[with due apology to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his short story entitled ‘The Adventure of the Red-Headed League‘] Scene :- the Baker Street home of Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, who is in deep conversation with a young man dressed in a Chelsea football strip and whose fine head of hair is a remarkable shade of blue. The detective’s lifelong friend, Dr Watson enters the room, immediately apologises for the intrusion and is about to withdraw, when Holmes pulls him abruptly back and closes the door behind him….

 

"My dear Watson, you could not possibly have come at a better time." he says cordially, “This gentleman is Mr Patrick Bamford and he has been good enough to call upon me this morning to begin a narrative that promises to be one of the most singular I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected, not with the larger, but with the smaller crimes of our time and, very occasionally despite the sad existence of doubting Jamies, it sometimes transpires that no positive crime has been committed at all. 

 

So far, it is impossible for me to say whether this present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most remarkable I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr Bamford, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative and I ask you not merely because my dear friend Dr Watson has not heard the opening part, but also because there is not a Shed-Ender alive who is not interested in your current plight."

 

The hirsute Mr Bamford puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride, pulling a piece of paper from his left shin-padded sock, flattening it out upon his knee and reading the words upon it:-

 

“On account of the bequest of Roman Abramovich of Cobham, there is another vacancy open which entitles a member of the Blue-Headed Academy League to partake of a massive weekly salary increase for purely nominal services. All blue-headed men who are sound in body and mind and around the age of twenty-one years [perchance even younger] are eligible and, by virtue of your performances in the North East of England of late, you are hereby offered the post in question.” 

 

The young man then paused, looked up in search of a response, and Watson duly obliged. 

 

“And the work is purely nominal? Pray tell, Patrick, what do you call purely nominal?” inquired the good doctor, doubtless eager to compare the salary structure with that of his own medical profession.

 

"'Well, I have to be in the conurbation known as Cobham to train for a few hours on most days and be ready to play a whole 90 minutes of football at least once, perhaps twice, during the course of each week. Alternatively, I may be called upon to sit in a confined area close to my place of work and watch proceedings, prepared at all times to perform in person when required to do so. Either way, I am to be recompensed by a weekly payment into my bank account of tens of thousands of pounds, but, should I at any moment wish to leave my post for pastures new, my particularly privileged blue-headedness is to be forfeited immediately. 

 

“Hmmm”, mused Watson, somewhat incredulously comparing hourly rates, before hastily brushing away several tears of regret, “Only a few hours a day, you say, and, even when in non-active space exclusivity mode, nothing more is asked of you?”

 

“No sir, other than an occasional jog along the touchline wearing a bib, my time will be my own and I am even encouraged to spend it on my mobile observing, in alphabetical order, other established players of similar ability that are much to be admired. In due course, I have a mind increasing my knowledge of Aguero and, having already been advised to give Balotelli a miss, will then [on recommendation] study the movement of a certain Mr Bojan Krkic. Thereafter, firsthand observance of Costa, plus hands on help from Drogba, will continue my education. Hopefully, with diligence, I had thought I might get right-on through to Zamora by Christmas.

 

And yet recently, despite the tempting prospect of increased financial increment and leisure hours, I have begun asking myself  a few questions - all this is to what end and, as someone once famously said, why me? Will I turn into a silent Bogarde of the Winston variety, rather than ask like a Humphrey, to play again [and again] at the Bridge? It is these self-doubts, together with worries over even more blue-coiffure talent appearing in my slipstream, that led me to consult Mr Holmes and seek his assistance in solving my dilemma.”

 

All eyes turned to Holmes, now gently coaxing a melodic ’Blue is the Colour’ from a violin wedged firmly under his chin, before embellishing the tune with closing vocals thus.… 

 

“…for Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.” he crooned, chronically out of key as usual, “And how appropriate that your summation should cease at that point young sir, because, as I am sure Watson will confirm, acceptance or otherwise of your situation is not paramount in solving your conundrum, but merely secondary to other forces that are in play constantly - even if you are not.”

 

Watson, looking bemused and with furrowed brow, broke the silence “I confess to understanding little at this juncture, Holmes, for I had long since come to the conclusion that Mr Bamford has, to put it mildly, but in the common vernacular, got it made, regardless of any ’whys’ and ’wherefores. In truth, it would surely be a crime to think otherwise, a situation best described as an oversensitive biting of the hand that feeds him so care-freely, whatever the reason may be. ”

 

Holmes sensed centre stage beckoning, lay down his violin and addressed an expectant audience:- 

 

“On the contrary, my dear Watson, that would mostly assuredly not be the case, for if it were so an intelligent classical pianist such as Patrick would not be seated in front of us today and he would not be in such a quandary. He knows that his blue-headedness is special, but has seen streaks within it, of red [at Middlesborough] and earlier [of white at Derby] make him just as attractive, if not more so, and he seeks assurance that blue really is the colour of choice, especially when considering the ever-decreasing uniqueness of his talented plumage. For instance, in the wings a Mr Isaiah Brown has a veritable explosion of it, comparable to a Mr Dominic Solanke’s clinically-cut finish, whilst the even younger Mr Tammy Abraham has a lanky languid style and Mr Charlie Colkett displays a sleek laid back look that passes muster beautifully, making the commonplace short-back-and-sides appear exactly like it is - a thing of the past.

 

No Watson, we are not witnessing the crime of oversensitivity here, nor would any lazy acquiescence be considered an offence in the juristic view of all but the envious. What we have here is a crime in waiting, a potential wrong that can only be righted when it is accepted as a felony in the first place. These individuals are bonded by a blue-headedness that sets them apart from the rest, but only until the colour, like memory itself, fades with age and criminal neglect. We shall only know if that crime is acknowledged as such, or subsequently committed, with the passage of time, probably within months of Mr Bamford beginning these less than arduous duties. But for now we must bid the young man a safe return to Cobham, to ponder his future, whilst preparing ourselves for a summer crime watch of our own, thumbing through pages of usual suspects - a light-blue-locked Aguero has always been a guilty passion of mine, a red-and-white-striped Mandzukic the envy of others - a host of expensively preened prime targets await our attention.” 

 

And with that, followed by a querulously swift handshake, the visit was at an end, Holmes ushering Patrick from his presence, down the stairs and into the cold night air. Watson was not far behind him, Holmes making it crystal clear that he wished to return once more to his violin by picking it up, placing it under his chin and giving his friend an obligatory sideways glance that said it all. After a cursory nod in the famous detective’s direction, Watson was soon in Baker Street himself, just in time to hear notes from Holmes violin tumble down from the open window above. They were from an opening bar of a lilting refrain he knew so well and, as decorum always decreed, he hastened his step to be out of earshot before the second line…“Oh Dennis Wise…”             

 

.

 

Was scouring the internet looking for a Chelsea article that had a bit of substance as there is nothing worth reading in the papers. This gave my brain a bit more exercise.