When I look back on the glorious, kaleidoscopic success that has been my life I cannot help but dwell on the solitary blemish that haunts me. I am, of course, talking about my failure to win the men's singles title at Wimbledon.

I find myself asking where it all went wrong on those occasions when I can't find any Coronation Street repeats on ITV4 and have absolutely nothing better to do with my time.

Is it because I am not blessed with the hand-eye co-ordination required to become a world-class tennis player?

The answer to this question, clearly, is no. If I had poor co-ordination I wouldn't be able to eat an entire tub of Hagen Das vanilla ice-cream and use the television remote at the same time, which I can.

Alternatively, the problem could be that I have only played tennis three times in my entire life: once, against my friend Richard at Kings Park in Stirling - a match we had to end after three points when I tried to lob my opponent and hit our only tennis ball on to the north-bound M9; once against Roger Federer on my nephew's Sony PlayStation, a match I lost narrowly 6-0, 6-0; and once against my two-year-old son in the kitchen, using frying pans and a selection of cuddly toys, which the little rat stole from me in a tie-break.

This is a poor record, I admit. But I would also venture to suggest that a lack of native skill or basic knowledge on any given subject has never held me back in the past, as I prove so eloquently each week in this column.

As you can see, therefore, I found myself in the unusual position of being stumped. Or at least I was until my close friend - well, I once saw his mother in Corrieri's cafe in Causewayhead - Andy Murray revealed the secret of his stunning success so far this season: Bikram yoga.

"It has transformed my tennis,'' our beloved national hero told the press in Australia last week. Of course it has. Why did I not think of that in my quest to become Wimbledon champion?

I tell you why: because Bikram yoga almost killed me. Actually, when I say "almost killed me", I should say "made me look a total numpty in front of a roomful of hot babes".

This is a long story so what I suggest you do is put the paper down, slip into your skin-tight rubber suit - you know, the one you save for those special occasions when the kids are staying at their auntie's place - and then turn the central heating up until the LCD display unit says "skin melting" (or 107C, if you've got one of those fancy systems).

Once you have done that, take your left leg and tuck it behind your neck. Meanwhile, take your right leg and stretch it outwards until you feel more pain than you have ever felt before in your life or at least since your mother bought you a pair of purple velvet trousers when you were 13 years old and insisted you had to wear them to school.

Hold this position until you pass out or, if you can manage to maintain consciousness even longer, for 1.3 seconds.

Next, phone up your local modelling agency and order 20 of their most flexible models, taking care to ask that they all wear Lycra and have no compunction about making fun of middle-aged men who are attempting to recapture their lost youth by taking up Bikram yoga.

If you have managed all of that, then you have also re-enacted my first - indeed my only - experience of Bikram yoga (or, as we came to call it in our house, "doomsday").

Fortunately, my physical health recovered, although my dignity was mortally wounded by the memory of the women in the yoga class giggling as I was carried out of the room in a semi-conscious state.

The thing about Andy Murray is, he is a rich and successful sportsman. People don't giggle at people like him. If they did, he would set his mum on them.

The other thing that people won't do is call him an idiot for making Bikram yoga part of his daily routine. In fact, here is my prediction for next week's front-page news: Scotland is experiencing a Bikram yoga frenzy.

If you are one of those people contemplating jumping on Murray's bandwagon, please take my advice and don't bother. So what if it transforms your tennis. There is more to life than being Wimbledon champion.

Come back to me in a couple of centuries and I might be able to tell what it is.