Photo by Crystal Pix/MB Media/Getty Images Long before John Terry, long before Rupert Lowe, we Chelsea fans were used to getting a certain “look” when somebody asked who we support. One that falls somewhere between an eye roll, an about-take and a micro-aneurysm. Sometimes it came with a grimace, a groan, a jeer or, in some circles, an aggressive chin jut.  From time to time, this antipathy can manifest in bizarre ways. Many moons ago, I was stepping on to a waltzer at a west London funfair with my eight-year-old brother. As we sat down on the ride, his fresh Autoglass-sponsored Chelsea shirt revealed itself from under his jacket. The waltzer operator came over immediately, leaned in, and whispered the immortal words “Chelsea fan are ya? You’re gonna have a really good ride,” before beckoning over his fellow carnies and launching something akin to a Nasa motion sickness training session, which sent us both puking candy floss on to the wet grass.  It was an early lesson in tribalism.…