Nicolas Anelka arrives four hours late. Even by the etiquette of great footballers, that’s late. Perhaps 20 photographers, wardrobe dressers and PRs are waiting for him in this north London studio, but the French striker doesn’t apologise. He is here to do a fashion-shoot for his clothing line, and to explain when he will fulfil his promise.

And the instant he starts undressing, you understand why he feels entitled to waste  other people’s afternoons: what a body. A shaven head that looks delicate as an  eggshell, the upper torso of a basketball player, sprinter’s legs, all of it coated the colour of milk chocolate. No fat; only fast-twitch muscle.