Long before John Terry, long before Rupert Lowe, we Chelsea fans were used to getting a certain “look” when somebody asked who we support. One that falls somewhere between an eye roll, an about-take and a micro-aneurysm. Sometimes it came with a grimace, a groan, a jeer or, in some circles, an aggressive chin jut. From time to time, this antipathy can manifest in bizarre ways. Many moons ago, I was stepping on to a waltzer at a west London funf…