An Ode to Cardiff on Match Day

Today is a grave day for Welshmen and women alike. Not because Wales lost on their first match of the season. The opposite in fact, but we are mourning an experience unlike any other which usually takes place this time of year: the six-nations in real life. Match days for us Welsh are holy and for many, a home from home

The Principality stadium filled with supporters, ready for the match to begin in 2018 (photo credit: Joshua Maddocks)

There’s nothing quite like being in the centre of Cardiff on game day during the six nations. The notes of Calon Lan, Sosban Fach and Bread of Heaven travelling through streets filled with human-sized daffodils and dragon-stencilled faces. Said streets packed to the brim with Welsh and non-welsh pedestrians all moving towards the same legendary destination.

Passing the numerous Wetherspoons that have exceeded its limits, Welsh men and women tumble out regardless of the amount of booze they’ve drunk, and the mixture of sweat and cider spanning from Central station to Westgate street is a sweet stench: not something usually associated with comfort, but on match day, it is home.

Forget St. David’s Day, the yearly occasion on which a Welsh person feels most patriotic is when Wales plays rugby. That, and when any other team plays against England during the seven-week competition.

If you are lucky enough to get a ticket, the day’s festivities for a Wales supporter are pretty standard. Arrive at least an hour or two before kick-off on the jam-packed, rickety Transport for Wales train, surrounded by Valley’s folk not even attempting to surreptitiously swig on tinnies. ‘Pre’s’ in the Prince of Wales or the Queen’s Vaults for a pint or five, then join the sea of red. Swaying towards your gate, you sing your heart out and see at least half of the people you went to school with, and mentally prepare yourselves for a tense game together.

“Alrigh’ butt?!”

The waft from the chippie and burger van amalgamates with Guinness and Bulmer’s as you barge your way through the ageless crowd once the gates are defeated. As you make your way to the stand, you get in line for a drink. Once your pints have been obtained, you weave through the crowd waving your ticket at the appointed stand steward while gripping the cup holder like a vice; one drop of precious elixir wasted will open up the ground beneath you. Carefully trapsing up the narrow stone steps, you find your ground and take a deep, shaky breath. You’ve made it. You’re in your seat. You’re ready. If you’re lucky, you’ll be sat next to a fellow Welshie, become best friends instantly bonding over your love of either the game, the players, or simply the hatred for the opposing team.

The atmosphere is electric. The buzz of excitement and tension intensifies the closer it gets to kick-off.

“Alrigh’ butt?!”

“Orrr my godah”

Drunks are shouting, Kids are screaming (with delight), women are shrieking at drinks being spilt, but no-one really cares.

The performance

The stadium erupts as the teams run on, working their audience in preparation for their performance. The warmth from the fire-show pre-game lights up the faces of those in the front row and brings a lump to your throat – it’s happening. It’s an experience everyone needs to behold once in their life. The lump in your throat indicates something beautiful is about to happen. I’m not talking about the game (though that is something of a spectacle), I’m talking about the national anthem.

Wales’ national anthem is just exquisite. The best, by far, and I’m not being biased. Not simply because the lyrics are literal poetry (God Save Our Gracious Queen eat your heart out), but because the ethereality felt when the welsh team breaks song is magnificent.

There is a reason why Wales is known as the Land of Song. You only need to stand surrounded by 73,931 people singing in harmony to feel it. The atmosphere transcends both in and out of the stadium and is enchanting, turning that lump in your throat into tears of joy and patriotism.

Many beers, uproars and expletives later, the game is through and the losing team shake hands and bump shoulders with the opposition: real sportsmanship. Preparations for an evening out in Cardiff are underway, and no matter who wins, the city remains the hub for celebration until the late am. Any excuse for a party and a night on the town. With Womanby Street heaving, those who didn’t make it to the stadium pour out of Tiny Rebel, The Full Moon and The Gatekeeper to make their way (if they can) to the plethora of watering holes on St. Mary’s Street. With bars quickly filling, the street is littered with lines from each establishment, but that doesn’t faze the Welsh. Beer blankets on, they will happily wait, ready for a good time.

Dance floor ready

If you’re a sensible woman, you would have remembered to wear comfortable footwear in preparation for Pulse or Live Lounge’s dancefloor at the end of the night. If not, you will be tattling across the city in spikes designed by someone who hates feet and indulge in copious amounts of alcohol to tackle the pain – though, indulgence is inevitable on days like this. With 2-4-1 and match day offers in abundance, getting absolutely obliterated is a given and making your way to Chippie Lane mid-way through the night for sustenance or at the end for the finale is a rite of passage. Originally known as Caroline Street, it is the most popular spot on any match day; a magical place that will satiate all (drunk) culinary needs.

The one thing I do not miss is the hangover. Possible black spots instigating the beer fear, and a pounding like the beat from last night’s dance floor, it is something I will happily wave goodbye to. But you know this will be the outcome, so you will have arranged with your mates to go for breakfast to cure the monster that has taken over your body to help dim the noise. A brunch at which you will decide the antics for the next weekend of six-nations silliness.

Thanks for the memories

This memory will have to do until we can realistically step foot into what will always be the Millennium Stadium in my heart. Rugby days, I miss you and can’t wait ‘til we can be reunited once again. Cymru am byth.

BBC1 will do for now, and on the bright side, the one benefit of being home is that I won’t have to fork out £20 for a taxi home, and my G&T can be made within minutes of me requesting it. Swings and roundabouts.