and start following NASCAR instead. The nation’s moodiest sporting superstar needs to ditch those loser blues and start winning.

Choose strength. Choose courage. Choose life, Andy. Only then will you become the hero that Britain so desperately needs.