Fourteen years ago, I joined what the 1991-92 final table would show to be the fifth-best team in London. I played alongside Steve and other members of the Chelsea brat pack: Vinnie Jones, Dennis Wise, Dave Beasant, Kerry Dixon, Andy Townsend. Steve wasn’t as mischievous as them, but he must look back occasionally and marvel at what the club has become in a decade or so. And cringe at what it was like during the 2½ years I was there.

For one, our dietary regime was less than perfect. There was a caravan near the training ground that was basically a burger van for truckers. Sometimes, if we were early, players would congregate inside and enjoy a greasy fry-up. Then, after 90 minutes of not-so-hard work, we’d sit in the dressing-room and whoever’s turn it was on the shopping rota would be dispatched to fetch us some food.

Biscuits were a source of intrigue. Players would try to impress by bringing back flash varieties — it started with digestives but we soon graduated to Penguins and Jammy Dodgers. Or we sometimes went for a pub lunch nearby. Ian Porterfield, the manager, didn’t seem to mind. He’d bike past and we’d yell: “All right, gaffer!” He’d give us the thumbs-up and cycle on. Perhaps 15 or 20 people would come and watch us train if the weather was good. Three oddballs were regulars. Towards the end of the week, Jimmy The Wig, Kerry’s tipster and bookmaker, would appear. He was called Jimmy The Wig because — well, you can guess why. He’d saunter up: “Where’s that mug punter Dixon? Which f***ing losers is he going to get me to back this week?”

Helen was like Andy’s stalker. She asked for his autograph every day. Once I saw her in tears at the end of training. “He hasn’t signed my book!” she wailed.

“Well, he’ll do it tomorrow,” I said.

She wasn’t placated. “I want it today!”

Felicity was in her early fifties. She baked cakes for every player on their birthday, unless she didn’t like you. She didn’t like me. After three months of the silent treatment, I asked her why she was ignoring me. “Sorry I can’t speak to you — I just can’t,” she said. “You replaced my Tony (Dorigo, who joined Leeds United). I can’t talk to another Tony.”

To warm up, we took shots on goal. Felicity would be between the posts. Dave would hand her his gloves and she’d stand on the line, all 5ft nothing of her, as the balls rained in. One player would try and chip her, to get her to dive off her feet; or he’d try and land the ball on her head when she wasn’t looking. With a dressing-room full of characters, managing us was never going to be easy. Occasionally, Porterfield would tell us to go for a run. This was never well received. “F*** that, gaffer — get the balls out . . .”

He’d mutter: “All right then, we’ll do the running tomorrow.”

And we’d play a five-a-side game, as usual. Andy would sometimes arrive late for training. “Sorry gaffer, M25 was murder!” Porterfield would let him off and Andy would give me a cheeky wink.

The manager allowed us to get away with a lot, I think, because he knew we were always committed when it really mattered, in games. We didn’t take training very seriously, but matches were different. We had a Wimbledon-like hard mentality and if you didn’t try you got a bollocking. Ken Bates, the owner, was not shy of voicing an opinion either. If he thought you’d played crap, he’d tell you. He had a couple of pops at me but I took it on the chin.

I believe Ken thought he could do what Roman Abramovich has done, but Ken isn’t a billionaire. He didn’t have the finances to make Chelsea into a super-club. Even so, our wages were always decent — as high as any London side and bigger than Arsenal. Our top earner was on about £5,000 a week. This even though the ground was outdated, with a running track around it. You couldn’t have persuaded 40,000 people to come to Stamford Bridge if The Beatles were playing there, let alone us. At one game in 1991-92 I remember the crowd was less than 7,000.

Ken called us into his office one time to show us a model of his grand vision: Chelsea Village, a gleaming complex of offices, hotels, restaurants, shops. Yeah, Ken, right. We thought it was as laughable as the idea of Chelsea winning the league. But he built it. I was sad that he wasn’t at the game at the Reebok Stadium on Saturday to see the title won; he deserves so much credit. The club really changed after I left, when Ruud Gullit and Gianluca Vialli arrived and gave the place a higher, Europe-wide profile, bringing the glamour and sophistication that was always potentially there because of its great location.

When Arsenal played Chelsea last month I went to Stamford Bridge and sat in the Matthew Harding Stand. Opposite a snack bar there’s a giant picture of me diving for a header. I saw it and stopped in my tracks, my spine tingling. All the success they’re experiencing and they’ve got a photo of me on the wall? It made me realise how lucky I was to play for this great club. I always felt Chelsea could be something special. Now they are.

Absent friend

KEN BATES, THE FORMER CHAIRMAN of Chelsea, will not be at the club’s centenary dinner at the Royal Opera House on May 29 after concluding that he needed a “clean break” from the past. Bates, who made at least £18 million from selling out to Roman Abramovich, was invited by Bruce Buck, the Chelsea chairman, after a dispute that had soured the 73-year-old’s departure from the club . Bates, the Leeds United chairman, settled out of court.

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