I don't mean to sound immodest but I am really good at this whole football fan thing. August 16th I pick a team; May 3rd they clinch the premier league title. Nothing to do now but figure out how to work my Chelsea scarf into summer ensembles (wrapped around the breasts as a daring bandeau perhaps.)
I am reminded of the Simpsons episode in which Homer denounces the local baseball team as a bunch of losers who lose only to walk into Moe's at the end of the season to discover that they are in the championship game. When they win Homer is interviewed as a superfan who never stopped believing in them and says something like, "Thank you Jesus! I'd like to say hi to my special lady, Marge: we did it baby! Go 'Topes!"
So, yeah, it's been a long road for me since last summer. There was, um, oh right, the time Tottenham scored five goals and there was that Bradford City debacle... but I never lost faith and now, praise Hazard, a ten point lead with only three games left to play. Picture me kissing my fingertips and pointing in the general direction of the UK.
To be honest with you, in retrospect I wish I had stayed closeted about my Chelsea passion. Sure, I still would have felt compelled to write about football but I could have been a little vague about where my interest lay. Had I known... well had I known more I might even have chosen a different team entirely but I liked the sound of the word and the brightness of the blue and the fact that Chelsea was where people kept their maiden aunts during the Regency...
You know, it's funny. Even at the Chelsea bar where Chelsea supporters are stacked ten feet high I noticed that everyone felt the need to justify their Chelsea fandom. There was the London transplant who kept saying (at increasing volume; I did mention the bar opened before nine am right?) "I have been A CHELSEA SUPPORTER since NINTEEN FIFTY-FOUR!" and there was the guy who diffidently explained that he did a semester abroad in London and although he could never afford to actually watch a game he rented a room close enough to Stamford Bridge that he could hear them. Obviously my Arsenal-Chelsea dinner companion origin story needs work. It's a pity that Frank Lampard never gave me a kidney... maybe I will just tell people that my grandmother was Peter Sillett. Eh, I have a few months now to work on it. In the meantime, we did it baby. Go Topes!
PS I am trying to imagine my bewildered hurt this time next year: But, but... my team wins the premier league! That's just what happens. You're saying that Leicester City... but how? The most points? I don't understand.