THERE is a corner of North West London that will forever be South West Wales. For one glorious day in May we made it our own.
From the early hours of a grey, wet morning the Jack Army were Wembley bound — by train, car, limo, minibus and coach the Jack Army faithful were on the move.
At times the M4 was just one long convoy of vehicles all proudly flying Swansea City flags, banners and scarves, their occupants exchanging waves and grins as an addition to the usual mirror- signal-manoeuvre overtaking routine.
A few homemade banners hung from motorway bridges along the way wished the Swans luck — one near Bridgend was a little less complimentary. But this was a happy army on the move east — even the cows in the fields were in Swansea City colours.
The Second Severn Crossing passed in blur of mist and drizzle but as we headed ever further east the weather began to clear. By 9.30am it was time for a pit stop and we pulled off at Reading West services, which was more like Swansea West services such was the sea of black and white. Inside, hundreds of fans were ordering full English breakfasts in distinctly un-English accents — perhaps Reading West bosses should consider renaming them full Welsh breakfasts from now on.
The man with the merchandise stall outside was doing a roaring trade too — by 10am he had sold out of Swansea City scarves. Back on the M4, and London was getting ever closer. Then as we drove along the Westway, just by that old Lucozade advertising sign, we caught our first glimpse of the promised land — the arch of Wembley Stadium away to our left.
The north circular road was almost traffic free, and once past the Blue Plaque denoting the Ealing birthplace of Sid James we knew we were close. The final approach to Wembley is rather uninspiring as you drive through an industrial estate but then you turn the corner and there stands the imposing glass and concrete stadium.
But 11am the car park was rapidly filling up, and thousands of fans were streaming down the famous Wembley Way from the Tube station heading towards the Bobby Moore statue that stands guard over the entrance.
As the minutes passed away the atmosphere built, with thousands of fans from both teams mingling around the ground. The Jack Army was in full force — youngsters with painted faces and giant foam hands, families in team shirts, older fans with walking sticks wrapped in black and white ribbons.
The atmosphere was party-like — as I sat on the floor typing away at my laptop some fans came over and dropped a couple of 10 pences next to me – "'Ere you go mate, buy yourself a coffee" they cheerily called. Meanwhile choruses of "Hymn and Arias" rang out, along with chants of "Brendan Rodgers' Barmy Army". A couple of young supporters were blowing vuvuzelas which turn out to be just as annoying in real life as they were at the World Cup on the telly.
Among the crowd was Clydach councillor Roger Smith, who had travelled up on the National Express coach with his wife Paulette dressed proudly in an original 1981 Swansea City shirt. He said: "This is a wonderful day. The atmosphere is terrific. To walk up to Wembley Stadium on a day like this is extraordinary. I've kept this No3 shirt all these years — never did I think I would have the chance to wear it at such an event as this."
Extraordinary was the word for it. It was a day for the fans — and the fans did South West Wales proud.
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