Craven Cottage had stood in awe of a master at work. “The ball,” Pardew said, “dies on his toe.” That is Berbatov: the sort of player to inspire others to poetry.

It is not hard to see why. The Bulgarian with the widow’s peak and the pallid complexion is the Barclays Premier League’s most unapologetic, most unreconstructed aesthete. There is no pretence about him, no artifice, no attempt to conform to the exacting standards demanded of everyone else.

He wears tights, so he does not feel the cold; he does not suffer just to adhere to some British vision of manliness. He shares the occasional cigarette with his manager at Fulham, Martin Jol; football is not just lung capacity. That night against Newcastle, he played what one journalist described as the Barclays Premier League’s first “sarcastic” pass, a ball directed to the spot where John Arne Riise should have been, rather than where he was, and followed by an explanatory paragraph of the Norwegian’s failings.

He speaks rarely, and when he does, it is in aphorism, describing football as a “simple game, for smart people”, and talking of his role as being to make the sport look like “music, like the conductor of an orchestra”. He has no truck with the frenetic, haphazard pace of the game here; he acknowledges that the Premier League at its blood-spinning, frenzied best “makes my neck hurt”.

He wears sunglasses, relentlessly, off the pitch and is described by team-mates as having a fine line in one-liners. “He is quite dry,” Steve Sidwell says. Adapting has been a slow process - he is a quiet character - but he has become a popular figure, just as he was among his team-mates at Manchester United and Tottenham Hotspur.

He spurned first Fiorentina, then Juventus, for Fulham, despite the former having paid for his flight to Italy and the latter offering Champions League football. He stayed on these shores, reportedly, because his children are already settled in the English school system. He gives the impression victory in itself is not what matters most to him; the style of triumph is equally important.

And so his T-shirt, unveiled after he had given Fulham the lead against Southampton on Boxing Day: “Keep Calm and Pass Me The Ball.” A playful, self-effacing joke, evidence of that dry wit, or a subtle message to his team-mates? Jol felt the latter: it echoes a sentiment Berbatov continually espouses at the club’s Motspur Park training ground. Be brave enough to express yourselves.

That is, in essence, Berbatov’s maxim for life. On and off the pitch, he is unremittingly, unstintingly himself.

Football is a conformist world, where the slightest hint of difference is often taken as a weakness. Managers want players who fit into the group; team-mates do not want wilful individualists next to them in a dressing room. Anyone who does not fit the prototype can expect to gain a reputation for being difficult. Berbatov? Berbatov doesn’t mind and it is that which explains why, since moving to southwest London, he has become the neutral’s darling. He is the coolest footballer in the country.

It was not always like this. It has taken a long time for the Premier League to understand, to indulge, its affection for the 31-year-old. His form at Tottenham earned him a $48 million move to United in 2008 and left Sir Alex Ferguson convinced he had signed another Eric Cantona.

In a sense, he had; the languid style, the non-conformism, the touch of preening arrogance. But the game had changed. United’s style could not adapt to Berbatov, determined to do things at his own pace, and vice versa.

This time last year, he was seen as little more than a problem: he did not score big goals, in the important games; he was not quick enough; most damning of all, he did not work hard enough.

English football does not contain an insult more telling. Even in this multinational age, this era of exotica, the Premier League has a Protestant heart. Workrate is everything. Jol is adamant Berbatov does his fair share - “check the stats,” he urged, after the 3-3 draw away to Arsenal, “he covers more ground than anyone” - but the striker does it all without breaking sweat. He does not look like he is trying.

That is, to many, the most appealing thing about him, what makes him cool, but last summer, United’s fellow big beasts bought into the myth, seeing his languor as indolence, his effortlessness as lack of commitment.

Arsenal and Tottenham both considered moves, only Fulham courted him with any conviction.

It was the perfect fit. They appreciate an artist at the Cottage. They will permit him time to play, they value the manner of victory, not simply the matter of it. They appreciate that the Premier League has countless greyhounds, dozens of terriers, haring around, their energy boundless, their blood pumping.

But it only has one island in the storm, serene, true to himself, the ball dying on his toe.

THE TIMES

Small was feeling grim and dark. He was playing toss and fling and bang and crash. Break and snap and bash and batter. Small said “I’m a grim and grumpy little small and nobody loves me at all”. “Oh Small,” said Large. “Grumpy or not, I’ll always love you no matter what.” Small said, “If I was a grizzly bear would you still love me would you still care?” “Of course,” said Large “bear or not, I’ll always love you no matter what.” Small said “But if I turned into a bug, would you still love me and give me a hug?” “Of course,” said Large “bug or not, I’ll always love you no matter what.” “No matter what?” said Small, and smiled, “What if I was a crocodile?” Large said “I’d hug you close and hold you tight and tuck you up in bed at night”. “Does love wear out” said Small, “does it break or bend? Can you fix it, stick it, does it mend?” “Oh help,” said Large “I’m not that clever I just know I’ll love you forever".