Crisis at Chelsea? Show me where. Playing with flair, coherence and a genuine sense of unified purpose, the team cast aside the turmoil of the past seven days to tuck five past Bolton Wanderers. In your face, doom-mongers. And it could so easily have been seven – nine, in fact, if those two extra strikes had come during the Powerplay period, when goals count double.

What’s more, in stark contrast to last week’s scenes at Stamford Bridge for the Champions League match against Rosenborg, the fans turned out in numbers – a massive vote of confidence for the new era under Avram Grant and a strong signal that the support is there when it matters, which is to say during the Premier League All Stars tournament on Sky One.

People deride the All Stars as a tin-pot trophy and an unwelcome burden on an overloaded fixture schedule. With its innovative three-way blend of retired professionals, celebrity fans and fans who aren’t celebrities, we prefer to regard it as “the people’s tournament”. If, as seems increasingly likely, this is the only silverware that Chelsea lift this season, I can’t see how Roman Abramovich could be disappointed.

Yes, it’s only seven-a-side. And yes, there is no place in Europe on offer for winning it. Yet in a world of woe, the All Stars offers the troubled viewer a comforting parallel universe in which Ruud Gullit is still a silky presence in midfield, in which Kerry Dixon continues to rise imperiously in the penalty area and in which a recruitment consultant from Milton Keynes can clatter Jason McAteer, of Liverpool, from behind for the price of only 60 seconds in the sin-bin.

What’s not to like? Not that McAteer enjoyed it much. From that moment, the former Ireland midfield player was involved in a running battle with the said recruitment engineer, which included an off-the-ball incident from which McAteer’s dignity did not emerge intact. “McAteer reminds me of one those dogs that hasn’t been walked and gets a bit aggressive,” Steve Claridge, valuably on duty in the commentary box, mused. But then I suspect that Premier League All Stars has a similar effect on all of us.

Right now, though, looking away doesn’t seem a sensible option. Not when Frank Worthington and Craig Johnston appear to be battling so compellingly for the Worst Hairstyle Overall award. (Johnston’s grey ponytail makes it look as though he is being followed closely at all times by a squirrel, but Worthington probably nudges ahead with his unique combination of abundant hair and completely absent hair, unmanageable and manageable together in the one ambitious styling.)

And how can anyone sensibly turn over when Euan Blair, the son of the former Prime Minister, is making his debut for Liverpool? “People have been asking me, ‘Are you going to be playing on the left wing or the right wing?’ ” Blair said. Ah, those old political gags. I bet he never tires of hearing them. And, of course, as it turned out, Blair landed up somewhere around the middle, neither significantly one thing, nor the other. (Boom, and again, boom.)

He looked promising enough beforehand in the dressing-room, where he joined his teammates unselfconsciously in a rousing chorus of “We all dream of a team of Phil Neals”. In truth, though, his opportunities to make a significant contribution where it mattered were hampered by the knee injury he was carrying and also because, in the excitement, his boot came off not once, but twice. The close-up shot of Blair’s unoccupied trainer, abandoned somewhere near the centre circle, was one of the more forlorn and unprepossessing television images we have seen in recent days, even though this is the party conference season.

“I think Cherie might have made more of an impression,” was Claridge’s unforgiving summary. Euan’s mum was, indeed, available for selection. At any rate, she was in the crowd – and roundly booed by it too, although we should add that pretty much everybody involved in Premier League All Stars gets roundly booed.

Round booing is simply part of the overall, panto-style package, along with flashing lights, pumping music and ear-splittingly loud hooters to signal full time. (My favourite moment of commentary so far came at the end of Manchester City versus Blackburn Rovers when Andy Burton remarked: “I don’t think they’ve heard the Klaxon.”) The other significant innovation here (one that the Football Association may consider looking at) is the removal of the old-fashioned kick-off in favour of a ball-drop. At starts and restarts, the match ball is simply released from a metal tube, high above the centre circle, meaning that it is possible for someone to get an elbow in the eye as early as the game’s opening second – a huge entertainment bonus.

All this and Chelsea win. Possibly. Roll on the weekend and the tournament’s sharp end.