By way of setting the record straight, and as an addendum to Martin Samuel’s latest burnishing of the reputation of Chelsea’s midfield goal-machine in TheGame (August 20), I have never called Frank Lampard a “fat cockney twat”.

That Lampard thinks I did is undeniable, for he told me that I had after the Football Writers’ Association dinner in 2005 (not 2004, Martin). It was my turn to shake his hand as he affably greeted each of the group of hacks I was with. He looked happy, he’d had a standing ovation for his speech and was at the top of his profession. Before I could congratulate him on his Footballer of the Year award, his England Player of the Year award, his Premiership winner’s medal or his £5 million-a-year contract he looked me square in the eye and without letting go of my hand said: “You called me a fat cockney twat”.

At least I assume he was looking me in the eye, I was distracted by the sheer size of his tie knot, his bright pink tie knot. It was huge. I went to reply (something along the lines of: I write a column as an Arsenal fan, it’s a joke and anyway I didn’t call you a twat) but he cut me off: “It’s about respect,” he said.

And he said that over and over again. All the time a smiling lady who I thought was Frank’s mum was tapping me on the shoulder happily and saying: “It’s Jonathan Creek! It’s Jonathan Creek!”

I managed to tell Frank that I’d since written that he should be the post-Beckham captain of England but, although I think that registered with him, he dismissed it (rightly, it was a stupid idea) and told me again: “It’s about respect.”

Then he went away and Martin Samuel started laughing. “He’s only gone and dug him out,” he laughed like a cockney Brian Blessed.

“I’m sure I didn’t call him a twat,” I said.

Martin roared with laughter. For ages. Then I laughed a bit and pondered who had told Frank I’d written what he thought I’d written because I didn’t think he could have actually read the offending article.

When I got home that night I double-locked the front door and checked the peep hole to be sure Frank hadn’t followed me back to kill me. Then I dug out the article, published in TheGame on April 12, 2004, shortly after Frank had scored a crucial goal from a rebound off Jens Lehmann as Chelsea beat Arsenal in a Champions League quarter-final.

The next weekend, still traumatised by Arsenal’s catastrophic defeat (we could have gone on to beat FC Porto - imagine that, no Special One), I sulkily watched Chelsea play Middlesbrough on TV and a nearly identical chance fell to Frank. This is what I wrote: “The rebound fell to Frank Lampard Jr, an easier chance than that he’d taken at Highbury, and he showed all the quick feet and dexterity of Micky Droy as he ludicrously fluffed this absolute sitter.

“That was it for me: ‘Lampard, you useless git, you couldn’t do that against us, could you? You gormless fat cockney! Kiss your badge now, go on! Run to your adoring headhunters and shout, ‘Look at me, I missed an open goal from four yards, I’m rubbish!’ Do it! Do it!”

I then reported how the person I was watching it with had urged me to calm down and stop shouting at the telly. I wrote: “ ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘and sorry to you Frank, you played well, you took your chances, enjoy your semi-final. You jammy sod.’ ”

Later that summer I wrote about watching England v Portugal in Lisbon and described Frank Lampard as “the true leader of the team and a prime candidate for the captaincy in 2006”.

So, yes, I did call you fat, Frank. I know you’re not, it’s just unfortunate you’re cursed with those childbearing hips. I said you were gormless. Well, at the moment you trod on the ball against Boro you looked pretty gormless but I accept that was an uncharacteristic slip. You’re not gormless, or a useless git or even that jammy a sod. I hope you’ve read this and that, should we ever meet again, you won’t loom over me menacingly and demand my respect repeatedly until I’m forced to yield in front of whoever happens to be smirking nearby.

Regarding my days as a columnist, you might think yourself lucky. I made so many caustic remarks about Moan U when I wrote in TheGame that one of their fanzines tried a “Boycott The Times” campaign and TheGame editor at the time had to adopt an “If they’re just abusive, bin ’em” policy with the post.

As for Spurs, I’ve been going to White Hart Lane in disguise for the past four seasons. I may be “F***ing Jonathan Creek” to you (and many others) but I saw your dad play in the FA Cup Final in 1980 and you play in it in 2002. I pay to go to games, 40-odd a season, following Arsenal and England. I’m not entirely clueless after 36 years as a fan and 25 as a season ticket-holder and I care to the point of mental illness about how my club and country fare.

You’re greatly admired but not greatly loved, Frank, perhaps because you’re a bit chippy and sensitive, you were below your best in Germany last summer before your book launch and because Chelsea play such joyless, functional football they are hard to watch. Pay less attention to the critics, enjoy your football, count your caps, your medals and your money (in that order) and never forget, you could always take a pay cut and leave for a club that plays a bit. We’d have you at Arsenal before you could say: “José Mourinho is a twat.”

That’s a joke, José. Oops . . .