Off, then, to Chelsea for the first time this season. Always a good thing. Outside there's ticket touts aplenty and they're dealing on Fulham Broadway itself as what seems like half the Met saunters by doing precisely nothing. They really don't care about this. Neither do I.
I know ticket touts are not especially nice people, but all that nonsense about them preying on real fans is nonsense. Aston Villa haven't brought enough supporters to fill their section and if a Chelsea fan cannot rouse themselves to being one of the first 40,000 to get a ticket for today after the fixture list was announced last summer, then they shouldn't moan about paying double while the teams are warming up. Touts are not doing a public service as such and, yes, low level crime leads to the serious stuff, and by buying tickets themselves they're probably preventing someone somewhere from getting a ticket. But the value of the tickets they acquire can go up as well as down.
Anyway, let's talk syphilis. Outside I'm accosted by a man offering a free health check. He has what looks to me like NHS identification (yeah, like I know...) and the van he's trying to direct me to has an NHS logo, so it must be genuine. And it's seemingly free and I don't have to sign up for "updates" on anything.
Apparently men like going to football, but don't like having health checks. I like both and everyone in the caravan is very friendly. What's not to like? A very helpful man called Lee takes my blood pressure (normal; hurrah), weighs me, invites me to offer a urine specimen and takes some blood so we can discover if I have syphilis, gonorrhoea or am HIV. They’ll pop the results over via mobile.
When did I last have sex? Did it include anal and/or oral? Have I ever had sex with a man? Have I ever had sex with someone from sub-Saharan Africa? Have I ever injected drugs? Presumably Lee was asking these questions for professional reasons, but it was nice to share with him nevertheless. I once told everything to a woman on a flight from LAX to Heathrow. Everything. I can still see her face.
Syphilis is the interesting one. It used to kill by the millions, and it can still be fatal. It’s a three-stager. Stages one and two come, cause their pain and go, leaving the blighted to assume all’s well. However, stage three - tertiary syphilis - is a friend for life and it can re-appear decades later, having caused violent mood swings and gradual brain degeneration along the way. Then it probably kills you, just like it did Al Capone. I await my text with interest.
Anyway, actually having the health check made me feel better. Before I go in, I’m ordered to wave my fetching bag at a dog by a security guard. I suspect there are legal implications to this, but I’m not in a mood to kick up a stink. The dog seems happy. I wonder if said dog was sniffing for drugs or dynamite. Next time I’ll bring one or the other to discover the answer to that sweet little mystery.
The hackroom is full of nice people (someone who’s ignored me for a decade does actually know my name it transpires) and nice food: braised chicken in what food critics refer to as a yum-yum sauce, manly tea, in-no-way slimming gateaux and cheese and biscuits. There’s no point complaining because there’s nothing to complain about.
The match itself is everything you’d want and more. A fairly even first half followed by a fabulous attacking display from Chelsea - imagine Arsenal, but without the weak links - in the second. It was a pleasure to watch and at 5-15 I’m given another 200 words to keep me on my toes. Annoyingly Carlo Ancelotti doesn’t turn up afterwards, but Ray Wilkins does, which means nothing interesting for the tabloids. Martin O’Neill, though, seems genuinely upset at his team’s unusually supine showing and when he says his team wouldn’t finish 44th - let alone fourth - on that showing the tabloids (and, er, me) have the quote they want.
There are no touts outside. There never are afterwards.

Playlist: Minnie Riperton
Les Fleur
Best knowing for the fabulous Loving You, for being forever incorrectly named Ripperton and for dying of breast cancer at a shockingly young 31, Minnie Riperton’s 1970 debut album Come To My Garden was her masterpiece and Les Fleur was its work of wonder. The choral chorus seems to have come from another planet. Perhaps it did.