There was a time, not so long ago, when domestic interest in the middle Saturday of Wimbledon was pretty much confined to the beaten British contingent watching on TV from home. Tim Henman was an honourable exception to the trend, but in those days Britwatch was essentially an emotional rollercoaster that unfolded over the first round or two before careering off the rails in spectacular fashion. It was a time for furrowed brows and the exchange of worried glances; an age of near misses, close shaves, glorious – and more often than not inglorious – failure.