The whump of pitchside flames, the tinny theatre of the Uefa anthem, a craning of necks, a rising crackle of energy. And finally there he was out on the Stamford Bridge touchline, like some fond, long-lost figure emerging from the steam, suitcase in hand, while Jenny Agutter says Daddy, my daddy and rushes in for a hug.
Except of course, this daddy is just as likely to jab her in the eye, before knee-sliding provocatively down the platform and making a series of borderline defamatory remarks in a press conference.
