OH THAT was so, so sweet.

Yes I know we should be putting the Chelsea game behind us; we’ve been told very clearly by the Rafatollah that it’s only three points, and that if we don’t beat Portsmouth tonight then it will all be for nothing.

But what’s being a football fan all about if you can’t roll around in the metaphorical grass for a while after a result like that?

Or as WH Davies might have put it: “What is this life if, full of care, we can’t enjoy poor Chelsea’s nightmare?”

Normally I’m not one to gloat (honest) but it’s hard not to revel in the discomfort of the Fulham Road fakes, the most artificial construct of a football club I’ve yet to witness.

Either that or I’m just bitter and twisted after all the years of travelling to Stamford Bridge to come away with nothing but a sickly smile. Whatever, I deserve this and I’m going to enjoy it.

Arriving at the House of Hospitality on Sunday, we were given the customary warm greeting as we neared the visiting fans’ entrance: I haven’t seen so many police and stewards in one place since the miners’ strike.

After showing my ticket to at least four separate people, who clearly thought I had a John Bull printing press under my jacket, and being frisked and manhandled by a variety of people in yellow tabards, my warmth for this special club was growing by the minute.

Once inside the ground, all the trappings of the famous, improvisational Chelsea support were there for all to see.