There was a lot of talk about Terry’s latest fancy-dress intrusion in Amsterdam, the quick-change emergence from the stands in pristine matchday kit that was, in truth, entirely harmless and even quite sweet, like the kind of boy who insists on wearing his Spider-Man suit to a wedding.
Every other England player seemed diminished just by putting on the England shirt. All except for Terry, who really is the kind of person who, while everyone else is vomiting next door, or staring at their laces, strides about japing and cajoling and generally looking absolutely delighted to be there. He isn’t the brains or the heart or the spine of his team. He is instead the bowels, the buried colonic centre. He ensures that Chelsea still smell like a football team.