Downsizing – Stamford Bridge to Sixfields (Part 1)

I still make a point of keep hold of my old Chelsea ‘keepers jersey. The black top bedecked with silver and green shoulder cross-stitch is perhaps closely identified by the smashed-down Times New Roman logo of Autoglass, the kind shirt sponsors of the time. The contrast between the current swish, sleek Samsung Mobile branding and the old-style top once worn by the moustachioed porn star of the football world himself, Ed de Goey, couldn’t make itself more apparent. Yet still the fearsome lion, in its old incarnation, adorns the CFC lettering on my old top.

I keep it – and wear it, when convenient – mostly as a personal reminder, but also a polite buffer to prevent the usual arguments that any Chelsea fan can encounter. Immediately, any fan of any club worth their salt will recall that Autoglass sponsorship era, 1997-2000. Ruud Gullit and Gianluca Vialli steered Chelsea to the cup, giving the league leaders a small nudge at their capability and, every so often, having flirtatious jaunt in to Europe.

Since the bankroll for the club has become a whole lot healthier than Mr. Bates’ era, I’m sometimes in a mind to carry a set of cue cards or script to be able to bat away any questions that come my way, usually loaded questions designed to look half-polite but . What used to be mild banter towards to underdog club has, at times, become a full-blown interrogation in to the financial dealings of Mr. Abramovich himself or whether I believe we ‘bought’ the title.

I should apologise; this sounds like an awfully tiresome supporter’s rant, bemoaning the curse that befalls any champions. It happened to Alex Ferguson’s ‘jammy’ United in the nineties, the notion that Jack Walker’s millions fluked the title to the Black Country. Even the glory days of Arsene Wenger at the turn of the millennium even has something that other fans just felt was…well…wrong.

Even so, the grace that once saw the homegrown talent of Paul Furlong and the mighty physical foreign talent of Erland Johnson are now replaced by the ruthless calculating brilliance of Jose Mourinho and the glory shower of silverware – but the fun of supporting Chelsea has now become a chore.

Two years ago, I met my now-flatmate Danny. Taking early second-guesses as to his back story, I was guessing that a big-time Premiership club would be seeing their colours draped across his back. Liverpool, maybe. Perhaps Villa – his veiled midlands accents was a dead giveaway. No, eventually I had it in my head he was a ManYoo lad, the glory-hunting fool.

I was meaning to ask which team he supports, but the answer came on a Sunday morning waking up on his couch, following a heavy night out of student merriment. Sunday morning wake-ups are reserved for the re-run of last night’s Match of the Day, so to be greeted (along with a steaming cuppa) to Championship and Football League highlights felt a little wrong - especially when Danny became a whole lot more attentive when Northampton Town were introduced. Something was afoot.