And its Swan-sea city, Swansea city F.C...

"And its Swan-sea city,
Swansea city F.C,
Are the great-est team in football the world has ever seen!"
Surely, if this statement were true, we should be happy to pay the
reasonable ten pound adult entrance fee rather than slouching at the
turnstile to try and get in for a fiver. Equally, if it is given that
the criteria for being the greatest team in football is to be able to
beat all, let alone any, other teams then a quick glance at the
programme, and the recent of string of defeats to teams like
Macclesfield Town and Burnley United, should clear up any potential
confusion about whether Swansea City might possibly be the greatest
team in football. Despite these inconsistencies I still find myself
screaming, which, by the way, makes it very hard to sound ironic, that
Swansea are the greatest team in football the world has ever
seen.

"We hate Cardiff, we hate Cardiff, we hate Cardiff, we hate Cardiff" I
yell without concession. There is no muttering that despite our general
dislike of the capital city we appreciate its superior shopping
facilities, that the riverside development is a vital life line for
welsh industry and that, in nearly every way, Cardiff is the cultural
hub of Wales but, I digress, "we hate Cardiff, we hate Cardiff, we hate
Cardiff."

So it was, having established that there is little or no rationale
involved in the supporting of Swansea City that I began to make fatal*
assumptions about chanting at a Swansea City game.

It was an unusually bright and warm Saturday in April and, as usual,
myself and four other reasonably well-off, middle class friends were in
the North bank at Swansea'a vetch field. The game had begun and we
were, by now, perfecting our gruff working mans shouts of abuse.
"Fukoff ref!" I ejaculated as the referee made a perfectly reasonable
decision that happened to not go Swansea's way. There were grunts of
approval from the skinheads in front of me. Little were they to know
I'd just ejaculated over their shaven heads. You see, this is where
being middle-class but pretending to be working-class at a football
match really comes into its own. By muttering in-jokes to each other we
can inwardly maintain our social identity within the context of a
strongly working class sport. Sad really.

As usual, I swung my late eighties Swansea city scarf above my head. I
was doing it in an air that I hoped would convey the entirely false
impression that I have been vehemently supporting Swansea ever since I
was old enough to call the referee's wife fat with the conviction that
only a grossly under-weight pre-pubescent can. Of course, the scarf is
in fact a hand-me-down from my, far more football savvy, sister, and
represents nothing more to me than a reminder that I should never wear
cotton because it gives me an itchy rash but in the spirit of the game,
"fuck you Cardiff", I'll wear it anyway.

The moment of my public crucifixion* came just before half time when
the crowd started a chant to the tune of 'winter wonderland'. Nothing
could have been more innocent**. It did not strike me, given the
already established hypocracies, that simply because it was a hot day
in April the crowd would feel deterred from singing this seasonal ditty
with their usual passion and honesty. As the song reached its climactic
lyric, the only line I really knew, I screamed at the top of my lungs,
and at the top of my red and itchy throat, that we were 'walking in a
winter wonderland'.

As the words left me, my arms raised, symbolising the joyous communion
between me and my fellow supporters, a bassy vulture-like chorus of
laughter echoed around the north bank. The rows of shaved heads in
front of me span like hooligan owls to glare and snort. It was minutes
before anyone had the common courtesy to correct my footballing
faux-pas. A 'friend', only returning to my side once the cackling had
died down, informed me that the song had been changed because it would
be ludicrous to sing about a 'winter wonderland' in spring. To make the
song more relevant to both the season and the team the line was
adapted, without any loss of rhythm, to 'walking in a Molby
wonderland'; Jan Molby being the Swansea manager at the time.

The blush that had flushed my face and, mercifully, complimented my
inflamed neck, remained for the duration of the match. Not so
mercifully, as part of some cosmic hooliganism, the sun, obviously a
die-hard Swans fan, thought it would be funny to mutate my pigment so
that I would remain bright red for the following week. Every time I
looked in the mirror I was reminded of the perils of trying to
rationalise football supporting and, to a lesser extent, of my
increased risk of skin cancer.

*Note: For words that are starred apply the linguistic rules of
punditry. Those not familiar with football commentary should know that
this story is not spiralling towards my death at the hands of football
hooligans. The word fatal simply means misplaced. The word crucifixion
merely refers to embarrassment. In the spirit of football speak I would
quite literally not take anything literally.

**Again you may notice the suggestion there is nothing more innocent
than a group of drunk Welsh football fans chanting to the tune of
'winter wonderland'. There are, perhaps, one or two things more
innocent than this.